A Sputterling Christmas

 Part One

I stopped in the living room doorway and just—stared.

A long streak of sunlight bathed the area in a bright glow, which was remarkable in itself following weeks of grey and gloom. But what really caught my attention was that there, in the center of said glow, huddled a smelly old bird. In a cage.

Reginald had come home. 

For a moment, the two of us eyed each other. 

Okay I admit it, even though we have, at times, shared accommodations—the most recent being at Cousin Edith’s house—we have never really been friends.

He ruffled up his feathers and croaked something that sounded like ‘smelly old broad’.

I narrowed my eyes, then tried to infuse some enthusiasm into, “Hello, Reggie, old boy. You’re home!” I don't think I nailed it because he immediately turned his back, shook his feathers and shot out a great, white glob which, with impressive accuracy, completely missed the pristine paper in the bottom of his cage and landed on the shining clean floorboards at my feet.

“Did you see?” Norma bustled into the room behind me. “Reggie has come home!” She noticed the great gob on the otherwise spotless floor.  “Oh! Reggie you little rascal!” She turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll just get—”

What she was going to get was left to Reggie’s and my imagination. He had slicked his feathers and was looking toward the empty doorway--hope for possible treats in his round, dark eyes. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure her abrupt departure had something to do with bird poop.

He and I never have existed on the same plane.

I took a chair on the other side of the room, as far from the upcoming action as I could get, and picked up a magazine.

Norma scurried back into the room and I smirked at Reggie. I was right. She was carrying the anticipated bucket of warm, soapy water and a sponge. And, inexplicably, the star for our Christmas tree.

She dropped the star into my lap, then carefully lowered herself to the floor and attacked Reggie’s welcome home gift.

I picked up the star and stared at it. Then looked at her. Well, at her broad backside, which was all I could see. “Ummm—Norma?”

“It’s for—the tree—dear.” Her words were slightly muffled and punctuated by her cleaning efforts.

“Yeah?”

“I’m getting—the tree and—stuff out.” She sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the wrist of the hand holding the sponge. “It is December.”

“Yeah,” I said again. “But why did you bring it in here?”

She looked at me and frowned. “I don’t know.” She shuffled a bit on her knees, the held up a hand. “Could you please—?”

I sighed, got to my feet and helped Norma to hers, then followed her into the kitchen where she deposited her bucket. From there I trailed her to the sitting room where our tree sat in lonely glory in one corner, flanked by numerous boxes.

“See?” she pointed.

I set the star on a table and moved to sit in the one big armchair.

“Nooo!” she shrieked. “That’s for her!”

I paused halfway to sitting and blinked. “Her?”

Norma nodded. “Her.”

“Ummm—Norma?”

She smiled. “Well I’ve spoken to Frosty at the department store, written to Santa, even begged Krampus and the Grinch, who obviously must know her—”

I straightened and looked at her. “Okay?”

“Well, it's fairly certain by now we're never going to get her to leave. So I’ve decided that the only way we are going to have our beautiful white Christmas is to invite her.” Her smile widened. “Christmas is for sharing. That’s why I brought Reggie home. Oh, and Edith is coming, too.”

I turned toward the door.
“Where are you going? I need your help!”

I shook my head. “You’ve spoken to all of your imaginary friends. I’m going to call Batman.”

One of us needs to keep a foot in the real world.

Because I Believe

A tiny town, the angel sings,

Is chosen for the King of Kings.

It sleepy lies and quiet waits,

While all salvation, God creates.

 

And in a manger, not a bed,

Our Savior lays his newborn head,

Soft grasses frame his tiny form,

And keep his swaddled body warm.

 

A hush falls o’er the stable scene,

The babe has come, all is serene,

He will bring peace from world’s alarms,

But for now, a babe, in His mother’s arms.

 For just a moment, all is still,

As Son fulfills his Father’s will,

Though tiny now, one day He’ll be,

The Saviour of both bond and free.

 

The choir gathers, awesome sight,

Their presence shines upon the night,

Above the clouds, their voices swell,

As they shout forth their first ‘Noel’.

As bells ring out the joyous news,

In golden tones, in ones and twos,

We recall another place on earth,

When a prophet spoke of the coming birth.

 

Far to the East, men weep, because

A star shines bright. They point, and pause,

There in that sphere, each of them sees,

The prophecy that’s come to be.

  

And all the Faithful, now, are called,

From pastures—free, to cities—walled,

To see the babe who soon will reign,

When He brings peace and conquers pain.

  

God makes so much from something small,

This babe? Salvation for us all,

How are we freed from pathways grim?

Why...just believe. And follow Him.

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, the best of all the world,

We'll talk of ice cream cones and swirls!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Hanukkah/Christmas/Holidays (December 6) Today!

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes. 

 

Solo Surgery

As the only veterinarian in a 100-mile radius, Dad certainly got around. Within months of his graduation, he was being called further and further afield.
Pun intended.

But thus far in his career, he had never performed a caesarean.

Oh, he had watched. Even assisted a time or two.

But never completed one solo.

For a new veterinarian, there must be a first . . .

From Dad’s journals:

As winter came on, we found the roads often heavy with snow. A trip could give good roads one day and be plugged the next. When I went on a call, I wanted to be sure I would be able to get home before the roads drifted in.

On one particular call, it was to a farm to the west of home and the road was often bad in snowy weather.

The case was a cow in labour. Upon examination, it became quite evident that she hadn’t dilated very much. I told the farmer that I could give the cow a shot of hormone and she should be ready to calve by morning.

The only alternative would be a caesarian to deliver the calf now. I didn’t want to do the surgery because the wind was blowing hard and the road would be blocked in an hour or so. Another drawback was the fact that there wasn’t a warm place to do the job. His barn was so in need of repair that it would barely act as a windbreak.

Another thing worrying me was my lack of experience. This would be my first caesarian.

With the farmer’s insistence, I decided to go to it right away.

We took the cow to the barn and to the corner farthest from the wind and I parked my car close by and kept it running so as to have a place to warm up from time to time.

I put the cow to sleep and started to work. As soon as the calf was out, it was taken to the house quickly to keep it from freezing.

Now it was time to start sewing.

I could only work a few minutes at a time because of the cold and had to get in the car frequently to warm up.

Finally, the job was completed and now we had to do something to keep the cow warm. There was lots of straw so we buried the cow completely.

Next, they brought in their small herd of sheep and they helped to keep the wind away.

As soon as this was done I was on my way home, and not a bit too soon. The road was so badly drifted that I was glad to get through.

The wind continued all next day and there was no traffic in that direction for two weeks.

Under the circumstances, I really didn’t think the cow had a chance to survive. The temperature dipped to 25 below zero (F) that night and stayed much the same for the next two weeks.

I didn’t have a telephone and was reluctant to see the farmer, but when I did, he surprised me by telling me the cow came through very well. She was on her feet the next morning and looking for the calf.

“I knew she would be okay,” he said.

I guess he had more confidence in me that I did.

I never did tell him that this was the first caesarian I had done solo.

A Carpent(h)er

See?

Her Mama (Daughter #2) is a carpenter.

Has been for over a decade. 

Soooo . . . since long before Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as GD6) was born.

Mama is remarkably talented at building stage sets. In the dark backstages of Edmonton Alberta’s theatrical world, she is considered a tech bright light.

So to speak.

Ahem . . .

Yes. That is a kitchen...

Her mother was building sets and props in their kitchen when GD6 was only a week old.

I have a picture of Mama painting the floor of a set with GD6 snug as a bug in a carrier. (See above)

At the age of five months, GD6 and Grandma took up residence in one of the change rooms at one of the theatres while Mama was building down the hall in the shop. 

It was fairly entertaining to watch Mama blow the sawdust of herself when it was time to come and nurse the baby!

But I digress . . .

To say that GD6 has grown up with it is probably an understatement.

In her little world, Mama is a carpenter. The end.

Then, that day, when GD6 (then almost six) got a bit of a shock.

Let me tell you about it . . .

They were out and about. Mama collecting materials for the building of a set for the soon-to-open Pinocchio by Alberta Opera.

Then working on said set in the bowels of yet another Edmonton theatre.

GD6 had been tagging along. Watching the fabrication.

Playing on her IPad.

Doing those things she has been doing for much of her almost-six years.

As they drove home, they passed some building construction.

A fairly common sight in the always-growing city of Edmonton.

They had stopped for traffic. There outside the window was a house currently being assembled.

GD6 sat, looking at it. Then she noticed something. “Mama! There’s men carpenters!” She pointed.

Her Mama nodded. “Yep.”

“Huh! I didn’t know there could be men carpenters!”

Truly the world is a place of surprises.

One of many.

Fifty Day Wednesday #17

 From a favourite story my Mom used to tell about Everybody, Somebody, Nobody, and Anybody:

My house…
We had an important job and Everybody was asked to do it. 

Anybody could have, but Nobody did. Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody's job. Everybody thought Anybody could do it, but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't. So Nobody told Anybody, and Everybody blamed Somebody.

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Remembered Recesses

Milk River Elementary. My home away from home.

The Milk River Elementary School, house of learning to some two hundred children, was on the north-east corner of the town.

On the north and east, it was bordered by farmland.

On the south, by houses.

And on the west, by the field that stretched between it and the high school two blocks away.

The only playground equipment was a set of teeter-totters (see-saws) at the east end of the school building, and a monkey-bar on the west.

Oh and sometime between grades three and four, near the garbage, they installed a tether-ball pole.

The very latest in school-ground play equipment.

Let’s face it, dependance on toys and/or playing apparatus for entertainment wasn't expected.

Or necessary, as it turned out.

Because we made up our own games.

And two hundred-plus kids pooling their collective imaginations can come up with a lot of 'entertainment'.

We held impromptu races. Which Kathy 'The Jet' Angyal always won.

Flag football games. I should probably mention, here, that I never saw the use in just grabbing the flag when you can grab the whole kid.

And Lloyd Eagleson has the scars to prove it.

Climbing 'the rock'.

But that was only for the older, cooler kids.

Hide and seek.

Fun, but limiting when you had nothing but an open field in which to hide. (Or the neighbour's barley crop, which stood some feet over our heads. Just FYI.)

Tag. In its many incarnations: Regular. Frozen. Poison. Kick the can. And King of the Castle.

Games of hopscotch.

Jacks. (I should mention that I’d did all right with Jacks—until I got to sixes. What’s with sixes?

There was one time we tried to get really creative and have some fun 'off site'.

And had an early brush with the law.

But that is another post . . .

Several of the girls played jump rope games—sometimes with as many as two ropes!

Very popular and truly amazing to watch.

I, who had a hard time walking and breathing at the same time, was astounded at what many of those girls could do.

And while chanting/singing, too.

I never saw the use for it, though I did try.

But after getting my feet knocked out from beneath me for the 40^thtime, I gave it up as hopeless.

And put the jump ropes to better use.

I should remind you that we were mostly farm kids.

And I and many others, like me, were completely infatuated with horses.

Thus, skipping ropes immediately brought to mind – harnesses.

Because.

We would pass the rope around the middle (waist) of our chosen horse, hang onto the ends, give the accepted 'start' command in a firm voice.

Giddyap! or something similarly creative.

And we were off.

‘Horse’ pulling.

'Driver' . . . umm . . . driving.

Around, over and through the other kids on the playground.

It was fun.

When we tired of running, we would nip into the aforementioned barley crop across the road and pull up armloads of green, sweet-smelling 'hay'.

As feed.

And to build little nests for our steeds.

You know, now that I think of it, I wonder what the farmer thought when he saw the ragged south-east corner of his crop.

As Milk River still went on to produce three 'Barley Kings', I guess our armloads of stolen barley stalks didn't make too much of a difference.

Back to my story . . .

I went back there.

To Milk River Elementary, I mean.

The school now has extensive and obviously expensive playground equipment.

And trees.

And tall fences.

The monkey bars are gone.

As are the teeter-totters and tether ball.

There are still farmer's fields to the east. 

But a large ball-diamond had been constructed on the west side, between it and the high school.

And houses and development on the north, completely eliminating our old barley field.

I stared at the 'developed' space and pictured us kids playing and laughing at recess and noon hour.

Do these modern children, with their modern conveniences, have as much fun as we did?

Somehow, I doubt it.

Chi-odd

There are many types of pets, you know,

Some grow fast and some grow slow,

There’s dogs and cats and fish and birds,

The ‘regulars’ too cute for words,

Then reptiles, too, are popular,

And insects, (Though I don’t concur!)

Some fuzzy, warm, some cold as ice,

To someone, all of them are nice.

But here’s a pet that’s dif-er-ent,

If you’re a sloth, they’re Heaven sent,

There really isn’t much to do

To care for them so they’ll care for you.

A bit of water now and then,

No litter box, no dirty den,

No walking needed, no play time,

In fact, of most pets, they’re sublime!

Just place them in a window, and

Before too long, you’ve something grand!

With fur luxuriant and green (?!)

The strangest pet you’ve ever seen!

Belonging to the phylum, chia,

The best from here to far Korea,

Enough of talk, I’m getting one,

And then I’ll be prepared for fun!

Sooo, buy a kit and spread some goo

And you could have a new pet, too!

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, we'll talk of holidays,

Come and join us as we play!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Chia Pets (November 29) Today!

Hanukkah/Christmas/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.

Pandy

She looks toward me through a curtain of hair,

I wonder how much she can see? Does she care?

This doggins who’s taken control of my life,

Who plays when I’m happy and comforts through strife,

Makes sure aged joints will get their proper care

By pulling me outside into the fresh air,

She sits by my desk while I sweat o’er a page,

Patiently waiting her chance to engage,

Excited to go. In the car, she will hop,

Then wait endlessly while her dad and I shop,

She’s boundlessly patient, and waits for her turn,

E’en happily gobbles the bacon I burn,

Ready for ‘walkies’ each day just at dawn,

Well, she was born ready—I’ve got clothes to put on…

While she stares at the screen with her big, dark-brown eyes,

Does she figure it out and the mystery surmise?

When we’re done with the news, the day’s pretty much dead,

She’s glaring with purpose, “Come on! Get to bed!”

I wonder what we would be like—without her,

Would we miss licks and hugs and that cuddly fur?

Would we get out of bed before noon? (What a waste!)

Would it have to be me giving new foods a taste?

If we didn’t have Pandy to tow us along,

Would we get some fresh air and be healthy and strong?

What if she wasn’t with us for life’s greatest show?

I’m glad that, at present, I don’t have to know.

 

 

Welcome to our Monthly Poetry Challenge!

This month's topic? Animals

And what could be better than those who share their lives with us?

Excited for more?

Read what the other challengers have crafted!

The Zoo Chew by Karen of Baking In A Tornado 

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Thanks Giving

It's Thanksgiving for our brothers and sisters across the border.

What am I thankful for?
This will start you out. It started me out . . .

My hometown!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.
Crime hadn't been invented yet.
It was, literally, a different world.
Our doors were never, ever locked.
Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each other's yards and homes and refrigerators.
Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning and doing other 'Mom' stuff.
She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.
Canned soup was something new and wonderful. Always served with yummy homemade bread sandwiches.
At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.
Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.
The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.
At ten cents each.
Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the center of the store.
Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hovan's desk was full of them.
We had our own cobbler, Mr. Szabo, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion great hunks of leather into real shoes with his little hammer.
A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera that magically developed its own pictures while you waited.
Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.
With five cents left over.
Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.
But happy.
The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row. Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.
All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.
Most of it was made on this continent.
Our clothes were mostly cotton.
Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.
Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.
And absolutely everyone attended church.
Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family but any and all extended family members and shoe-horn the entire mob into any available space.
At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the center of the intersection of Main and First streets.
The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season. Well, most of the traffic. Aunt Grace ran into it once.
The arrival of Santa in Mr. Madge's special North Pole plane, a much-anticipated event.
And, once again, everyone went to church.
Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.
We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.
One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.
Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').
There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.
In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in Cubs, Scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.
Mom always made treats.
Yummy ones.
We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.
And all of them were wonderful people and terrific cooks.
Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .
Sports events were exactly that.
Events.
Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.
Basketball was huge.
The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.
Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.
The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.
'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.
The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.
Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.
And everyone knew everyone else.
Their address, phone number (Jody's phone number was 6), family members.
Even pets.
It was a wonderful way to grow up.
Like an enormous, caring family . . .
I loved growing up in Milk River.
It was a perfect life.
But that 'small-town' life has largely vanished everywhere now.
Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.
Friendly neighbourhoods.
Caring neighbours.
So now it's your turn. What are you thankful for?

Fifty Day Wednesday #16

Marie brought her new boyfriend in and smilingly introduced him.
Her parents accepted his shaved head, piercings and tattoos, but were appalled at his brusque, uncaring attitude.
“But is he a nice boy?” they asked their daughter.
“Pfff…if he wasn’t nice, would he be doing 300 hours of community service?”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Little Girl

Me. And my Daddy.

My first experience with the radio . . .

Mom must have heard the sobs.

She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Diane?”

More sobs.

“Diane, where are you?”

She followed the heartbroken sounds to behind the couch.

To the little four-year-old who had crawled between the piece of furniture and the large picture window just behind.

I looked up at her.

Can’t you just see the little tear-stained face?

Mom smiled at me and reached out to pull me into her arms. “Diane, what’s wrong?”

The two of us sat down on the couch.

Mom dabbed at my face with her towel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“He left her, Mom!” I managed at last.

Mom stared at me. “Who? Left who?”

“He left her. His little girl. Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face was a veritable cornucopia of expressions.

Worry.

Defiance.

Sympathy.

Defense.

With a large dollop of confusion.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“The man!” I looked at her intently through drenched eyes. Surely she knew him. She had been listening to him. I reached out and grasped her arm, giving it a shake. “The man you were listening to!” I looked away. “He was so sad ‘cause he had to leave his little girl in gings-tin-down.” I looked back at her. “Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh. The radio!” she said.

It was my turn to stare at her. “The radio?”

She cuddled me closer. “Honey, you were listening to a man singing on the radio!”

“But he left his little girl! He said!” I scrubbed at my nose with a slightly grubby hand. “And he was sad.”

Mom smiled. “It was just a song.”

“But his little girl!” I couldn't get past the thought that, somewhere, there was a little girl who was missing her daddy.

“He’s not actually talking about a little girl . . .” Mom began.

“But he said!” I broke in. “I heard him! He said his little girl!”

“In this case he’s talking about his wife or sweetheart.” She tightened her arms around me. “Sometimes men call their wives or sweethearts ‘little girl’.

I felt my face twisting into my favourite - and most effective - confused expression. “What?”

She nodded. “It’s just their way of saying, I love you.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a minute.

Just then the front door opened.

Tears and forlorn little girls forgotten, I leaped down from Mom’s lap and headed for the front hall. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Tall and strong, he was there to scoop me up. “How’s my little girl?” he said.

True story.

And here's the exact song, by the incomparable Harry Belafonte. Enjoy!

I have Kleenex . . .

When Love is More Than Blue

 Almost fifteen. My friend, Debbie, and me,

Were dreaming of love and a boyfriend (or three!),

 We sat in her bedroom one late afternoon,

Eating some snacks as we listened to ‘tunes’,

She had this small player—held one ‘45’

Two teenagers trying to keep angst alive.

Then she placed a new record on top for a spin,

“Ooh! Listen to this sweet one I just got in!”

And, for the first time I heard  Paul Mauriat,

Piano and strings in a brand new format.

And before ‘Love is Blue’ fin’lly played to the end,

I was totally in love with it, just like my friend.

But, oddly, for teenagers dreaming of love,

It did something else, (What were we thinking of?)

Our class had been reading The Lord of the Flies,

The one with the schoolboys (where somebody dies),

And Debbie talked on ‘bout when Simon was stabbed

By the boys he called friends. Well, it just made her sad,

And she pictured that body out there on the beach,

All by itself, and no help within reach,

Well the thought made her cry. And just then on the air,

Came this song about love, but it had her ensnared,

Thinking of Simon. The tide coming in,

And tenderly lapping his hair and his skin,

Well, I told you the thought of it just made her cry,

She decided right then that she just had to buy,

Though the rest of the world heard with love on their minds,

Deb’s and my thoughts were a far different kind.

You know, more than fifty years passed since that time,

That day (decades later), would look so sublime,

When Deb had me looking at something quite grand,

From a far different angle than the writer had planned.

I wish I could go back—be fifteen again,

Playing those records—of love and of pain,

Our whole lives ahead, no idea of strife,

But making us ready for our future life.

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?

You never yet,

met a pet,

I can bet

That's better than all of the pets WE will get...

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22) Today!

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.

Real Estate

Going through some old posts and found this one written in 2014 just after I had relocated Daddy from his condo to the Senior's Lodge a block away.

He lived there eight months before he moved again. Home.

I miss him so much!
Such bittersweet memories . . .

It's done.

Following several thousand man-hours of sorting, packing, hauling, mistakes, searching, finding, more packing, more hauling, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, Daddy is safely installed in his new home.
It was not an easy decision to make.
He loved his condo.
And his independence.
But though he remains clear mentally, his once-robust physical self grows steadily weaker and frailer.
He's better off in a place where his meals are provided and help is always very nearby.
It's bittersweet.
We know he will be cared for.
But the memories of what used to be crowd close.
Bringing tears.
Life on the ranch was an adventure.

Every day a blur of what needed to be done and what happened while doing it.

From this...

... to this.

But Daddy's favourite saying is: Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened!

Life isn't over.

Only his piece of real estate is smaller.

Here's to new adventures.

I love you, Daddy!