Uh-Oh.

 “What is it?” Mom’s concerned voice trickled down the hall to my room.

Without conscious thought, I scrambled from my bed and hit the hall already at a full run.

We live in Sally’s house.

Dealing with Sally’s escapades on a nearly daily basis.

I’m totally justified in my overreaction.

I skidded around the corner, catching the handle of the fridge to stop my forward momentum.

Mom, looking rather intent, was standing by the sink, her cell phone pressed to one ear. She glanced at me and held up one finger.

I fidgeted while she continued her conversation.

Across the room, Dad was lying on the couch. Well, I’m assuming. Now he was slowly rising, his eyes on Mom.

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Mom said.

I swiveled to look at her again. The pinched ‘Sally’ look had been replaced by the relieved ‘Sally’ look. There are no other looks.

It was obvious that, whatever Sally (and by association, Mort) were up to, it wasn’t something Mom had to deal with.

I relaxed and Dad sank back to the couch and, once again, picked up the book he had been reading.

Mom pressed ‘end’ and smiled at the two of us. “Well, that was a whole lot of nothing,” she said brightly.

You have to understand the ‘speak’ in our house. “Whole lot of nothing’; is code for: ‘Sally hasn’t done anything that’s gotten her arrested today hallelujah’.

“What’s Sally been doing?” I asked.

“Oh, well, she has a day off from shooting, so she and Mort are wandering a fairground in Munich, seeing who can find the biggest pretzel and dancing to the latest Schlager hits—whatever that means.”

“Schlager is music, Mom. Bright. Lively. I rather like it.”

“Ah. She says if her shoot goes over, she and Mort are going to try to take in Octoberfest.”

I shivered as Dad and I exchanged a glance. Sally at Octoberfest? Someone would be shipping her home in a barrel.

“So what would the two of you like for breakfast? When will Peter be here?”

Dad and I looked at each other. Okay, we are the weirdos of the family. Both of us like a hearty bacon and eggs and pancakes and waffles and maybe steak breakfast.

Mom and Sally and Mort prefer something lighter.

And way more sugary.

Peter is still on the fence. Easily swinging both ways.

“He’s probably on his way. He doesn’t have to work until later today.”

“Well, I’ll just do the usual then?”

Dad grinned at her. Steak and eggs and waffles, it was.

I opened the fridge and dragged out a grocer’s tray of ribeye steaks, which I threw on the indoor grill and painted with my favourite sauce.

Say what you will about people with money, living with one definitely has its perks.

A knock on the front door preceded Peter’s entrance. He came over and greeted me with a quick kiss and a slow hug.

I love that man!

Then he and his uncle, my father, started to set the table as they launched into one of their long, drawn-out discussions about modern government and the state of all branches of the modern military.

You have to know that Dad (the former Uncle Pete Gunn) served many, many years in the military. Marines. Reaching the rank of Major before retiring. He definitely has some opinions.

I flipped the steaks and squirted on more BBQ sauce.

Mom and I have breakfast timed almost perfectly.

But the time I was setting the platter of steaming steaks on the table, Mom was carrying in the bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs and the plate of crispy waffles.

Okay, yes. A big breakfast makes me…poetic.

As everyone was sitting down, I thought I heard a car pull up. I hurried to the big front window and peered out.

“Who’s here?” Mom asked.

“No one. Just someone next door at the Baggins’.”

I started back toward the table, walking past the couch where Dad had been lying. His book had fallen to the floor and instinctively, I leaned over to pick it up and put it in a safe place—and glanced at the cover.

‘The Best Baby Name Book in the World’: Two thousand of the most popular Baby Names Anywhere!

I looked at Dad, who was leaning forward, talking to Mom, their hands linked romantically.

Peter was looking at me. “Gwen? Coming?”

I simply stared at him as my train of thought crashed and died on some lonely shoal.

He started to get up.

Mom and Dad turned to look at me and Dad saw the book in my hands. His face went red. No small feat for someone as deeply and permanently tanned as he was.

“Ummm…something you’d care to share with the class?” I asked. 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post—all words to be used at least once. All the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. And here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now. 

My words: Oktoberfest ~ Pretzel ~ Schlager ~ Munich ~ Fairground ~ Barrel were sent to me, via Karen, from my good friend, Tamara! Thank you, my friend!

Now see what my friends have done with their words!

BakingIn ATornado     
TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver 
Climaxed  
Part-timeWorking HockeyMom 

Phatherly Phone Phun

My 'Creative Parenting 101' Professor

When Dad spoke. We listened.
Most of the time.
One ignored my father at one's own risk.
Let me tell you about it . . .
I had a boyfriend.
It was a new and exciting experience for me.
We would say good-bye at the school bus stop, get on our respective buses and head for home.
Fifty minutes later, we would be on the phone.
Talking.
For hours.
Literally.
I should point out here that, in the 1960s, we had one phone line to the ranch.
And, because we were ultra-modern and progressive, two phones on that line.
One in the kitchen.
And one in my parents bedroom.
The epitome of modern convenience.
Back to my story . . .
I don't know what we found to talk about. But talk, we did. Until one or both of us was tagged for chores.
Or supper was announced.
Or our parents got annoyed.
My Mom was usually quite predictable, saying such things as, “Diane! Get off the phone! You've been on there for an hour!”
To which I would comply.
Eventually.
And under protest.
My Dad was a little more creative.
He would walk in the door, see me there on the phone, note the time, and leave the room.
That was my cue.
And my only warning.
I had seconds to say my good-byes. 
Because Dad wanted me off the phone. And I wasn't going to like his methods.
They were . . . effective.
He would simply walk into his bedroom and turn on the radio.
Loudly.
Then take the phone receiver and lay it down beside said radio.
If I hadn't already ended my conversation, I did so then.
With a shouted good-bye and hastily cradled phone.
Mission accomplished.
Simply and elegantly, without a word being spoken.
Genius.

Beauty in the Eyes Of...

Our family was watching ET. Again.

We love the movie.

And it brought back the memory of that first time. Back in 1982...

Okay, he's cute!

Our family was at the movies.

We had popcorn and treats.

Soft drinks.

And the quickest route to the bathroom mapped into our heads.

We were ready.

Erik was four and a little more than eager.

The theater darkened slowly.

Expectation grew.

They don't do this anymore, but in times past, every step to the opening of a movie served to heighten the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Slowly lowered lights.

Projector springing to life.

Train of white light beamed on the still-closed curtains.

Said curtains slowly drawing back.

Pictures suddenly appearing.

Sound.

It was inspired.

Everyone in the theater was transfixed.

Hands which only recently had been scrabbling (Grandpa's word) through the popcorn hung suspended, unmoving.

The audience waited, barely breathing, for the first signs of Movie.

And then it finally came, restoring breath and life to those watching.

And they were truly prepared to be entertained. Even bewitched.

Our movie that night was ET. The story about the little Extra Terrestrial.

It began . . .

Cute little kids and family interaction.

ET was introduced.

Erik crawled into my lap and announced in what he fondly believed was a whisper, “I don't like him. He's scary!”

Not scary enough that he wanted to leave, however.

He watched as the children in the movie befriended the helpless, stranded little alien.

Adopted him.

Loved him.

(Spoiler alert . . .)

He cried when ET 'died'.

And cried, again, when he came back to life.

At the end of the movie, he sighed happily and followed the rest of us out of the theater.

On the way home, as usual, we talked about the film and Erik posed the question, “Why was ET so much cuter at the end of the movie than at the beginning?”

I stared at him. “He was just the same, sweetie.”

“No. He was cuter at the end.”

We thought about it. How could something that really never changed in looks get 'better' looking?

And then it hit me. “Because, at the end, you loved him, sweetie.”

“Oh. Right.”

And it was true. The ugly little alien remained ugly until we got to know him.

Loved him.

And then we saw his beauty.

Truth comes best from a four-year-old.

Here and Hereafter

With the death of my beloved Queen this week, my feelings are quite tender and my thoughts about the hereafter on my mind...

Mom

I’m a believer . . .

My mom was a wonderful person. A hard worker. Kind and caring. Supportive. Encouraging.

And funny. She gave us such terms as “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!” and “I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!” 

And the ever popular “What's wrong with that milk. There's nothing wrong with that milk. It tastes just fine!”.

But Mom had a trait that she struggled with her whole life.

She was a world-class worrier.

She worried over debt and income and other things. 

But mostly, she worried about her family. Especially her kids and grandkids.

She worried so much that she made herself sick.

A sickness that, twenty-one years ago, took her life.

I’m like my mother in a lot of ways. Good ways, I hope.

And, though I’m not nearly in her class when it comes to worrying, I do have that tendency.

And that brings me to what happened that night . . .

Some of my children were struggling. The downturn in the economy had cost many in our area their jobs and our family was not immune.

The stresses of job-hunting as well as keeping a family going with little or no income were taking their toll.

And I’d been worrying.

One day, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sunk in despair.

And then a scent drifted over me.

A scent I hadn’t smelled in years.

My mother’s favourite perfume.

Now, you have to know that I did/do not wear perfume. And that particular scent hasn’t been sold in forever. 

I knew it was my mother.

Knowing I was upset and doing what she could to make things better.

She succeeded.

Thank you, Mom.

I miss you.

I believe in the hereafter. I believe that my Queen has earned her rest and is, even now, sitting with her feet up. Maybe drinking a cup of tea. Thank you for the gift of your selfless service, Your Majesty. 

Enjoy your rest.

Shaken

 There are so many treats out there,

All glorious and made with flair,

There’s candies, hard, and candies, soft,

And gums from which aromas waft,

Those goodies baked, don’t make me start,

Just contemplating stops my heart!

The cakes that make the ol’ mouth sing,

Some with spice and some with zing,

And pies of every size and hue,

For one to share (if you order two),

And every type of muffin, rolls,

Donuts, whole, and donut holes,

Squares and slices, loafs and knots,

Some with fillings, some with spots,

And chocolate bars to make you drool,

Mere looking’s classified as cruel…

With all these things to bite and taste,

(And most end up upon your waist!)

I must admit they tempt me not,

I guess willpower’s what I’ve got,

Don’t think of me as gifted, though,

I have a flaw that causes woe,

Though nothing tempts, from gum to cake,

What makes me crack? A CHOCOLATE SHAKE!

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 not to dodge or fear,

Bring your 'pirate'. Join us 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!)...

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12) Today!

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Tucked In

Success!

Routines are important.
Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.
The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.
Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.
Teeth brushed.
Hair combed.
Jammies donned.
Stories read.
Family prayer said.
And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.
The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.
I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".
Okay, maybe I will.
Moving on . . .
One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.
Our daughter, Tiana.
She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"
Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.
Then would follow the boosting into bed.
The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.
And the ever important good-night kiss.
Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.
At least until the post-tucking parade began.
One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.
Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.
But notice had been given.
Dad was already on the move.
He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.
Then resumed his chair and his reading.
Tiana re-appeared.
"I'm ready now," she said.
Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said.
"What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!"
"Well, I tucked somebody in."
Tiana ran to her room.
"You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.
Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, he was there!" he said.
"Dad!"
After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.
She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.
Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.
Clothing.
Toys.
Books.
Homework.
Muffy, the sheepdog.
I repeat. Routines are important.

Electronic Love

My baby sister was here from the East coast for a visit.

The best of times.

She had (and has) a job which required her to be on her feet.

And she had a sprained ankle.

The worst of times.

But the story of her ankle has a hilarious twist.

If you'll pardon the pun . . .

Baby Sister is a runner.

She lives in a remote area and, when family, employment and weather allow, runs in that beautiful place she calls home.

Woodsy trails, old forest and the slight tang of salt in the air.

Mmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Baby Sister.

And running.

On this particular day, she was rounding a curve, heading for home.

Just ahead of her, the school bus had just dropped off her son and a few of his friends.

They acknowledged her presence with a wave and started walking along the road.

And that's when she hit something.

Tree root.

Uneven surface.

Whichever.

It sent her tumbling.

Her ankle took the brunt of the force.

The four teenagers saw her go down.

Three of them sprinted towards her.

Concern writ large.

One . . . didn't.

Her son.

Now I don't want to suggest here that he is uncaring or unfeeling.

Because he isn't.

In fact, he is a very affectionate and loving boy.

But the fact remains that, while the others were hurrying to her assistance, he was bent over his phone – texting.

Yep.

Texting.

His friends got her up and, working together, managed to help her hobble the short distance home.

Seated there, her foot up, she picked up her phone.

She had a text.

'RUOK?'

It was from her son.

See?

Caring.

Well, modern caring.

Modern Princesses

 

Not just another pretty face!

Our family was together.

Because we do everything in a group.

Or in our case, a herd.

We do it often. With almost everyone living close, it's an easy thing.

On this day, we were at our local church building.

We had been eating and visiting. My two favourite things.

Now, while some of us continued with that, Grampa and a couple of mothers/aunties had gathered several of the younger kids together in the gym.

They were in a circle to play some games.

Most of which included loud noises.

Clawing, scratching and biting gestures.

And animal sounds.

They were . . . involved.

One of the two-year-old girls came out of the gym.

Stomping.

And with both hands raised in her best clawing-the-neighbours-or-anyone-else-who-might-get-in-the-way position.

Auntie stopped her.

“Are you a bear?” she asked.

The little girl looked at her indignantly and sniffed. “I’m a princess!” she stated. “See my pretty dress?!”

Auntie and I looked at each other. “Not the sort of princess I was raised with, but . . . okay,” she said.

It’s a new world.

Princesses now have claws, stomp around and growl a lot.

But still wear pretty dresses.

I think I have the premise for a new reality show...

Cool Riding

A guest post by Blair Stringam.

Growing up on the ranch meant that we were busy.

Very busy.

We didn’t often get to visit the (pop. 39,000) Big City–the happening place for shopping or recreation.

In the summer we especially had little free time. Instead, we spent our days baling hay, building and/or fixing fence, herding cows and if we were lucky swimming in the river.

The big exception was when we traveled to the city for the summer fair. Of course, that usually meant we were accompanied by a handful of our best bulls, cows and heifers that took up most of our time with their washing, cleaning, combing and feeding. And show days that, if said bulls/cows/heifers placed well, would net us a colorful ribbon or two that we would proudly hang in our stalls. And later, our walls.

Still, the fair was a great diversion from the normal daily routine of the summer.

A visit to the fair also meant that we would be able to glimpse all the latest in farm equipment, walk through the crafts displays and most importantly, hit the midway—that place with the wonderful food (let’s not mention nutritional qualities) and the most exciting rides. Well…exciting for a ranch kid that had heretofore been engaged in normal ranch kid activities (see above).

I especially remember a visit to the fair when I was 10 years old…

It has been a fun few days, but, our much-anticipated trip to the fair was coming to a close. We were spending the afternoon of that final day in the midway trying to enjoy all that we could before resuming the daily routine back at the ranch (see above. Again).

This year, it just so happened that we were getting pelted with cloud bursts throughout the afternoon thoroughly dampening an otherwise exciting midway experience. We had been mostly able to keep out of the rain because many of the rides had large canvas canopies to keep their riders dry.

Now, this summer, the most desirable ride was called the SnowBobs.  It was decorated with pictures and structural highlights featuring bobsleds being pulled through the snow by horses; with a number of actual 'sleds' positioned in a sloping loop beneath--those that would hold two people (for the romantic experience) or those that would take 6. Maybe. If you were skinny.

Once everyone was securely seated, the ride would start and the sleds would run around the loop with the latest hits blasting from very loud speakers.

I should probably point out that riding a bobsled behind a horse in the winter is a different experience. For one thing, it is quiet. Peaceful. (And this was pre-boom-box, so listening to the latest hits was not possible.) But we didn’t care about the major disconnect. For us, the music was great and the ride was exciting.

By the end of the afternoon, I had spent all of my midway money and was waiting for my siblings by the bobsled ride with my equally-broke cousin. I knew that when they (said siblings) finished their ride, we would be going back to the cattle stalls to load our large pets into the cattle trailer and head for home. Our adventure at the fair was swiftly drawing to a close. Sigh.

It was at that moment the sky opened up.

All the kids standing around quickly bought tickets and got on the bobsled ride, leaving my cousin and me standing out in front. Getting soaked.

Even if we could buy tickets, the ride looked like it was filled beyond the legal limit.

We had to just wait and hope that the rain would stop.

It didn’t.

Suddenly, a big long-haired guy came running down to the front of the ride and yelled at my cousin and me to get on.

We happily and quickly obliged, walking around sleds that looked already overloaded.

Then we found my older siblings, who quickly made space for us. (Like I told you: Skinny!)

The ride started and the wonderful music began blasting.

I knew that 2 things were going to happen soon. The ride would end and we would be packing up and heading back to the ranch.

But, for now, it was raining, my older siblings were allowing me, their annoying younger brother, to participate and I was listening to the music: American Women, Magic Carpet Ride, Bad Moon Rising, Born to be Wild, Run Through the Jungle, etc., and enjoying the ride.

LABOUR Day

First proposed in ’82,

Endorsed in ’94,

The Labour Day that we all know,

Esteemed the working doer.

 

Those hardy souls who underwrote,

The countries that we know,

Helped to make them what they are,

Ensure that they would grow.

 

Let’s celebrate them, everyone,

The working girls and guys,

Who keep our nations well and strong,

And help us all to rise!

 

But…

 

To someone wearing other than

The working man’s attire,

A Labour Day, to some of us,

Means something else entire.

 

Now we have further ways to cheer

These others we speak of,

A day marked down in early May

Is joined with equal love.

 

So Labour Day to some means one…

To some of us another,

I’ve celebrated six myself…

Each one made me a mother!

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?

Comes with a straw, is icy cold,

Join us next week--we'll NOT withhold!

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!)...

Labour Day (September 5) Today!

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Soothing the Savage Soldier

 Since today is the anniversary of VJ Day, I’ve had my soldier’s son’s experiences on my mind...

Our Engineer - far right.

Our son, an army engineer, was on his Combat Leadership course.

It was gruelling. 

Months of training.

An adrenaline rush of enacting scenarios.

Strategizing.

Analyzing situations.

Digging in and getting dirty.

Gruelling.

And added to the daily duty roster, morning inspections.

Not only must they learn how to survive, even thrive in battle situations, they had to look good while they did it.

So each evening, after dinner, was spent in cleaning oneself and one's gear in preparation for inspection directly after breakfast the next morning.

For the most part, the soldiers enjoyed it.

It was a chance to unwind.

Kibitz around a bit.

Laugh and joke.

And keep their adrenalin up with pounding, exhilarating music.

At least that was what they called it.

Loud. Fast. Heavy.

Followed immediately by bed.

Needless to say, it took some time to wind down.

Except for our son.

Whose choice of music was a little more . . . conservative.

He would drift away almost immediately to the soft, soothing strains of Loreena McKennitt.

Or Enya.

One evening some time after lights out, the men were restless.

Knowing that their morning would come fast, not to mention early, they were anxious to get some needed sleep.

And it was proving elusive.

Again, except for our son, who had his stereo by his ear and had already drifted away.

To Enya.

One of the soldiers noticed.

And commented.

It had given him an idea.

The next evening, the group completed their usual day-end tasks.

To their usual music.

Then crawled into their bunks.

Lights were doused.

Then, out of the darkness, a voice.

“Hey, Tolley. Play us some of your music.”

Our son turned up the song he was currently listening to. 

Only Time.

Enya.

Within seconds the sounds of snoring filled the dorm.

After that, immediately following lights-out, the strains of choice were something soft.

Soothing.

And sleepy.

The magic of music.

Stand-ing for Something

My middle son, who lives on the West coast, was talking about seeing a lemonade stand where he lives.

Said son was lamenting because he wasn’t carrying cash when he spotted the stand and thus wasn’t able to offer any monetary support.

“I hate to not give them anything,” he told me.

I was surprised, not because he isn’t known for his generosity, but because he was so upset about it.

Then he explained:

He had been operating a lemonade stand in his dim and distant youth. (I’m sure I had something to do with it, though the details are a lot fuzzier for me than for him.)

Picture it, if you will. Little eight-year-old dwarfed by the table before him, flanked by paper cups, too-large pitcher of sparkling yellow juice but armed with a big grin and tons of enthusiasm. A large, hand-printed card is prominently displayed. ‘Lemonade: 25¢’.

A construction worker approached and asked for a glass. It was carefully poured and handed over. The man produced a five-dollar bill and passed it to the small boy, who promptly produced his little cash box and started to count.

“Never mind,” the man said. “Keep the change.” Smiling, he walked back up the street.

Leaving his little server staring at the bill, an incredulous – but happy – smile now covering his face.

That small boy never forgot that act of generosity.

And now, every chance he gets, he pays it forward. 

Husby and I were touched by his story.

The weather here in Northern Alberta has been just lovely. Warm. Sunny. Perfect for the little lemonade stands that periodically dot our town.

A couple of days ago, Husby and I spotted one. A brother and sister. Little budding entrepreneurs smiling hopefully at everyone who passed.

They were doing a brisk business.

We gave them all our change. It just seemed the right thing to do.

But even our little act of kindness was eclipsed by a story Husby and I watched last night on the evening news...

David Hove, 10, dreamed of earning enough money to buy an X-Box and had started a little muffin stand in front of his family home in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Nature called and he grabbed his cash box and made a quick trip into the house.

In the few minutes he was away, a white SUV pulled up and a man got out and helped himself to the boy’s table, cooler, stock and even his little water bottle.

David came out of the house to discover that his little dream had disappeared.

But the story went out through the neighbourhood and across the country.

And soon people were bringing donations to help him get on his feet again.

In almost less time than it took the thief to steal David’s dream, it was restored. 

In fact, someone came with a spanking new X-Box and handed it to the boy.

With a smile that could be seen across the country, David hugged his prize. When asked if he was going to stop selling now that he had achieved his goal, he replied, “Nope.”

“What are you going to save for now?” the interviewer asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a car?!” David said, grinning.

Good luck, David. 

My faith in human kindness is restored.

Going in the Woods

Ahhh! Romance!

Our good friends had been dating for some time.

For a young man deeply in love, a despairingly long time.

He had decided that the moment had come.

In a surge of love and commitment, he had purchased . . . the ring.

Then, being a man of imagination and daring, he plotted . . . the proposal.

He would take his love to their favourite place and pop the question there.

Where was their favourite place? 

The woods.

Brilliant.

All had gone according to plan.

They had rambled along the woodsy paths.

Had a picnic.

The time had come to hide the ring, then lead his love to the magical spot.

And propose.

He excused himself, citing ‘having to take care of some business’.

Now I don’t know about you, but if I was walking with someone in the woods, and he excused himself saying . . . that . . . I know what I would think.

His soon-to-be-if-all-went-well fiancée thought the same thing.

He disappeared.

She sat on a log among the pink, white and indigo flowers and waited.

Finally, a large grin of satisfaction on his face, her date returned.

She stood up.

“So!” he said heartily, thinking of the ring he had just so cleverly hidden. “Do you want to see where I went?”

Now, in his mind, all was sweet, romantic and full of promise and anticipation as he led his love to that beautiful, magical little clearing.

In hers . . .

“Umm . . . no,” she said, giving him a strange look.

It took a moment to register.

His well-planned, uber-romantic idea had just fallen flat.

‘Business in the woods’ flat.

And looking in from the outside, I would have to side with her.

Oh, they did get engaged.

And married.

Enjoyed parenthood and are now enjoying grandparenthood.

He just learned, when planning surprises, he had to be more careful of how things look.

And how he worded them.

Lemon-ed

It’s ‘Back to School’ time hereabouts.

The Sweet and Innocent Grade Ones. Really.

In the sixties, schools had strict rules.

Breaking said rules carried punishments.

1. A severe ‘talking to’.

2. Being kept in at recess or lunch hour. Or *shudder* 

3. being sent to the *gasp* principal’s office. Where there was always the looming specter of ‘THE STRAP’.

Which, I should point out, none of us had ever seen. But which our entire class had heard on one occasion. But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

I started grade one in the fall of 1960.

There were three of us Stringams in Milk River Elementary at that time.

Myself. My next older brother, George, in grade three. And our eldest brother, Jerry, in grade six.

Our eldest sister, Chris, had just graduated to Junior High. Because she had reached the unbelievable and unreachable age of twelve.

Wow.

Jerry and his classmates ruled our school. We lowly serfs in grade one observed their doings with awe bordering on worship.

I should mention that this was the brother who teased me mercilessly at home. And who Mom chased around with the broom.

But at school, he was a lord.

He could do no wrong.

We spent hours in observation.

And mimicry.

Until . . . the event.

Remember when I was talking about rules/punishment?

Well that comes into play here.

In Milk River Elementary School in 1960, the principal had instituted a bold new form of punishment.

Lemons.

I am not making this up. We really had punishment by lemon.

And no one was exempt.

No one.

On Friday mornings during Assembly . . .

Oh, I should also tell you we had Assembly every Friday morning.

Ahem . . .

On Friday mornings, any malefactors were marched to the front of the gym, before the entire school population, and handed a lemon. Which they then had to peel and eat.

For most of them, it was a painful process.

For those of us watching, it was a painful process.

Let’s just say it. Rules in Milk River Elementary weren’t often broken.

But one time, it was my brother, Jerry who had transgressed. It was his turn to stand there.

And he had company.

Let me explain . . .

Jerry’s teacher was busily doing 'teacher' things at her desk. Jerry and his friend, Stan had made a paper jet. Okay, yes, they were supposed to be doing school work. This was more fun.

They threw it.

And watched, proudly, as it flew, straight and smooth. Then, in dismay, as it sailed neatly out into the hall.

It landed at the feet of the Principal, who just happened to be standing there at that precise moment.

He picked it up.

The boys held their breath and watched.

The Principal looked at the clever little plane. Then, forgetting himself for a moment, threw it back into the room.

In full view of the teacher, who chose that moment to look up.

If there was a punishment bell, it would have clanged loudly at that point.

Paper planes were on the ‘forbidden’ list.

And all three ‘launchers’ were guilty.

At that Friday’s Assembly, my brother and Stan--and the Principal--all took their places at the front of the gym.

Each was handed a lemon.

Which Jerry and Stan peeled and ate at lightning speed. Just to get out of the spotlight.

The Principal took his time. Wincing with every bite.

The assembled students were screaming with laughter by the time he was done.

Finally, he waved for silence and dismissed us.

Then probably hurried to the bathroom to gargle.

We never forgot.

And school crime hit an all time low.

Genius.

Working On It

 With the crazy price of gas these days,

Our scientists must find a way

To either make our fuel improve,

Or other schemes to help us move.

 

They had some promising success

With electricity, not gas,

And solar, wind, to name a few,

Each looking like the new breakthrough!

 

But one group thought they’d like to know,

What Grandma’s garden had to show,

Gathered herbs of every kind,

For something new they had in mind.

 

And so they ran experiments,

With cinnamon and peppermint,

Then basil, turmeric and kelp,

And many more they thought would help.

 

They’ve pretty much come up with zip,

Nothing we would call ‘blue chip’.

They’ve tossed the cloves, bay leaves and lime,

At least their trains all run on thyme!

 

P.S. 

A little note to follow up,

For human fuel, those herbs are top!

Cause they won’t cause our hearts to halt,

They are a step above the salt! 

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?

It comes just once a year, you know,

So, Labour Day, we'll have on show!

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!)...

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29) Today!

Labour Day (September 5)

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)