Fire-d

Well, I was right. Mom and Dad are pregnant!

Mom is pretty excited. I mean, she had Sally and me 10 months apart over 18 years ago. I guess she’s been secretly thinking her family was incomplete.

Who knew?

But Dad? Dad is completely OVER THE MOON!

You’d have to see it to believe it—this former crusty old Major all googly-eyed over baby stuff.

But I suspected he had a soft spot somewhere in his makeup. I mean, he did deliberately join our family. Even after he’d met Sally.

Speaking of Sally, I should probably tell you that Sally and Mort are still in Munich. I think they are due home any time.

It’s been…quite peaceful. Even a bit...shall I say it? Boring.

Until today.

Dad has been totally obsessed with helping Mom with everything. Baby shopping. Exercising. He and Mom came back from their new favourite walking trail with him carrying her like a prized poodle because he was afraid she'd gotten too tired (but that is another story!) He even insists on going to Mom’s doctor appointments. I think it’s totally sweet.

They just got back from one.

A doctor's visit, that is.

Peter and I were making supper when they walked in. Well, Peter was. I was abuse-ing some craft materials in an effort to make a little scarecrow decoration for Halloween. I looked at them, standing there just inside the front door. “Supper’s almost ready.”

They merely nodded. Mom--smiling. Dad--not. 

Dad helped Mom take her coat off and hung it up for her. Then the two of them walked over to the couch and sat down.

Now, normally, this wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. I mean, it was fairly normal behaviour, am I right?

But neither of them was saying anything.

Anything.

And Dad seemed to be holding Mom’s hand with greater…intensity…than usual.

I set down the glue gun I’d been holding.”Okay. Out with it.”

They looked at me.

“Your Dad’s a hero,” Mom said quietly.

I smiled at Dad (who was now shaking his head) and thought about his bravery in joining our family and making Mom so happy. “He’s already a hero to me,” I told them.

“No,” Mom insisted. “He really is a hero.”

I abandoned my crafts and moved closer, sitting in the chair opposite the couch.

Peter shut off the heat under the soup he had been stirring and joined us.

Mom, her fingers tightly entwined in Dad’s, leaned forward. “There was a fire at the Doctor’s office!”

Dad groaned and put his head back against the cushions.

I stared at Mom. “Whaaat?”

She nodded. "It’s totally true. A fire.” She looked at Dad. "And your dad put it out!”

I turned to him. “Seriously?”

I’ve seen him blush before, so I know what it looks like.

“Yes,” he said finally.

“Well, that’s great!” Peter said.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Um…no.” 

Mom sat there, smiling at him. He was staring at the floor.

Neither of them were saying anything.

Mom put her head on his shoulder. “And he saved everyone!” She squeezed his hand, then got up and headed toward the hallway. “I need the bathroom,” she said, unnecessarily.

Dad looked at us after she had closed the door. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” he said.

“So…what happened?” I asked.

Dad’s blush got darker.

Okay, this was really strange.

“Umm…Dad?”

He sighed. “Well…actually, I started the fire.”

Okay, I hadn’t been expecting this. “Seriously?” I asked again.

He nodded. “Your Mom couldn’t…well…it was dark in the corner where she was sitting and she was having a hard time reading her magazine and I thought…maybe I should move the light over for her. So I did. But I pulled too hard and the cord ripped out of the plug. And it spit sparks all up the wall and it…actually It was pretty spectacular. Suddenly the whole wall was aflame! And there was stupid me, with my jacket, beating out the flames.”

“But you put the fire out, Uncle Pete,” Peter protested.

He rolled his eyes. “After I started it.”

I smiled at him. “A true ‘Sally’ moment,” I said. I got up and crossed the floor, then gave him a big hug. “Dad? You wanna know something? You fit right in!”

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:  scarecrow ~ abuse ~ walking trail ~ poodle were sent to me, via Karen, from my good friend, Rena! 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 

My Chinny-Chin-Chin

She was sitting on my knee, studying my face as only a toddler can.

Wha's that, Gramma?" She pointed.

"My chin," I said helpfully.

"No, Gramma . . . that!" She pointed again.

"Oh, that's a scar, sweetheart."

She touched it. "Owww!" she said.

"It doesn't hurt, sweetheart. It's old. Like Gramma."

"Oh."

"Gramma got it from a cow."

She stared at me. Skepticism writ large in the two-year-old expression.  No way the gentle cows from the books we read could ever have given Gramma the two-inch scar she sported across her chin.
"Yep. A cow," I repeated.
So, for my granddaughter, and those who haven't heard the story . . .

Me and GollyGee. Ready for action...

I never used a saddle.

Only a 'riding pad'.
Tacking up was amazingly easier. Riding much more natural.
And no stirrups to get in the way.
But it afforded other . . . complications. For one thing you could never use a rope.
Nothing to dally to.
Chasing down and securing a calf presented . . . certain challenges.
But . . . Adapt. Adopt. Become adept. The theme song of ranch life.
I simply rode up beside them and leaned off to one side, catching said calf by the tail. Then I slid off on top of him. Or her.
It was fool proof.
Until I met Cow 175.
Head on.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
The day started out much as any other. I was 'riding herd'. Checking to see if anyone had calved, or needed help in doing so. I came across a small, obviously newborn calf hidden in the tall grass.
I should explain that a new cow mother will instruct her new calf to lie quietly until she returns.
I don't know how they do this. But they do.
The new little calves will simply lie there while you vaccinate them and check them over.
But the final step, the one where the calf is officially identified and tagged to match mama, is the trickiest.
Because this requires the attendance of said mama.
Imagine trying to pick out the mama when all the cows and calves . . . look the same.
I found that the best way was to straddle the calf and make 'distressed baby' noises. Guaranteed to encourage any mama to come on the run.
It worked.
Mama came.
Mama saw.
Mama attacked.
Now I should mention here that my Dad raised Polled Herefords. The breed known for their gentle dispositions. And the absence of horns. Thus the word 'polled'.
They don’t need them. Let's just say that if they had them, my scar would look a whole lot different.
And this story would have had a vastly different ending.

See that 'poll' on her head, between her ears? 
Avoid that.

Moving on . . .
175 hit me with the pointy part of her head. The part between her ears made entirely of bone.
I saw stars and quite a bit of the prairie as I left the calf.
In a summersault.
Backwards.
The culprit and her offspring wasted no time in vacating the area.
I got to my feet and stared after them, fuzzily. I had lost my glasses in the encounter. But that didn’t even slow me down.
I piled back onto my horse and started after the two, quickly nabbing the calf once more. This time, I took the precaution of dragging it beneath my horse—an old cowboy trick.
Something else you should know is that throughout my years on the ranch, I was known for riding really . . . ummm . . . green horses. Usually radically unsuited to ranch life. GollyGee, my mount of the moment was totally in keeping with this reputation. She was an ex-racehorse. Tall, lean, fast, and really . . . un-smart. Usually, a person walking anywhere near her would have startled her. Thus sending her, by the most direct route, to the moon.
And a person dragging something toward her? To Jupiter.
Perhaps the anger radiating off me in waves had a stupefying effect. Perhaps she was merely trying something new. Self preservation.
Whichever. She stood like a rock as I dragged the 50 pounds of protesting red and white calf beneath her.
Now most cows are afraid of horses. Fortunately for me, this particular cow was only over-protective, not suicidal.
She did laps while I injected and tagged her calf.
Then I stood up, releasing the baby, but before it could regain its feet and rejoin its mama, I walked over and booted said mama in her giant red butt. Twice.
I don't know what it did for her, but it made me feel a bit better.
Then I watched as the two of them headed for some human-less spot.
Riding back to the scene of the crime, I searched around until I finally discovered my glasses. Miraculously undamaged.
Then I rode home and stabled my horse.
And here is where the story really gets interesting . . .
My Mom was the daughter of a rancher. Her years of ranching experience were many and varied. But she could still be shocked.
When I walked in the kitchen door, she screamed. And ran for a towel. It was only then that I realized that I could feel the tip of my tongue.
Through my bottom lip.
And that my shirt was completely covered in blood.
Huh. How did I miss that?!

Fired Up

‘T’ and his friends were digging a hole.

But not just any hole.

This was to be a hole of parts. Something stupendous. Mind blowing.

A hole to be remembered.

And it was.

Just for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe I should explain…

The boys had been digging for quite some time.

It probably seemed much longer to them than it was in reality, but that doesn’t matter.

Because, regardless of how long they had been digging, they were getting tired.

And bored.

Remember the saying, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’?

Well, tired muscles and boredom are the ‘Father’s of desperate creativity’. And yes, I just made that up.

Because these boys were ready to try anything to get their giant, stupendous hole in the ground.

Except work hard.

Then one of them had—what to him was—an astounding idea.

They would get their Olympic-sized hole.

And they wouldn’t have to do much work.

I think it was this last that got everyone’s attention.

They all looked at him sceptically. “How?”someone asked.

He explained that he had a bunch of fireworks and firecrackers.

Now he really had their attention!

“Let’s put them all in our hole and light them. The resulting explosion will do our work for us.”

Now you have to know that a group of little boys are definitely NOT going to turn down this idea.

They helped him gather up his fireworks…

And dump the entire mass into the hole.

All was good so far.

They lit the fuses.

Still okay.

And that was the precise moment ‘T’s’ mother came out into the yard to collect the laundry that had been drying on the line.

A job that put her in close proximity to the hole.

Oh, not close enough that the boys were worried about her safety.

Just close enough that they were worried about their own if she caught sight of what they were doing.

Meanwhile the fuses were still hissing happily away in the hole.

One of the boys got the brilliant idea of covering the hole (and their soon-to-be crime) with a sheet of plywood.

Which they did.

Then, as a last precaution, they all stood on said plywood.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. Boys standing on a flimsy sheet of plywood over a hole containing a boatload of explosives.

The good news? They got their hole.

The bad news?

They almost achieved orbit.

The explosives…erm…exploded.

The plywood disintegrated.

And several small boy bodies were tossed around like wood chips. (Which were also plentiful—owing to the shattering of their plywood Crime-cover.)

They survived.

I know you were worried so I thought I mention it.

But I think ‘T’s’ mom grounded him from explosives for the rest of his natural life—as well as that of any future children/grandchildren.

The hole may still be there.

Being used for something spectacular.

Well, that’s what I like to think…

My First Murder

Okay, I'm half-past excited here...
My newest book has just been released.
My first cozy murder mystery!

Harriet Ansen--Harrie to her friends--has spent the last 30 years as a stay-at-home mom/Grandma. With that training ongoing, she is ready to face a new challenge. Her first out-of-the-house job.
Beaumont's newest Real Estate agent.
Will her years of changing diapers, drilling spelling tests, dealing with testy coaches and serving on the PTA prepare her for what's next? For bickering (and seriously odd) relatives. Exotic animals. A philandering boss.
And murder?

I would love for you to read it. And then let me know if you figured it out!

Who knew murder could be fun? Well, writing about it anyway!

P.S. My internet search history is now seriously deranged and may get me flagged! ;)

Find Real Estates: All Murders Included in the Price at Amazon! In Kindle, Paperback and (new!) hardcover formats.

Amazon.com
Amazon.ca

Octo-pied

My friends and I were at the pub, we’d gone to have a drink,

We saw a man approach, then turn and give us all a wink,

The bundle he had ‘neath one arm, he set upon the bar,

Said, “Here’s a thing you’ll never see. Be it near or far!”

The bundle he’d set on the bar was squishy, had eight limbs,

This strange young man had gone and brought his octopus with him!

“Now everyone,” the man said to us, “I’ve a challenge here…

“My pet can play most anything. The cost to you? A beer!”

A man walked up and handed him a trumpet, gleaming gold,

The octopus, he took it. Played it long and loud and bold!

The man, surprised, just nodded and he bought the guy a beer,

Another came up with a sax. Said, “This I’d like to hear!”

Well that old mollusk took that sax and played like John Coltrane,

Another drink and more applause. The owner said, “Again?”

A trombone and a drum were brought. A tuba. Clarinet,

Each was played with verve and talent, each got better yet!

Then finally, a man approached with bagpipes. Yes, it’s true,

He said, “Here’s a challenge for your mollusk to get through!”

Well the owner simply shrugged and passed the pipes down to his pet,

He knew his octopus’d have no problem with this threat,

He closed his eyes, prepared to listen. Frowned when nothing came,

Looked down to see his octopus just staring, all aflame,

The mollusk moved in closer and the two, their limbs did link,

Said, “Baby! Nice pajamas! Can I offer you a drink?”

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 make things sweet and real,

Discuss our fav Italian meal!

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!)...

Octopus (or something squishy) Today!

Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

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

Oatmeal (November 7)

Clean?

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.
The renewing of ties.
An opportunity to get re-acquainted.
Catch up on family accomplishments.
Additions.
Losses.
Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.
Our eldest son Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.
He was getting around under his own steam very well.
And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.
For several hours, he wandered around the site.
Exploring.
Eating.
Getting filthy.
All the things that make a little boy so very happy.
He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.
Gorged on hot dogs.
Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.
Spit out the baked beans (another story).
Slurped up watermelon.
And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.
He was a happy, filthy little boy.
He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.
I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.
Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.
Really.
I think it was the marshmallows.
Might have been helped along by the watermelon.
I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.
But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.
And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.
Or flippers.
I will admit they were still effective.
He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.
But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.
I went for a wipe.
But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.
While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.
Frodo's bowl.
I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.
And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.
I can't.
By the time I had the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.
In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.
Ick.
And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.
He was happy.
And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water. So he was happy.
In fact, everyone was happy.
Except me.

Life. And Death

Getting ready to lead the parade.
With my friend, Janice in the background.

One lives very close to nature on a ranch.

Close enough to get the wind in your eyes.

The dust in your hair.

Or a hoof in the teeth.

It offers the best...and the worst...of experiences.

The short, sometimes tragic lives of the animals under one’s care are very much the core about which the ranch world revolves.

Case in point . . .

Dad had purchased a tall, rangy, slimly-built black horse to add to the family string.

Who was immediately tagged ‘Slim’ or ‘Ranger’.

Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.

He was beautiful.

Coal black with just a couple of touches of white about the head.

He was also gentle and a good worker, with long legs that could really stretch out and cover the ground.

And important selling point when the average pasture was more than a mile square.

There was only one draw-back to the beautiful new member of our cattle-working team.

Somewhere in his past, he had been abused.

Probably by a man.

Because it was nearly impossible for a man to get close to him.

Oh, once he was properly haltered, he was gentle and compliant.

It was just getting to that point that was the problem.

We kids could walk up to him anywhere and slip a halter over that magnificent head.

But one of the men . . .?

Usually, Dad simply handed me the halter and let me go into the corral to slip it on. Then he would take the lead from me and proceed to tack up.

But if I wasn’t there, only the lariat made catching this horse possible.

This went on for years.

I don’t know what he had against men.

But it went deep.

One Saturday morning, when the horses were brought in, Ranger wasn’t with them. I looked the herd over carefully as they milled about, blowing hard and pretending to be nervous and skittish.

It was my first time in the corral for several days, so I wasn’t sure if he had simply been kept in the barn for some reason.

I shrugged and, slipping a halter over one shoulder, climbed the fence and dropped down inside.

Immediately, the horses turned to look at me.

Now, a neophyte might imagine that it would dangerous to enter a corral with several horses still prancing about, but the truth is, horses are very careful of their feet and legs. And they really, really don’t like stepping on anything squishy.

Like humans.

Oh, they’ll snag the occasional foot with (ouch) star-sparking results.

And sometimes, they’ll let fly with a couple of hooves, especially if startled.

But if they know you’re there, a well-behaved horse will pretty much mind their manners. I slipped my halter over Peanuts’ head and led him toward the gate.

“Where’s Ranger?” I asked Dad as he moved past me with his own halter in hand.

“He’s gone,” Dad said.

I frowned, but let the remark pass as we led our respective horses to the barn.

Then, later as we headed out toward our day’s goal, I turned to him.

I should note, here, that there was usually a lot of land between us and whatever herd we were expecting to work that day.

It left room for a lot of conversation.

“So, what happened to Ranger?” I asked, fully expecting the ‘I sold him’ response.

It’s a funny thing about animals on the ranch. You get attached, but you don’t get sentimental. It’s a fine line, but it protects you somewhat.

Dad sighed. “We had to work cattle a couple of days ago and you were in school,” he began.

Hmmm. Why did the alarm bells begin to ring?

Dad went on, “I had to rope him.” He paused. Then sighed again. “He went down.”

Uh-oh. Not good.

Dad shook his head regretfully. “When he came back up, his leg had obviously been broken.”

I felt a tingle go up my back. A broken leg on a working horse? That’s a death knell for sure.

Horses are heavy. And their lives depend on their legs. Thus their skittishness about endangering them in any way. Immobilizing a horse long enough for those heavy bones to knit properly? Very nearly impossible. The animal is usually only good for breeding afterwards.

And a gelding? (A male with the ‘male’ parts removed.) Really of no practical use whatsoever.

“What did you do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We had to put him down,” Dad said. There was the regret of ‘if only’ in his voice. If only he had done things differently. If only one of the kids had been around. If only . . .

We kept riding while I turned this over in my mind. I knew there was really no other practical solution, but when one is considering one’s friends, it’s not quite that simple.

The horse string on the Stringam ranch changed throughout the years. As horses aged or became unsuitable, they were sold off to perform some other practical use and new horses were brought in to replace them.

But I’ve never forgotten that magnificent, black gelding.

The one that had a history.

The one that was so hard to catch.

He personified the hard, ultimately practical spirit of the ranching life.

Definitely not a life for the faint of heart.

Look-ing

We are in the mountains.

Banff.

We have been coming here for 32 years and, though our timeshare is getting a bit shabby, it’s home.

The weather has been nothing short of glorious. I can’t remember a time when the leaves have simply been falling without first being frozen. Golden. Orange. Some red. Leaving a marvelous carpet that smells of…Autumn.

This trip was a gift from my youngest daughter and my Husby for my birthday.

Makes getting a year older so much more palatable.

The apartment is on two levels. Two bedrooms up, two bathrooms, one up and one down, and a living room and a kitchen, down. Small, but comfortable.

Enough background…

This morning, we had finished our swim and Gramma was in the shower. Erm…showering.

I had remembered underwear, but had forgotten clothing.

Which was sitting in a neat pile on my bed.

Upstairs.

Oops.

Granddaughter #6, ten-years-old and Granddaughter #11, three-years-old, were playing in the front room just outside the downstairs bathroom where I was ablute-ing (is that a word?)

I poked my head out the door and said, “Gramma forgot her clothes, so I’m going to run upstairs in my underwear. No one look.”

There was silence in the front room. Which I took to be consent. (Silence means consent, doesn’t it?)

I dashed toward the stairway.

Just then a little three-year-old voice came from the front room. “Gramma. I looked.”

Well, at least she’s honest.

Well, I tried to get a picture...

Hearing Troubles

In the past couple of years, Husby has developed hearing troubles.

It’s true. 

There was a period of denial.

I mean, this is a man who has worked for the Provincial Government for nearly 40 years. And, in that time, has had to rely very much on his hearing.

He attended countless meetings.

Many, many of which he chaired. 

Hearing was important.

He played a key role in the building of all 19 of the province’s museums.

Hearing, ditto.

Served on countless committees and boards.

Again, the need to hear was key.

But, finally, and after a visit to a hearing clinic, he had to admit…he had a problem. (See above.)

Now he had two choices. 

Train everyone to look directly at him and speak loudly and clearly.

Forever.

Or get hearing aids.

He broke down and did the latter.

He happily hears nearly everything now.

And that’s not the end of the story.

You see, the band of sound he is missing is that around the pitch of a woman’s voice.

My voice.

Oops.

I don’t want to say I talk a lot but…okay, I talk a lot.

I think I talked him to deaf.

Sorry, Honey.

Name That Car!

Our first, a little Firefly that Husby drove to work,

He drove it through the traffic, which was often quite berserk,

With the vehicles around him—no one’s journeys quite the same,

His little ‘zippy’ car would save him. ZIPPY, it became.

 

Our family was big; when counting all in sum (not weight!)

We numbered 10. So getting ‘there’ required something great,

A van that seated 12 was perfect, dogs could fit in, too,

THE BEAST could take us all, and do it without much ado!

 

Then as our chicks were leaving and the numbers shrank and shrank,

We found we needed something less than our big, outsized tank,

One day, when driving past a dealer, noted something grand,

Our LADY, graceful, beautiful, just fit our smaller band!

 

We’ve had a lot of autos—some for long times, some for short,

Each functioned as was needed at the time—for our cohort,

Each aptly-named, and very much appreciated when

They gave us everything they had. And then did it again!

 

But now, with the just two of us, and Pandy in the back,

Our car is small. And quiet. (No more potty breaks or snacks.)

No bright and lively names for this one. Imagination’s dead,

Cause now the car that we are driving’s simply known as RED!

 

P.S. 

I’m sad because a little pickup bought back in the ‘oughts’,

That hauled our stuff for all these years—I estimate it’s ‘lots’,

Named for a skin condition due to age and heavy loads,

Tomorrow SCABBERS JR. will be heading ‘down the road’. 

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 will be rather fishy,

It's Octopus (or something squishy)!

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!)...

Name Your Car (October 3) Today!

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)

Reboot-ed

I’ve heard this word a lot, of late,

REBOOT. You know I’ve wondered some,

It’s not a word accustomed to,

But I’ve been learning…I’m not dumb!

 

I’ve several sons who rescue me,

When with technology, I fight

They fiddle with a key, or two,

Then hit Reboot and it’s all right!

 

I’ve watched some movies now and then,

Familiar as I watch each time,

I’m sure I’ve seen each one before…

Reboots, all, but that’s just fine!

 

A local business struggled some,

Décor and food were out of date,

They told me they’d Reboot, and they’d

Bounce back. You know, that will be great!

 

A friend was trying to be heard,

She had a presence there online,

Then someone helped Reboot her name,

And last I heard, she’s doing fine!

 

But in my youth, if you messed up,

You’d ‘Get the Boot’—it wasn’t nice,

And if you didn’t learn from that…

To Reboot was to get it twice!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's the Bee's Knees!

And we love her, you know that’s true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,

With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,

Each month we write and have such fun

We can't wait for another one,

Sooo...this month, how well did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

Baking In A Tornado: Reboot

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Being At the Top

You see trees. They see . . .

Being the eldest girl has its challenges.

And occasionally, its perks.

And Gerry was very clever.

And athletic.

These become important later.

Let me explain . . .

Gerry had six younger siblings.

Many of whom were boys. Competitive boys.

And there were 25 neighbourhood children, a large percentage of whom fell into the ‘boy’ and ‘all things competitive’ categories.

Keeping ahead of them took courage, forethought and ingenuity.

All of which Gerry had. In spades.

The Ackroyd family lived in the town of Raymond in southern Alberta in a grand old neighbourhood. A nieghbourhood with many mature trees.

There were fifteen trees on their family property alone.

Trees that offered shade and/or fruit and/or shelter and/or climbing apparatus in the seasons.

And it’s this last that finally brings me to the point of the story.

I know you knew I’d get there. Eventually. . .

These trees were tall. To the kids in the neighbourhood, mountain-climbing tall. Those ultra-competitive (see above) boys began to eye them as their next horizon. Their next ultimate challenge. The next rung on their road to manhood.

There was just one problem.

Remember when I mentioned that Gerry was courageous, forward thinking and ingenious?

Yeah, that comes into play here.

Because Gerry, seeing those giant trees, and knowing her brothers and neighbours well, decided there was something she had to do.

And she did it.

Before anyone else could try it, and unseen by the others, she climbed each of those trees.

But that’s not all.

To prove her feat, she carved her initials at the tip top of every. Single. Tree.

Forever after, when anyone would get the wondrous idea of conquering the great Ackroyd trees, they would know that ‘someone’ had already been there before them.

Well played, Gerry. Well played. 

Puppy Love

What's not to love, right?

I was in grade four.

Nine years old.

And at the dawn of a new age...

I had discovered boys. Or more specifically, boy.

KS was smart.

Cute.

Sweet.

Taller than me.

And my neighbor.

He had everything important going for him.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with my newfound crush. I really didn’t know what it was. I had had plenty of boy friends in the past.

Boys that I competed against at every opportunity.

Sports.

Schoolwork.

But none that I just wanted to . . . be near.

Puzzled, I did all the normal things.

Followed him around at a discrete distance.

Hid behind cars and buildings if he looked in my direction.

Stared across the room at him in class.

Avoided him at recess.

What was this weird attraction?

I had suddenly developed mental ‘global positioning’. I could tell you the precise location of KS at any time of the day.

Without ever seeming to look at him.

I’m sure I was pretty obvious in my interest. But when you’re nine - and you wish it - you’re invisible.
And then . . . that day . . .

First, our class had a Box Social.

Okay, I know that dates me, but the fact remains.

All of the boys brought a box lunch for two and then shared it with his assigned ‘girl’ partner.

We lined up and the teacher numbered us off.

I tried to position myself so that I would match KS.

But my counting was off.

I ended up with a boy who brought peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Peanut butter and banana? I had never heard of such a thing.

Nor had my stomach.

And the two of us agreed that we'd be happier with our mutual ignorance.

I looked longingly across the playground at KS and his partner.

Happily munching on whatever KS had brought.

Sigh.

Later that day, tired of listening to my bleating, my friends cornered KS and his friends and wrung a confession out of him.

He liked me!

It was the happiest day of my life!

So what did we do then?

Nothing.

We were nine.

Oh, occasionally, we would . . . you know . . . talk. I called him on the phone once, to beg a ride to church. And once, I sat next to him in Sunday School class.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But that’s about it.

My family moved. And soon another crush filled my life.

Moving ahead.

I hadn’t seen or thought about KS for nearly fifty years.

Then, one day, there he was in my church congregation.

Now, until that moment, I couldn’t remember what the nine-year-old boy had looked like.

But I knew him as soon as I saw him.

Strangely, he hadn’t changed much at all.

Taller.

And definitely older.

But still that boy.

My first crush.

It made me smile.

Lifted

 Two teachers brought their students on a field trip to the track,

So they could pet the horses; maybe sit on someone’s back.

But all the kids were little and the first thing to be done,

Was a potty-break; that bus ride was a longish one!

One woman took the little girls. The other all the boys…

Then stood outside the washroom while those lads made lots of noise,

Then one came running out in panic, “Teacher, help!” he said,

“The urinal’s not made for kids—it’s higher than our heads!”  

So she was forced to enter; and then, one-by-one, raise up,

Each and every one of all those busy little pups,

Her arms were growing weary and when she fin’lly reached the last,

He seemed heavier and more ‘endowed’ than others in her class,

“Whew, you’re getting heavy!” she said, feeling slightly miffed,

He said, “I’m riding Snowdrift in the third. Thanks for the lift!”

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?

They're with us going near or far,

Sometimes we like to Name Our Cars!

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!)...

Field Trips (September 26) Today!

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)