Breakfast of Champion

 

Our ‘Favourite Breakfast’ theme this week,

Conjures something warm and meek,

But years ago, meant other things,

That made us kids (me!) feel like kings,

My mama cooked, you know it’s true,

Made things delicious, roast to stew,

Her breakfasts? Easily the best,

Made common tenants feel like guests,

But Saturdays, occasionally,

Were gifts to (age eight), sleepy me!

I’d miss the crowd at breakfast time,

Then make my own—Oh! How sublime!

My chocolate milk, with Mom, you know,

Two spoons of mix, then stir and go,

When on my own, the colour was,

My one condition, no faux pas,

More dark was better, sweeter, too,

Five teaspoons plus would get me through.

Then flakes of bran, that glorious food,

With creamy milk, then sweet imbued,

A generous layer—bottom, top,

I’d want to eat and never stop.

Yes, sugar was my main ingred…

A good deal more than e’er I’d need!

It’s fortunate those Saturdays,

Didn’t often come my way,

Yep. Mom’s good food did help me thrive,

The likely the reason I’m alive!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, come join us while we find...

Memorial Day is on our mind!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Favorite breakfast (May 24) Today!

Memorial Day (May 31)

Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)

Monkey Around Day (June 14)

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Down Under

It was a hot summer day.
The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.
One girl came without a swimsuit.
“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”
She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.
The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressed in a modest blue two-piece.
Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.
And struck a pose.
“What do you think?”
Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.
The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.
All eyes were on her.
“F-from your drawer, like you said.”
“The top drawer?”
“Y-yes.”
“That's my underwear drawer!”
“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.
She had been covered.
In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.
But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.
I thought this story was hilarious.
Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.
Well . . . something similar, anyways . . .

Our family was getting ready for church.
My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.
I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started chattering.
Something I did a lot.
A lot.
But I digress . . .
My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.
I kept talking.
But for some reason, my boyfriend wouldn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.
I kept talking.
He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.
Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”
I did.
As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.
At first, I saw nothing wrong.
She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.
Skirt. Stockings.
Oh. Wait. Something was missing.
Her blouse.
Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.
He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.
Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.
Okay, so observant, I'm not.
Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.
Which was funny.
She had been completely covered.
Modestly, even.
In at least three layers of cloth.
But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.
As I would have been.
As anyone . . . you get the point.
Aren't we weird?

Soothing the Savage Teacher

Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!

I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one. 

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Ugh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"
Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. A trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly. 

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.

I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.

Ghosting in the Ghost Town

 

See? No horses.

Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And Virginia City.
It sounded . . . Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
But I do remember stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.

Then being carried by said Mom.
That's when it got exciting.
We were in an old-fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts.
There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heartfelt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
And, because my husband is a historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia.
But what I most took note of was anything that suggested 'horse'.
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens.
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended.
All too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building.
A drug store.
Or at least that's what Mom called it.
It didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
I was bored.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again.
Things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
Okay, I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Ahem . . .
Mom stopped beside the cabinet.
With the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door.
What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath.
What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton. Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
How could they top that?

Explaining

Covid had not given our family a good week. With school moved to online, and no activities, everyone was growing…antsy.

Feeling cooped up, I took our youngest son for a walk. Spring was finally here, and the day was sunny and warm.

All went well for the first few minutes. Then we came across a little, dead bird in the grass beside the sidewalk.

“Oh, the poor little bird!” my son exclaimed, kneeling. With tear filled eyes, he looked up at me. “What happened to him?”

I knelt, too. “I’m afraid he must have just fallen out of the tree and died, Son,” I said. “Poor little guy.”

“Mama, we can’t just leave him here,” he said, softly. “Can we take him home? I promise I will look after him.”

I smiled a little at his enthusiasm. “He’s dead, Son. There’s really nothing you can do for him. Except maybe bury him.”

He thought about that. “Okay. Let’s take him home and I’ll bury him .” He looked at me. “Can you help me?”

I smiled. “Of course, Son. What a kind thing to do.” I found a tissue and wrapped the wee body in it.

He tenderly carried it home and the two of us, in a short, simple ceremony, buried it carefully under our peach tree.

A few days later, his friend, Julie, who lives in the house next door was out in her yard, crying about something.

Ever the tender heart, my son hurried out to talk to his friend through the fence. “Julie! You okay? What’s the matter?”

Through her tears, Julie told him that their dog, Spotty, had died. “He was okay yesterday,” she said. “And he just died.”

The two friends sat out there for a long time, talking, and I was proud of my son and his compassionate impulses.

Finally, he came back into the house, looking rather blue. “Julie’s dog died,” he told me. “Yesterday. She’s really sad about it.”

“I heard. I think you were very kind to go over and talk to her. She really needs her friend right now.”

He nodded, then looked thoughtful. “Julie says he was just dead. Was he mad? Didn’t he like her? How did he die?”

I sighed, trying to think of a way to explain death to my four-year-old, who had already been too exposed this week.

“Well, Son,” I started. “You remember that little bird we found earlier this week? The one you buried in the back yard?”

He gasped and, clutching my arm, looked up at me, his blue eyes wide. “Mom! Did Spotty fall out of a tree?”

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 74. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times.

This month’s word count number is: 22

It was chosen by: Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Now go and visit the other participants!

Baking In A Tornado  

Messymimi’s Meanderings

This Band of Rubber

How glad I am for the rubber band,

It ties back hair, makes bund’ling grand,

So many times, replacing string,

Convenience in so many things!

 

But what I like ‘bout them the most,

To which I’d give a little toast,

The rubber band was loads of fun,

For me, my kids, and Honey Bun! 

 

I will explain, so you’re not lost,

This game we played had little cost,

Those stretchy bands were cheaply got,

But hours of fun were hap’ly wrought . . .

 

Now, Husby, he of talent, much,

He took some older wood and such,

Then crafted very carefully,

Some fun, new toys for him. And me.

 

And one for each and every kid.

Till all were done, he kept them hid,

Then brought them out for us to see,

Crafted with delight. And glee.

 

Those bits of wood, now something more,

A gift to make us laugh and roar,

And chase each other round the house,

Intent on games of cat and mouse.

 

For what he’d crafted carefully,

(Promoting fun and repartee!)

Were little guns to take in hand,

And fire from them, those rubber bands!

 

Each equipped with two clothespins,

Eas’ly loaded, set to win,

E’en the youngest got the knack,

And hap’ly gave his sibs a whack!

 

Now, one more thing ‘bout which I’ll tell,

That Husby thought especially swell,

Each ‘gun’ shot two. Reload again.

Yes, ours shot two. While his shot ten!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, come join us for the day...

You Favourite Breakfast's on the way!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17) Today!

Favorite breakfast (May 24)

Memorial Day (May 31)

Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)

Monkey Around Day (June 14)

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Being Smart

 

It was a glorious day.

Barb and her four-year-old grandson, (hereinafter known as GS) had spent their precious time together visiting. Laughing. Playing games.

And the all-important ‘thing-I-want-to-try-most-Gramma!’, baking.

Chocolate chip cookies were largely indicated.

There was just one tiny problem . . . Gramma was out of chocolate chips.

Oops.

Not to be discouraged, Gramma and GS made a second, even more thorough, search of the ‘normally chocolate-chip rich’ cupboards.

Same result.

What to do? What to do?

“Hmmm . . .” Gramma said. “I do have these!” She held up a package of Smarties.

(Side note: For those of you not from Canada, Smarties are a handy-dandy little treat consisting of chocolate encased in a ‘melts-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand’ colourful candy coating. Yummmy! And Also: at the telling of this story, ‘Smartie Cookies’ were not yet a ‘thing’.)

GS looked at them a little dubiously.

I mean, he loved them as a treat, but in cookies?

Unheard of.

Gramma shook the package. “Eating them will make you smarter!”

He smiled.

Discussion won.

The two got busy and a short time later, mounds of sweet-smelling cookies were emerging from the depths of Gramma’s cavernous oven.

Gramma set a plateful on the table and she and GS pulled up their chairs. Each grabbed a warm cookie and took that first, highly-anticipated bite.

‘Hey!’ Gramma thought. ‘I think we’re onto something!’

GS chewed and swallowed. His eyes widened. “Gramma!” he whispered loudly. “I feel smarter!”

Hmmm . . . just a thought, but maybe we could make these and distribute them widely.

I know a few of us could certainly use them!

Recipe available on request . . .

 

Saving Gwen

I don’t remember coming home. I’m quite sure I must have done so at some point because I’m presently (and pleasantly) perched on the couch, staring dreamily out the window.

Sally, Mort and Scary Gary, are out there, playing some sort of game in which tennis balls, golf clubs, several plastic cups and a large rock feature prominently.

Yeah, I’m not getting it, either.

But I do know that with balls AND clubs in the mix, this can’t end well . . .

I could hear Mom in her room at the top of the stairs. (This house has really good acoustics for listening in on others’ conversations. Just FYI.)

“No, I’m not what you’d call ‘computer literate’. Mom was saying. “I sincerely need training!” Then, “Seriously? No, we each had our vaccination a couple of months ago, when they first rolled them out. The CDC sent a nurse right to our house. Something about Sally being enough of a global threat without adding the whole COVID 19 disaster to the mix.”

She paused. Then laughed. “Right. All of us. I guess they felt as long as they were vaccinating her, they may as well do the same for the poor schmucks who live with her.” Another pause and she laughed again. “Okay, you're right. Those weren’t their real words, but I’m pretty sure I know what they were thinking!” She sighed. “Never a boring moment.”

You have to know Mom usually doesn’t criticize her girls like this. I think she was still steamed about the window. And the TV. And . . .

Never mind . . .

And I don’t know about you, but I was tending to agree with her assessment.

My phone rang and I looked at it hopefully.

Peter (or my Lincoln Park Saviour, as I now call him), said when he took my deets, that he would call.

But, you know, in ‘boy’ time, that could be . . . any time between birth and death.

I had just gotten in.

And my phone was ringing.

Could it be . . .?

I grabbed it. Oh, Lordy Gordy, it was!

Every ounce of calm, cool, and collected that I had ever possessed instantly fled.

I punched wildly at the button, finally managing to connect on the third try.

“H-Hello?” I said a trifle breathlessly.

Okay, in writing that, I’m wondering what ‘a trifle breathlessly’ even means. Certainly, it sounds great in a romance novel. In reality, it’s the condition wherein your breath has bypassed your vocal cords completely and all that left is the tired wheeze of escaping air—like a broken pump organ.

I desperately cleared my throat, told myself sternly to breathe and tried again. “Hello?”

Better.

“Gwen?”

I dropped the phone.

Onto the floor. Where Sally’s cat, Mr. Peebles, who had heretofore been sitting innocently at my feet, promptly batted it under the couch.

Gahhhh!

I fell to my knees and frantically scrabbled for it.

I finally had it! “H-Hello.” I squeaked, desperately hoping to sound nonchalant. Casual. Relaxed. Even blasé.

But with my now-racing heart, I’m quite sure what emerged was panic. Fright. Terror. Fear. Dread. Alarm. And the faint featherings of ‘OhmywordI’mgoingtokeelover!

Not my finest moment.

“Peter here.” He was going on as though I had said something intelligible.

My first impression had been right. And my first impulse even righter.

Hang onto this guy!

Ahem. “Yes? Hi, Peter!”

 “From the park.”

He wasn’t taking any chances on my mixing him up with anyone else. Like I would . . .

“I’ve dropped my nieces off at home and wondered if you and I—the two of us—could maybe get together for a walk? And if things go well, a slushie at 7-11?”

If things go well. I snorted silently.

How could they not?

Just then the front door burst open and Sally stepped in. “Okay, I’m in the clear,” she shouted. Go ahead!”

Immediately, a tennis ball bounced off the door behind her, landing somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen sink and the already-boarded-over kitchen window. For just a moment, I envied that window. It had already given its ‘all’. Its job was well and truly done.

As for the rest of us . . .

“Bulls eye!” Sally shouted, running to retrieve it. She hurried back toward the door. “You got it, Mort! Well . . .” she spotted me, and her trajectory, which would have taken her safely past my orbit, changed.

Oh, dear.

“Whoya talking to, Gwennie?”

“Erm . . . Peter. From the park?”

“Oooh, him!” Sally grabbed the phone. “Peter! If you want her, you’d better hurry! There’s a line-up!”

She winked at me and dropped the phone back into my hands.

Then hurried out the front door.

“Peter?” I whispered into the phone. “Please save me!”

“I’m on my way!”

Each month, a group of us play something called ‘Use Your Words’. A game where our illustrious captain, Karen of Baking in a Tornado challenges us to send her words (and/or phrases) which she then shuffles and re-distributes. The result is unpredictable. And totally fun!

This month, my words were: training ~ CDC  ~ vaccination ~ boring ~ computer illiterate

And came, via Karen, from my good friend, Sarah at https://crazymamallama.blogspot.com/

Thank you, Sarah!

Having fun?

Go and see what my fellow bloggers have done!

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Tagged

Daddy told me about his favourite game as a child. 

Run, Sheep. Run.

He explained that a group of kids would divide into two teams. The wolves. And the sheep.

The sheep would hide, then send one of their number back to the wolves. This messenger would quickly draw a map illustrating just where the sheep were hiding.

The wolves would then head out to find them.

In the meantime, the sheep could stay where they had last been seen. Or move somewhere else entirely.

Once the wolves got close to them however, their messenger, running along behind the wolves would yell, “Run, sheep! Run!”

The sheep would scatter and try to make their way back to the designated place of safety before the wolves ‘caught’ them.

Dad says he and his friends spent many, many happy hours playing this game.

It sounded like . . . heaven.

During my own childhood, we had many outdoor games that we played. Tag. Anti-Ei-Over, Frozen tag. Capture the Flag. Kick the can. How had I missed Run, sheep. Run?

Moving on . . .

A few years ago, my Husby and I were at Fort Edmonton Park.

Don’t worry. The two will connect . . .

For those not familiar with it, Fort Edmonton is a reconstruction of the original fort for which Edmonton is named. The fort itself is surrounded by several ‘streets’ of differing time periods, each telling of a moment in Edmonton’s past. 

It is a fascinating place. Where people in period costumes re-enact social, political and economic situations.

I know. I sound like a brochure.

I love it there.

The reason for our visit was the fiftieth anniversary of my aunt and uncle.

We visited. Laughed. Ate. Visited. Laughed. Watched their grandkids perform vignettes from their grandparents’ history. Laughed. Visited.

And generally had a wonderful time.

Part way through the day, my Husby and I stepped out onto the boardwalk.

To find all of their grandkids, released from their acting responsibilities, happily engaged in a game of hide-and-seek.

Hide-and seek.

I hadn’t seen kids play that in forever.  Most of the kids I see now have their noses in an electronic device.

But here they were. Ranging in age from 3 to 15, all racing around to find places to hide.

And having a marvelous time.

Huh.

Kids really can (and do) play outside.

Just like my Dad did.

And me.

It gave me hope.

Quick! Hide!

The Lady

Age and/or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.

The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"
A little background . . .

Or multiple riders.
That worked as well . . .

Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . tail . . . of the herd) and could keep the entire herd going.
With or without human guidance.
So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher. All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns. If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat.
Less, if said heartbeat is slow.
Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was sitting in her saddle.
Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under and her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.
For a moment.
Then he, or she, would discover that the hardest thing about learning to ride was the prairie.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath.
Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many other Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup. To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim: tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco: another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds.
Steamboat: an enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gait that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth.
The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings.
Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on. These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching. Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes. And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true.
We had Lady.
She of the very, very apt name.

Feisty little Rebel

The Amazing Shammy.

Ditto.

Which of these things is not like the others . . .

My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With King Prancer. Another early ride.

Familial Feeding

Mark, his wife, and the first two of six.
Feeding the next generation . . .

It only ever happened once.

But I’ll remember it forever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I raised six children.

Four of them, sons.

They are, all of them, tall people, ranging in height from six feet to six feet, eight inches.

They were, all of them, big eaters.

And that’s where my story starts . . .

My oldest boy, Mark, ate like a bird. And by that, I mean he consumed his weight in food every. Single. Day.

His next brother, Erik, wasn’t far behind.

We used to joke that we simply gave each of them a trough and a shovel.

And watched the food magically disappear.

The two of them easily ate as much as the rest of the family combined.

It’s true.

In fact, when Mark moved out, our food bill was cut in half.

When Erik moved out, ditto.

But back to that day . . .

It was a coupon day at the local McD’s. Two-for-one.

My Husby (a coupon collector extraordinaire) had managed to hoard a mittful of the colourful, valuable bits of paper.

We loaded the kids into the car for a rare, but fun, family treat.

And we were off.

Feeling distinctly magnanimous, we told the kids to order what they liked.

And Mark did.

His order? Four Big Macs. Two large orders of fries. Two large drinks. And four apple pies.

Did he eat them?

He did.

And, swallowing the last bite of apple pie, he turned to me and said something I’d never heard.

Before or since.

“I’m full.”

Wow.

I stared at him. Had I heard correctly?

He nodded and patted his stomach.

Who says miracles no longer happen?!

There is a little addendum:

As we were leaving the restaurant, I had linked arms with each of my tall eldest sons. We were laughing about something that one of them said. Full and happy.

A woman seated near the doors looked up and smiled. “I just love seeing brothers and sisters such good friends!” she said. “It’s inspiring!”

We smiled back and thanked her, not bothering to explain that one of those ‘siblings’ was, in fact, the mom.

A good day on sooooo many levels.

SWS Support Group

 The Monthly Meeting...

“Please tell us of your problem, sir,

We're here to give you aid.

Supporting is how we get through,

Speak up! Don't be afraid!”

“Just look around the circle, Sir,

There’s not but friends you’ll see.

Get the whole thing off your chest,

Then Madge will serve us tea...”

“It started much as any day,”

He said. And then he sighed,

“A run together in the dawn,

I was so proud, I cried.”

“Then changing for the workday, but

A load of laundry first.

Who knew that act would be her last?

‘Twas like we both were cursed!”

“So innocent as soap went in,

Naive as buttons pressed,

Then watched as clothes began to swirl,

And tumble with the rest.”

“All was well until the load,

Was moved into the drier.

And watching it together as

The heat was getting higher.”

“Then she was gone, t’was just that fast,

My love was there no more.

And all I had was memories

Of what we had before.”

“I’ve tossed it round within my mind,

There really is no doubt

As a pair of socks, we two went in,

As a single, I came out.”

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, come give us all a hand,
Pay tribute to the Rubber Band!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10) Today!
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17)

Favorite breakfast (May 24)

Memorial Day (May 31)

Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)

Monkey Around Day (June 14)

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)