97

It's my Dad's 97th birthday today! I do hope they celebrate in heaven.

Here is a memory from his tenth birthday . . .

Grandpa Stringam and his seven sons. Dad is the little guy in the front.

My Grandma Stringam had a great sense of humour.

It didn’t emerge often.

But when it did . . .

It was my Dad’s 10^th birthday.

Preparations had been ongoing in the family kitchen for most of the day and for Dad, forbidden the hallowed hall, the anticipation was palpable.

Finally, he was called in and settled in the place of honour at the family table.

The meal commenced.

Amid much laughter and badinage, it continued.

Finished.

And the much-anticipated cake was finally brought out.

It was one of Grandma Stringam’s triumphs. A great, tall, beautifully-frosted tower of perfection.

Grandma set it in front of Dad and, for the first time in his life, handed him the knife.

Ooh, the excitement! The responsibility! The trepidation . . .

Dad carefully poked the blade of the knife into the mound of frosting. Slid it down to the surface of the cake itself. Watched as the blade bit into the soft deliciousness.

And it was there that things came to a sudden, inexplicable halt.

Literally.

The knife simply wouldn’t go any further.

It  . . . stopped.

Dad pushed a bit harder. No progress.

Cakes were harder to cut than he had anticipated. He exerted all the pressure of his ten-year-old arm.

Nothing.

His mother, standing beside him, said, “Maybe you need to try another knife.” She duly handed him a long knife with a serrated edge.

Dad set the first one down and reached for the second.

Tentatively, he poked the blade through the frosting and into the cake. Again the knife stopped just past the surface.

This time, though, as he sawed the blade back toward himself, something unexpected came with it.

A tiny strand of something white and . . . fluffy.

Dad reached for it. Rolled it between his fingers.

Cotton. 

He frowned. What was cotton doing in his cake?

He sawed the blade once more. More cotton.

He glanced suspiciously at his mother.

Who was grinning hugely.

Oh.

Grandma had baked his perfect cake, then cut the top off, hollowed it out and filled it with cotton. Carefully reassembling it, she had frosted it and set it before her brand-new ten-year-old.

Now, laughing heartily, she went back into the kitchen and returned with the inside. Just as carefully frosted and decorated.

Fortunately, this one cut – and ate – easily.

Ten-year-old birthdays.

So exciting. So memorable.

For so many reasons . . .

P.S. Happy Birthday, Daddy! I love you! And I miss you!

Early Spell-Checker

Speller extraordinaire

Speller less extraordinaire

Our second son is, in many ways, like his father.

It's a good thing.

One of the most notable is his ability to spell.

Anything. Any time.

It's a gift.

I should mention, here, that I don't have this gift.

Enough said . . .

It was the early 80's. My brother, Blair, was working on his Bachelor's degree in Engineering.

We had a computer.

Which he visited.

Often.

Our computer was in our eight-year-old second son, Erik's room.

Blair would work there by the light of a single lamp. We would hear the clicking of the keys late into the night.

On this occasion, Erik was supposed to be sleeping.

He wasn't.

Occasionally, the keyboard sounds would stop and I would hear the brief sound of voices.

Then the clicking would resume.

Finally, Erik came out of the room, needing a drink of water.

I was tidying the kitchen.

He moved close to me.

"Mom," he whispered. "Uncle Blair can't spell."

Ah. The occasional sound of voices was explained. Blair was consulting with his spell-checker.

It must have worked because he went on to achieve a doctorate in Engineering.

Okay, I admit that today's sophisticated spell-checker programs are probably more efficient and more easily accessible.

And don't need their sleep.

But none of those programs have personality. And certainly aren't as cute.

Yep. Progress isn't always progress.

Waiting...

March goes. A wave good-bye, she earns, 
And April comes, and hope returns
That soon we'll see some warmth and sun
And know that springtime has begun.
When colour will return anew,
And leaves come back and flowers poke through.
The grass turn green. The song of bird
Throughout the warming air be heard.
When soft and pristine breezes blow,
And places, then, to see. And go.
The doors and windows, closed so long,
Are opened wide to catch Spring's song . . .
It's here, you know, that airy Spring,
When bells ring out and songbirds sing,
There's warmth and joy and sunlight's gleam
And spring has sprung--cause I can dream.
Sigh.

Ready to set sail . . .

Someday . . .

P.S. According to my son, Erik, these are the seasons of Canada:
- Winter
- Fool’s Spring
- Second Winter
- False Spring
- Third Winter
- Spring?
- Thought It Was Spring, But It Was Winter Again
- Muck
- Spring
- Summer (1 week, while you’re at work)
- Mosquitoes And Potholes.  Also Wasps
- Fall
- Winter?
- We’re Damned Lucky That Fall Has Lasted This Long
- Winter

Swim Champ

Front to back: George, Me, Chris, Jerry, Dad and Blair.
Look closely. Can you pick out the intrepid swimmer?

I had never taken swimming lessons.
We simply lived too far from the city (Lethbridge) for it to be a priority. Or even possible.
But I loved to swim.
And, with the river in such close proximity, did it a lot.
In the summer.
In winter, for obvious reasons, we were pretty much shut out.
Then, someone of great intelligence from the town came up with a fantastic idea.
Why not hire a schoolbus and cart a load of kids to Lethbridge once a week?
It was genius!
Swimming lessons had become a reality.
I was going!
The bus ride was a treat. I wasn't confined to my usual fourth row back and Kathy had a portable record-player, which she kept going the entire trip.
Do you have any idea how many times you can listen to the Surfaris 'Wipe-Out' in a fifty-mile bus ride? Answer: A few.
The bus deposited us safely in front of the Civic Center and we scrambled madly for the door and the change rooms, then poured out into the main pool room.
We were ready.
The teachers began to sort us into groups, using a list of highly-specialized criteria.
How old are you? Are you afraid of the water? Have you ever taken swimming lessons before? What colour is your swimsuit?
Do you like boys?
Finally they had us, more or less, categorized.
I had never taken swimming lessons, so I was inserted into the beginners class.
“Okay, kids. See if you can put your face into the water.”
Woohoo! Compliance! I took off like a seal.
“Okay. You! Little girl in the blue swimsuit!” Sigh. “Would someone please fish her out?”
Have I mentioned that I like water?
“Are you sure you've never had lessons?”
Head shake.
“Well, I'm moving you up to the next level.”
Okay.
And so it went.
By the time we were finished our one-hour lesson, I had been . . . promoted . . . seven times.
It must have been some sort of record, to go from the beginner level to the 'Junior Lifeguard' level.
In one lesson.
Who could have known that all my flailing and thrashing around like a demented fish had actually been getting me somewhere.
Or that, in the still water of a pool, with no current to fight, I could actually make headway.
Really fast headway.
Jerry (the only member of my family who could fight the river's current and win), eat your heart out.
Because miracles do happen.
I was suddenly the soggy and triumphant queen of my little, watery world.
It didn't happen often.
But it was a very good feeling.

No Cat Stew

I love cats, you know I do,

They’re smart. And entertaining, too,

Sometimes, they just don’t think things through,

Or fail when trying to construe,

But give you something fun to view…

To drapes and screens, they stick like glue,

Have inconvenient timing, true,

Mess up the portrait you just drew,

Or bid your brand new rug adieu,

Your hugs and kisses they eschew,

Until the times when they want to,

Beneath your window, half-past two,

Loving, fighting right on cue,

Until you’d like to throw a shoe,

And think you’d rather have a gnu,

But I think you would be so blue,

If you didn’t have your ‘baby boo’,

You’d have to find a nice way to

Be entertained by something new,

So, here’s to cats, I’ve known a few,

I love their ways and their miscues,

Love watching antics on ‘YouTube’,

But one more thing and then I’m through…

Love most that they belong to you!

P.S....

An edict from King Richard 2,

Forbade the eating of your Mew,

So when your setting down to chew...

Don't add 'puddy tat' to your stew!

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 will (With great affection) 

Be discussing IMPERFECTION!

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!)...

Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.) Today!
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Yo-yo (June 6)

Roller Coaster (June 13)

World Refugee Day (June 20)

The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Collecting

We all have things we like a lot,

From shoes to pens, salt shakers. Pots,

Those things for which we’ve great affections,

Will often end up in collections.

 

Our DIL has got a spot

For hippos. Them, she loves a lot!

My aunt saved shakers: pepper, salt,

There, on display, she would exalt.

 

And Husby gathers statues, true,

Each carved of wood—of wooden hue,

He also has a game of chess,

From every place we’ve been, I’d guess.

 

My dad had clocks: handmade and fine,

My mom had recipes divine,

My sister: beaus; my girlfriend: clothes,

A neighbour: finest books of prose.

 

One thing I’ll point out—yes, I must,

Is this: collections gather dust,

Now, if you love them, you don’t mind,

But that’s just not how I’m designed!

 

So my collection’s not like theirs,

No using dusters fine as hairs,

No need to re-arrange and shift,

No rejects to retire, re-gift.

I think that mine’s the best of all,

With figures short and figures tall,

Of diff’rent colours, weights. (And lids…)

The things that I love most—my kids!

 

Part of my collection...

Each month Karen's awesome little group of poets chooses a theme...

Then heads to our computers to rhyme!

This month’s theme: Collections

Treat yourself and see what the others have done!

BakingIn A Tornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Clipped

This is a confession.

Yeah. It was me.
Perhaps an explanation...

Mom had a pair of toenail clippers.
Large.
Effective.
Those suckers could cut through anything.
Well almost anything.
They had sat atop her dresser in a special spot for all of my life.
I had watched Mom use them on numerous occasions. Seated on a chair, one ankle cross over the other knee for convenience and leverage.
Always with a garbage pail beneath in case of accidental drop-age/escape-age.
Followed by the steady sound of clip-age.
Then mom would get to her feet, restore the garbage to its rightful corner, and return those great, heavy clippers back to their place.
Until next time.
And there they sat.
Now, I had borrowed these clippers from time to time.
Usually when I had misplaced my own.
Because mine didn't have a place of honour on my dresser.
Or anywhere, for that matter . . .
Now, that day:
Erm...I was somewhere far out in the pasture! Doing the things I was supposed to be doing!
Not in my parents room snooping around for Christmas presents!
Or at least that's the story I always told my mom.
Ahem.
And it wasn't me who took a straight pin from the pincushion which also resided atop Mom's dresser and tried to clip it with her clippers.
Just to see what would happen.
Resulting in a gap in the very center of the smooth edge of said clippers.
Because--just FYI--in a contest between straight pins and clippers, straight pins win.

But now at long last, I'm changing my story.
To the truth.
A little late, but there you are.
I'm telling you this so you don't have to watch your mom, to the end of her days, clip her toenails with a defective set of clippers.

Sorry, Mom!

Sigh.

Marked Green

It came out of the blue.

Or green, as you will soon see . . .
Mommy was working at her desk in her office.
Little Girl (hereinafter known as LG) was playing at her little craft table in the next room.
Now, I should probably mention, here, that LG was (and still is) NOT one of those children who got into things. Nope. She was/is a 'rules' sort of person. She liked to know them.
And, on occasion, reinforce them—especially to any other children in the vicinity.
Also, as an only child, she entertained herself with admirable skill.
Sooo . . . back to my story.
Mommy: Desk.
LG: Standing in the doorway.
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"Mommy?"
"What is it?"
Okay, now she had mommy's attention. "Mommy, this happened."
Mommy turned around.
LG was holding up her left hand.
Which has been covered, wrist to fingertips, in green marker.
"LG (not her real name) what did you do?!"
"I'm sorry. It just happened."
"Your entire hand got coloured in green marker."
"Ummm . . . yeah."
"How did it happen?"
"I did it."
"Why?"
A shrug. "I just . . . wanted to."
"You wanted to colour your entire hand."
"Yeah."
Mommy was getting a little lost. "But . . . why?"
Another shrug.
"What has Mommy said about drawing on yourself?"
"Not to do it."
"So . . . why did you do it?"
A third shrug.
"Let's go and wash, shall we. Then I think we'll have to put the markers away for a while so we can think about this."
"Okay!"
And here's what we take away from this:
I’m sure you’ve seen people out in the world who do seemingly inexplicable things. Things that make you stare at them and think to yourself: Really? You're going to go with that? Did you even think about this at all?!
Those things?
Yeah, it's still inexplicable.

Spray Your Bears Away!

Hold your breath!

It was a hot summer afternoon.

And my Husby kept a small can of bear/pepper spray in his night table for home defence.

These two statements are connected.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In Edmonton, Alberta, we have beautiful summers. 

We wait all year for them.

And they are worth it.

For about three weeks of said summers, the thermometer actually reaches 'uncomfortable'.

Edmontonians head for the pools or hide in their cool, dim basements.

The latter is where our family was. Happily watching a movie. Minding our own business.

Okay, most of us.

Our middle son, sixteen-year-old Duff, was upstairs.

Raiding the kitchen.

Our second son, Erik was also upstairs.

In the front room working on a model.

Duff finished eating and started wandering around. We heard his footsteps go into our bedroom.

Then we heard the front door close as he headed outside.

Shortly afterwards, Erik, still hard at work on his model, started sneezing.

Finally, he came downstairs. “I don't know what kind of aftershave Duffy uses,” he gasped, “but I think I'm allergic!”

And then our youngest son started to sneeze.

I turned and stared at him.

Suddenly, I could smell...pepper.

Husby gasped. “My bear spray!” Looking at the rest of us, he bellowed, “Everybody out!”

Yes. Bellowed.

We held our breath and charged in a disorganized scramble for the stairs.

Once outside, we huddled in a group on the lawn sneezing and staring at the house.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

Husby shrugged. “Open all of the doors and windows and let the place air out.”

“How long will that take?”

He shrugged again. Then bravely went back inside to do exactly that. “There – achoo! – I think – achoo! - that's got them – achoo! - for now,” he said, rejoining us.

We looked at each other. 

“Who wants to go up to the store for a doughnut?” Husby asked.

A chorus of positive responses.

Ten minutes later, we were wandering around in the grocery, munching fresh doughnuts.

Yumm.

I will state here that nothing can make bad experiences go away faster than fresh doughnuts.

Truth.

Moving on . . .

After about an hour, Husby suggested that we head home.

“Is it safe?” I asked.

“We'll see.”

Once more, we were huddled on our front lawn.

Once more, he bravely approached the front door.

Nothing.

He moved inside.

More nothing.

He reappeared in the doorway. “I think it's all right.”

The rest of us cautiously joined him.

I could still smell pepper.

But it was no longer overpowering.

A thorough vacuuming and dusting soon eliminated it completely.

Later that evening, Duff told us what had happened. “I was looking through Dad's night table for some tweezers,” he said. “And I saw the can of bear spray. I picked it up and, out of curiosity, pressed the button.”

He grinned. “That's all I remember. I was blind, deaf and dumb for about five minutes. All I could think of was getting outside as quickly as possible.”

“You could have hollered or something!” Husby said.

“I couldn't do anything!” Duff said.

Please note: Bear/pepper spray is effective.

Really, really effective.

There is a codicil.

Several years later, we installed hardwood in the entire upper floor of our house.

As Husby was removing the carpet in our bedroom, I could suddenly smell of pepper.

“I smell pepper!” I observed brilliantly.

Husby stopped and sniffed. “I do, too,” he said. He looked at me. “Huh. Must still be left from Duff's pepper attack.”

“But that was six years ago.”

He shrugged. “Pepper obviously lasts.”

The final lesson here?

Bear/pepper spray is effective and lasts a long time. 

One application and bears and/or family members will stay away for years!

You can thank me later...

Two Little Butts

Today, for Poetry Monday,  we salute poetry!
The rhythm. The rhyme. The emotion.

At times, the silliness!
And what better way could there be to salute poetry than by...writing...poetry.

Here, then is my most popular poem from the past 12 years of blogging...

Our family was ‘raised on the stage’. And for a few wonderful years before Covid, I realized the dream of having my grandchildren follow in their parents’ footsteps.

This poem was written as we wrapped ‘The Elves and the Shoemaker’ in 2017.

Their parents were all in the cast or backstage,
Their grandparents, too, with the play were engaged.
Two little girls in the large gallery,
Two last little sprigs on their family’s tree,
Had grown bored with the play they had seen from Day One.
That first day was great! The rest, not so fun.
They’d watched scenes through first blocking and all incarnations,
Knew all of the songs and heard all the Orations.
And while those in the room were still fixed on the show,
Running sound and effects. Lights above and below,
Two little girls weren’t attentive at all,
They wanted to run. They wanted to crawl.
They did not want to sit in their chairs quietly,
They wanted to dance, laugh and giggle. Times three.
But Grampa, just sitting there, manning the lights,
Had to keep ‘shushing’ his two little mites.
And then in an effort to give them a scare,
Vowed to tape their two little butts to their chairs.
Two little girls sat down quietly then,
But those silly old wiggles soon started again.
And then Grampa, still working the lighting board’s keys
Heard a sweet little voice, and it said, "Grampa, please—
We’ve done all that mom sent for we two to share,
Grampa, please, could you tape both our butts to the chair?"
Every day we learn something, and today, here is one:
When is a threat not a threat? When it’s fun!

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 promise won’t be flat,

Our topic is ‘Respect Your Cat’!

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!)...

Celebrating Poetry (March 21) Today!
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Yo-yo (June 6)
Roller Coaster (June 13)
World Refugee Day (June 20)
The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Conversational Manners

Three-year-old second-youngest granddaughter (hereinafter known as 2YG) and her Mama were visiting.

It had been much too long since we were together, so there was MUCH visiting to be done.

2YG had alternated between books, puzzles, Fisher Price, Duplo, iPad and ‘Mama/Gramma! Look at me!’ for the entire morning.

We had moved things downstairs so 2YG could play dress-up and/or watch an episode or two of Paw Patrol.

All the while, her Mama and I were continuing the visit.

Like I said, there was a lot of catching up to do.

Now my daughter, when her children need her attention, has tried to school them in proper ways to do so. None of the usual, “Mom! Mom! MOM!” Nope. They are to wait with one hand on her arm as a silent signal.

It works surprisingly well.

Most of the time…

Back to our visit.

2YG wanted Mama’s attention, but it wasn’t coming quite fast enough. (ie. within the next two seconds)

Frustrated, the little girl stood, feet apart and hands on hips, glaring at the two of us.

When we looked at her, she burst out with (picture this in ‘toddler speak’ and with hands indicating appropriately): “There Mama! Then Gramma! Then Mama! Then Gramma! Then Mama! Then Gramma! Where Quincy?!”

Translation: “I can’t get a word in edgewise!”

‘Toddler Speak’ is just so much more entertaining than what the rest of us pass off as ‘conversation’.

Maybe there should be classes.

Who’s with me?

 

Short-Term Sister

 

Mom, third from left, and five of her eight brothers.
Her 'baby sister' Roy, alias Rosie, is far left.

A selection from my Mom's journals

This was my Mom's favorite story . . .

Being the only sister near the middle in a family of eight brothers, I found myself competing with the boys and growing up as a 'Tom Boy'.
I was athletic and could run as fast, jump as high and throw as far as my brothers.
I milked cows, drove and rode horses as well as the boys.
As the fourth in the family, I often considered myself the fourth brother.
In spite of this, I yearned for a sister, sharing my mother's dreams of another daughter.
By the time I was five, I had three new, small brothers but still no sister.
My prayers unanswered, I seemed destined to be alone in a mob of boys.
My little brothers seemed more cooperative and trusting than my older brothers; maybe little brothers could substitute as sisters? I decided to try to make one my little brothers into a little sister. Perhaps if I dressed them up in girls' clothes, they would pass as sisters. I rummaged through Mama's trunk and found an old dress and a bonnet with lace trimming.
Armed with these frillies, I looked about for a likely prospect.
Roy, the fifth brother and three years my junior, seemed the best choice. I approached him where he was playing in the yard.
"Roy, come and see what I have here."
He came willingly after I promised him a cookie.
We went upstairs where I slipped him into the dress, tied the belt and put on the lace bonnet, all the time crooning how nice he looked - so very nice. I gave the dress a tug to cover grubby clothes and ankle-height shoes.
I called my new little sister Rosie, my favorite name at the time.
For a while we played games that I supposed girls would play. We played with dolls and improvised a tea party including the promised cookie.
We were having such a good time, just us girls.
It was wonderful having a beautiful little sister.
Finally, I thought and I and my little sister should go for a walk to see the cats and the farm animals which would be frolicking about outside.
I took Rosie by the hand and for several blissful minutes, I led her around the yard, describing all the interesting features of our farmyard and garden.
Luckily, we did not encounter any brothers with their taunting giggles and snorts.
Suddenly a car came into the yard.
 The spell was broken. Rosie, reverting to Roy, leapt into the air and shot like a rocket toward the house.
As the passengers poured out of the car, they were surprised to see what looked like a human tornado, shedding clothes as it sped to the nearest hideaway.

Be Little

It should probably come as no surprise that I love children.

And that I had (what I consider) a stellar childhood.
I was raised with peace.
Security.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Good food.
And a lot of adventure.
Today, I'm thinking especially of the children of Ukraine, and all other children throughout the world who have none of these things.
And my heart breaks for them.
In my opinion, children should never have to fear.
Suffer.
Die.
I donate my money.
I offer them my prayers.
I keep them in my heart.
Today, I'm thinking of them.

Be safe.
Be little.

27

Once upon a time...in Norway...

This story begins with a childless queen looking for advice on ‘how-to-have-a-baby’. Taking her royal self down to the village, she consults a peasant woman. 

I know what you’re thinking—the answer to her question probably lies a little closer to home 

(ie. the royal bedroom), but go with me on this…

 

The woman gives the queen some rather strange advice—namely that she is to look under her bed in the morning. She will find, there, two flowers.

 

Huh. When I look under my bed, all I find are bunnies—of the ‘dust’ phylum. Don’t fairy tale people have all the luck? Just sayin’…

 

Anyways, when she finds these flowers, she’s supposed to eat the pretty one and ignore the ugly one. I don’t even want to touch that. Any thoughts?

 

But the queen, perhaps unwilling to follow someone else’s advice—even that of a wise woman—eats both flowers. Will anyone join me in a general eye roll?

 

Nine months later, (yes, even fairy tale babies take that long) the queen gives birth. To an ugly girl riding a goat and brandishing a wooden spoon.

 

Okay, hold the fort. I’ve given birth. It was uncomfortable to say the least. And passing any extras like goats and/or wooden spoons? Yeah…no. Just no.

 

But I admit I do have to snicker when I picture the technician tasked with performing that ultrasound. They probably keeled over in a dead faint. *snort*

 

Needless to say, the queen is fairly surprised by the whole affair—and even more so when her newborn daughter immediately turns and addresses her. Ummm…what?

 

The baby tells her not to be too surprised, shocked and/or upset. Because there is another baby coming who is much, much prettier than she is.

 

Okay, I have something to say here. First of all, there is no such thing as an ugly baby. And second of all…no, there is no second.

 

Sure enough, another daughter is born moments later who is g o r g e o u s, at least by the shallow, worldly measuring stick. And a stick is just a stick. 

 

I expect the queen hardly noticed, though, as she was probably simply relieved she didn’t have to pass another wooden spoon—or goat for that matter.

 

The younger sister is named Glory and the elder, Tatters. Someone needs to speak to these parents, obviously. But then, Tatters likes wearing tatters, never washing and goat-riding.

 

So perhaps the unfortunate choice of her given name could be attributed to simple observation rather than nasty mean-ness or an outright lack of imagination. Right?

Tatters and Glory get along well throughout their growing-up years. In fact they are inseparable until one fateful day when their castle is attacked. By interchangeable bad guys.

 

Now some stories claim these so-called ‘bad guys’ were trolls, witches or goblins. It really doesn’t matter. Any or all would definitely make for a bad day.

Tatters, ever the practical sister, instructs Glory, parents and staff to lock themselves in the castle and let her handle things. Which they all immediately do. ????

 

She then rides out on her oh-so trusty goat, wielding her wooden spoon. Certainly, nothing says ‘invincible’ like a goat and a brandished spoon, am I right?

 

While Tatters is mixing it up with the invaders, her worried sister pokes her head out of a window to ‘check up’. And then something unusual happens…

 

One of the invaders pulls off said head and replaces it with a less-pretty goat’s head. Ugh. Tatters returns from bad-guy chasing to find a goat-headed sister.

 

I’m fairly certain the next scene—where Tatters vents her disgust on all who failed to protect Glory—involves raised voices with perhaps one or two expletives.

The two sisters then sail away on one of Daddy’s ships to the Land of the Bad Guys where Tatters proceeds to kick some serious ‘bad-guy’ butt.

 

She then steals back her sister’s proper head and uses it to replace the temporary and really unacceptable substitute. Even though she obviously likes goats. Per se.

 

The two of them then go on Adventures…(capitol ‘A’ denotes excitement, yes? Ahem…) …sailing around the world and discovering new places and peoples. And, maybe, goats.

 

Finally, they arrive at a kingdom ruled by twin princes, one of whom immediately falls irrevocably for Glory. After a day and a half, he proposes.

 

Okay, some things do move faster in fairy tales. Anyways, Glory refuses him unless he can find someone to marry Tatters. So he looks around… the room.

 

Low and behold there is another young man. RIGHT THERE. Huh. Must be fate. The second prince marries Tatters, but isn’t really happy with the whole arrangement.

 

Finally, tiring of his sullen silence, Tatters asks why he is so silent. The young man—perhaps sneaking an envious glance at his brother and Glory—shrugs.

 

Tatters tells him they could discuss her goat. He shrugs again and asks why she rides an ugly goat. (Okay, maybe something was lost in the translation.)

 

Tatters replies with ‘An ugly goat, you say? This is the most beautiful horse you've ever seen.’ And instantly, the goat changes. Into the finest horse ever. Yow.

 

The prince’s attention has been captured and he begins to ask her about some rather personal things. Like her tatters, her spoon and, yes, her ugly face.

 

Tatters then transforms into a beautiful young woman. Gone are her tatters. And her embarrassingly effective spoon. Now she carries a magic wand and wears practical, breathable clothing.

 

But my question is this: was Tatters a better, more valued person just because her outside had changed to something ‘desirable’? Or was she just the same?

 

And what about her goat/horse? Would he still be respected by his former goat friends? Do goats even have friends? I think this matter should be explored. 

 

And by the way…that spoon? I want one.

Word Counters is one of my favourite challenges. 

This month’s number was 27 and chosen for the group by the invincible Karen of Baking in a Tornado.

Go now and see what the others have created using the number ‘27’!

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In A Tornado 

Messymimi’s Meanderings

With Gratitude

I always have prized genius, think those who have it, GRAND,

I know that I have benefitted from the things they’ve planned,

But those that I admire the most are men and women, who

Have given healing miracles with won-der-ous breakthroughs!

 

Frederick Banting comes to mind—Canadian, like me,

With his assistant, Charles Best, found insulin, you see,

That tiny hormone in control of sugar in the blood,

Without which, your bloodstream can become as thick as mud!

 

When insulin’s deficient, comes diabetes mellitus,

An ailment quite as deadly as whatever we’d discuss,

Before the Banting and the Best, ‘No sugar!’ was the cry,

Controlling calories the way for people NOT to die!

 

Hear now, the scene: A children’s ward—beds filled with little ones,

All had reached the latest stage; diabetes course had run,

And then two men come through the door with syringes and vials,

Start giving shots to all the littles—insulin’s first trial!

 

And by the time they’d reached the last, the first had come awake,

Their diabetic coma done, their lives again to take,

Imagine parents going now, from deep despair to joy,

Looking once again into the eyes of girls and boys!

 

It makes me weep with gratitude—a miracle, it was,

A gift far better than those brought by jolly Santa Claus!

There’re many members of my family would not be here,

If not for those two men and all their work and research dear!

To those who gave us Insulin. And Penicillin, too,

Vaccines that have stopped smallpox, po-li-o and now the FLU,

I’m on my knees in gratitude, for life those doctors gave,

May God smile upon them all…and the millions they have saved.

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's our day in all the year,

We're CELEBRATING POETRY here!

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!)...

Genius Day (March 14) Today!
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)