Apt-lee Named

The Family Lee, they have such fun

Finding names for everyone

Cause they are quite a clever crew,

Their names reflect the things they do…

 

There’s one who’s solemn as a stone

And Serious Lee, is how he’s known

And one who calls meat: carrion,

Broco Lee: vegetarian,

The one who always shows up late

Is Sudden Lee. You’ll have to wait,

Figures of Speech he just can’t see,

The cousin who’s named Literal Lee,

The one who is always throwing shade,

Sarcastic Lee, watch his tirades!

Definite Lee’s from shyness cured,

He’s the Lee who’s self-assured,

The one you always can foresee,

What else would he be? Usual Lee!

Then Happy Lee. He is so nice,

He gets you smiling in a trice!

There is the cousin in disgrace,

Called Shameful Lee right to his face!

Then, the last cousin, Exact Lee,

He likes all things done perfectly!

I had such fun with these good folk,

They certainly can take a joke!

And I will bless with grand espirit

The day I met the Fama Lee!

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?

Broiled or baked or fried or canned?

Avocados next week, we have planned!

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!)...

Cousins (July 24) Today!

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Newspapers (September 4)

Remembering (September 11)

Cheeseburgers (September 18)

Dreams (September 25)

My BBB's and Me

 It's that time again!

When I get to host my amazing blog sisters for Best of Boomer Bloggers!

Eeeeeeeeeeee!

First up is Carol of Carol A. Cassara, Writer:

You've probably seen those ads for Viking cruises. But are they as good as they look? Over on her blog, Carol Cassara tells you all about her latest Viking cruise--to Norway. Take a look at her Viking Cruise Review.

Next is Jennifer of Unfold and Begin:

We all have fears, some are big, some are small. But are you afraid of what other people think? This week, Jennifer, of Unfold and Begin, explores that fear and some steps to take to move past it.

Then Rebecca of BabyBoomster.com

Are you into needlecraft? Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com was given two kits to try out from a company that has been operating since 1746. Her mother, who was a seamstress, would occasionally enjoy a relaxing embroidery session. Rebecca does not have the patience that her mother had with needlework, but others who do will enjoy the gorgeous designs offered and featured on the TV reality show “Making It” with Amy Poehler and Nick Offerman. 

And Laurie of Laurie Stone Writes.com

You think you know a place, even if you’ve never seen it. After all, you’ve watched it on television. You’ve heard the music. You’ve tasted the food at the corner restaurant. But you don’t really know a city or country until you’ve walked its streets, seen its people, and breathed its air. That’s why traveling, for Laurie Stone at least, changes you in 7 surprising ways….

Followed by Rita of Rita R. Robison Consumer and Personal Finance Journalist

What’s been your experience ordering items advertised on Facebook? asks Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist. Read about her two orders and why she’s unlikely to order from Facebook ads in the future.

Then finally, me! Diane of On the Border:

From the 'Don't Tell My Grandchildren' files...

Diane played hookey once.

With memorable results.

And it wasn't the sneakiness. Or the shopping. Or the amazing trouble she and her friends got into--because they didn't.

Nope. It was for the very last part of the day. As they were getting out of the truck...

De-Tangling De Fluff

No

Yes

Remember the 'fashion' dolls of the fifties?

The straight-standing, frozen featured, supposedly beautiful dolls?

That creative people crocheted or knitted clothes for.

Or sunk into cakes.

Those dolls.

Well, besides being known for arriving 'without wardrobe', they were also known for their pre-styled, fine, beautiful hair.

Hair that was not comb-able.

That stuck together in a tight ball and defied any efforts at style change.

I know that hair well.

Because I was born with the same stuff.

Fine.

Soft.

And matted permanently together.

Candy-fluff hair, my Mom called it.

Okay, 'candy fluff', I loved.

Candy fluff on my head?

Not so much.

Every morning, and several times throughout the day, Mom would come at me with a comb.

Or some other implement guaranteed to make my hair behave.

None of them worked.

All of them . . . hurt.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Me: “Waaah!”

And so it went.

As I grew, my hair . . . changed. Subtly.

Oh, it was still fine and soft.

But it no longer stuck together in one fuzzy lump.

No.

Now it stuck together in several fuzzy lumps all over my head.

Sigh.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! There's just one more!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, by about age eight, I outgrew the 'fuzzies'.

But made another important discovery.

Yes, my hair no longer matted together, defying all attempts at style.

And it was now longer and straighter.

But . . . it still hurt to comb it.

Yes. I was a hair wuss.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! Your hair will look beautiful!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, in frustration one day, she uttered the fateful words, “Diane, don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

I stared at her. “Really?”

She nodded sagely.

Wow.

I put it together.

If I suffered, I would be beautiful.

It was that simple.

This went on for several years.

Every day, I suffered.

Every day, I looked in the mirror.

Nope. Same face as yesterday.

Finally, at age fifteen, I challenged my mother's hypothesis.

Me: “Mom! I've suffered! Why aren't I beautiful!?”

Mom (In true 'Mom' form): “Oh, honey, you ARE beautiful!”

Right. Waaait. I see where this is going . . .

Moving ahead several years . . .

I was combing my granddaughter's fiery red, naturally curly hair.

ME: “Kyra, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Kyra: “Waaah!”

Me: “Don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

She stared at me. “Really?”

And so the story continues . . .

A Sucker Between Friends

In honour of national Lollipop Day, a story about a...lollipop.

So nice! Sigh.

I played hooky.

Once.

For those of you who don't know, 'hooky' is a term coined to describe being absent without leave.

In my case, I was absent from school.

And I didn't do it alone.

I should probably point out that these were the days before the school phoned home "to inform you that your student 'insert name' was absent on . . . yadda yadda yadda . . ."

Back to my story . . .

We were in grade twelve. For the last semester of my grade twelve year, I lived with Debbie's family, the Joneses, on their ranch, and attended school in the town of Magrath.

Our school bus arrived promptly every morning at 7:30.

After an hour and a half commute, we would arrive, sleepy and slightly dishevelled at the Magrath High School to begin a day of instruction.

One morning, one of us really wasn't in the mood.

Oh, she got up all right.

Got ready.

Endured the bus ride.

But, standing there in front of those venerable halls of learning, she balked.

“I don't wanna go,” Debbie said.

I stared at her. “What?”

“I don't wanna go,” she said again.

“Oh.” What did one say to that?

“Let's play hooky!”

“Debbie, we can't play hooky!”

“Yes we can! We've never done it and the semester, the year, the school experience is nearly over!”

She had a point. Both of us had been exemplary students.

Precisely what our fathers expected.

“Deb, my dad would kill me!”

“C'mon, Diane, it's only one day!”

I looked at her. Have I mentioned that Debbie was the only reason I ever got into trouble? Well she was . . .

At that point, our friend Leonard, he of the pick-up truck, appeared.

“Leonard! Take us to Lethbridge!” Leonard looked at Debbie. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said.

. . . and she got other people into trouble, too.

The three of us trailed across the parking lot and into Leonard's pick-up.

There was plenty of room on the wide seat.

We settled in for the 12-minute ride to Lethbridge, a city of about 75,000 just to the north of Magrath.

For a guy, Leonard had a surprisingly clean truck. No trash rolling around. In fact, the only thing on the dashboard was his brand shiny new 'Western Horseman' magazine.

“Oooh!” I said, picking it up. “Is this the new issue?”

“Yep. Just picked it up this morning!”

“Do you mind if I read it?”

“Nope. Just don't damage it.”

Leonard took good care of his things. Obviously magazines were no exception.

“I'll be careful.” I sat back happily while the two of them chattered all the way to the city.

Lethbridge is not a huge place, but one with several malls and lots of shopping.

We spent the day going from one to another.

And having fun.

At one of our early stops, Debbie and I bought large lollipops.

Large.

On long sticks.

We spent the rest of the day . . . ummm . . . licking.

Before we knew it, it was time to head back to catch our bus. No sense in proclaiming that we had just spent the day somewhere other than where we should have been.

Leonard stopped his truck.

“This has been fun!” I told him. “C'mon Debbie, we'd better hurry!” I slid out.

At that point, a friend of Leonard's walked up to his window. “Hey, Leonard, where were you today?”

Distracted, Leonard turned to answer his friend.

Debbie started to follow me.

“Oh, my sucker,” she said, turning back.

Remember when I mentioned Debbie's name? Entwined with the word 'trouble'?

Well that would also apply here . . .

Now Debbie had gotten tired of holding the heavy sucker and had laid it down. Not certain of the surface of the dash of Leonard's remarkably tidy truck, she had chosen to lay it down on his copy of the Western Horseman.

That same brand new copy he had been so protective of earlier.

She grabbed the long stick, only to realize that the magazine came with it. 

Uh-oh.

Not only had the sucker stuck to the cover of the magazine, but it had also stuck the pages together.

“Ummm . . .” Debbie glanced at Leonard, still engrossed in his conversation. “We'll just leave that,” she said, and slid out after me. “See ya, Leonard!” She slammed the door.

Leonard, still talking, waved cheerfully and the two of us headed for our bus.

Leonard never mentioned his sucker-stuck magazine.

The one he obviously never got to read.

After he had toted two girls all over Lethbridge.

Some fellow hookey-players are just plain nice.

In Memorium

This mattress once was new and bright,

But now, it’s not so great.

For under sheets of pristine white

The broken springs await.

And though the bedding’s crisp and new

When I lay me down to sleep,

The mattress hidden from my view

Should be on a garbage heap.

It’s stained and tattered, bruised and torn,

Its springs are snapped and broken.

And I suffer there till dewey morn.

(Harsh words are often spoken!)

With back in spasm, to sleep I cling,

My dreams are few . . . and hazy,

Some tears are shed, my hands - I wring.

I’m slowly going crazy.

Tonight, I’ll drink raspberry wine

A quite indulgent habit,

Then into my blankets, serpentine,

I’ll curl up like a rabbit.

'Cause, yes, the time has come, I’m tired

Of sleeping on a cactus.

I’ll, with the morn, at last retire

My insult of a mattress.

Food Flight

 Okay, this has never happened to me. Honest. I mean, I’ve pretended that food talks—especially when trying to get one of my kids to eat broccoli. But it’s never actually happened. So I have my doubts as to the veracity of this story…

But let’s scoot ahead, shall we?

There was an elderly woman who had never been able to have children.

One day, she got the brilliant idea to ‘make’ a child.

She gathered: flour, sugar, shortening, eggs and spices, bowls, spoons, baking sheets. An oven.

Okay, yes, I’m beginning to understand her difficulty at conceiving.

Ahem…

Using all of her not-inconsiderable skill, the woman rolled out a fine dough and cut it into the proper shape.

Then she added some currant eyes, nose and mouth and little raisin buttons.

Her ‘child’ was starting to look pretty sweet. In a totally un-child way—if you catch my drift.

She tenderly assembled the pieces on a baking sheet and slid the whole into the oven.

Then sat impatiently and waited for it to come out.

Huh. Whenever my friends told me they had a ‘bun in the oven—Wink! Wink!’ I pictured something far different. Was I wrong?

Moving on…

Soon her little dough boy was ready and steaming happily on the cupboard.

Well, ready. I’m assuming the ‘happily’.

Even though this little ‘boy’ looked totally delicious in a ‘made-with-flour-and-sugar-and-yumminess’ sort of way, I guarantee that his ‘mother’ just had a nice snuggle with her new baby son in mind, when she reached for him.

Whatever her intentions, ‘Ginger’ was having none of it.

Leaping from the table, he looked at her and said (I am not making this up!): “I’m outta here!” Well, actually, it was something more along the lines of “Run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!”

I want to mention this, because I’m sure many of you are thinking it: This little lad was pretty self-aware, considering his lack of years. And the fact that he was 100% cookie.

Bringing the whole Nature vs Nurture discussion to a new level.

Anyways, he leaped nimbly off the table and dashed head-long out the door.

The old woman dashed after him, but, being somewhat slow and cumbersome due to her advanced age and lack of speed-running prowess, he soon left her far, far behind.

Sigh.

I don’t know about you, but I hate it when my food talks back AND makes a runner.

Needless to say, his mother was quite despondent, even questioning her parenting skills.

As we all do when our child acts in a less-than-exemplary fashion.

But I digress…

The little Gingerbread man ran quickly along the country road, making good time.

Well, he would have been making good time if he had any idea where he was going.

And a firm or even a rather vague destination in mind.

A group of farmers was just having their lunch when he dashed past.

Now I’m remembering my box lunches from my youth and a fresh gingerbread cookie would have livened them up no end.

No wonder they all jumped up and gave enthusiastic chase.

But with a laugh and another “Run, run as fast as you can…” speech, he eluded them.

There was real Olympic potential in our little sprinter.

Of course there’d be a distinct lack of competition in his category, but let’s not split hairs, okay?

The same thing happened with a group of children, some geese, and one or two more citizens. He outran them all.

See? Olympics, here we come!

But we’ll soon see that youth and skill can always be outdone by old age and treachery.

Truth.

The Gingerbread man reached the bank of a wide, cold, fast river and skidded to a stop.

Now, lack of brains aside, he was canny enough the know that, for someone made completely out of dough-like materials: Dry land=good. Rushing water=bad.

He stood there in indecision for a moment.

“Why, little boy! Whatever are you doing out here all alone?” asked a sly voice.

Ginger turned and began to spout his now-famous speech. “Run, run…” But he petered out.

Neither of them were running.

The fox—for it was a fox—was standing just inside the tree-line. Not quite in sight. But not quite out of it, either.

He knew he couldn’t outrun this little guy if he chose to flee.

He would have to best him by brainpower.

And yes, he was fighting an unarmed opponent.

“Are you wanting to cross the river, my fine young friend?”

Okay, I know he’s assuming Ginger’s age, but, let’s face it—how long can a cookie live?

In my house? 0.6 seconds.

Less for chocolate.

“Ye-es,” Ginger responded.

“Well, there isn’t a single bridge or a ferry for miles.”

“No?”

“But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since I’m going across anyway—I have an appointment with my medical professional—I would be totally happy to ferry you across.

“Really? Won’t I be too heavy?”

He looked at Ginger with his clever ‘fox’ eyes. “What do you weigh. Maybe 10 ounces? It’s no problem.”

“Ah. Well, if you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

And, just like that, Ginger leaped up on the fox’s back.

The fox slid carefully into the water.

At first, all went well. The fox swam. Ginger hummed happily to himself.

Then the water started getting deeper.

“Ummm…Mr. Fox?”

“Ye-es?”

"The water’s getting deeper.”

“You’d better climb up on my head. View’s better there anyways.”

Ginger did and discovered the fox was right! Wow! He could see so much better!

But the water was still getting deeper.

“Erm…” Ginger said, hesitantly.

“Say no more my little cinnamon-flavoured friend. Climb down on my muzzle. For sure that’s not going under!”

Ginger thought that made great sense.

Remember, we are talking about a brain of cinnamon/sugar here.

No sooner had he jumped down onto the fox’s muzzle and the sly Mr. Fox had gobbled him up!

Who didn’t see that coming?

Well, besides Ginger…

There are several morals here:

1.    Cheekiness to one’s parents seldom ends well.

2.    When my food talks and runs away, the last thing I’m going to do is chase it.

3.    Ascertaining a rescuer’s motivation is hard. If in doubt, stay off the snout!

Today’s post is a word challenge! 

Each month one of us chooses a number between 12 and 50 and the others craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.

This month’s number is: 44

It was chosen by me!

Now go and see what my friends have created!

BakingIn ATornado                    

Messymimi’sMeanderings

 

Emoji-ing

Emojis, now, are what we’ve got

If you’re smiling😊. Or if not,😔

Because we’re never face-to-face,😙

When body language’d be the case💃,

Creative’s what we’ve had to get👩‍🎨,

Show anger😠, fear😨, joy🥳 or regret😟,

And sadness😢, yes, there’s some for that😫,

When we’re online and want to chat😛.

Thank Japanese (this I confess)😇,

That ‘text’ emotions aren’t a guess,🤔

Cause ‘e’ means ‘picture’🏞, that’s for sure,

While ‘moji’ just means ‘character’🧧,

And put together, they compute💻,

And give us something really cute😻!

But there’s one drawback I do tell…🤫

Sometimes they don’t translate too well🤯😱😭,

So my advice 🧐from me to you,

Use those emojis🤗, yes, please do,

They liven up what could be dull🥱,

Expression goes to 10 from null!🤪😏🥴

But say you won’t in this tech race⛹…

Forget talking face-to-face!😊😊😊

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, 'Cousins', surely your

Favourite relatives, for sure!

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!)...

Emojis (July 17) Today!

Cousins (July 24)

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Moving Day

Sally and Mort are away, filming.

And Peter’s job has kept him out of town for the past week.

Needless to say, the household has been (apart from Ivy Jean—she of the gargantuan lungs) abnormally quiet.

I’ve been thinking…

Sally's and my Dad was a wildlife biologist, specializing in all creatures cold. You know…penguins and polar bears and stuff. His studies kept him at one pole or the other.

Until I came along, Mom went with him on his adventures. After me, Mom simply kissed him and sent him on his way to explore alone.

Okay, it probably wasn’t that simple. I’m quite sure there were expressions of sadness, etc.

I do remember some of the farewells. Cause we (Sally and I) were six when he left on his last mission.

Before the ship he was on sank in the Antarctic somewhere.

I remember Mom being really sad and watching out the window a lot and jumping when the phone rang.

I know Sally and I missed Dad. But, as we had only ever seen him irregularly, Mom was our whole world.

And as long as she was there, Sally and I were content.

Two big changes that did manage to seep into our little girl awareness were the facts that Mom had to go to work. And we had to move.

Yes. We noticed those.

The house we moved into was smaller than the one we’d been living in, but comfortable. With a tiny garden and a streetful of kids to play with.

Moving into it was an adventure in itself.

Of course, Mom and I had realized earlier that Sally had a penchant for getting into trouble.

I think ‘moving day’ just cemented those suspicions.

In a large way.

Let me tell you about it…

The moving truck had disappeared down the street in a swirl of gas fumes, leaving Mom and us girls to unpack the boxes the two rather burly movers had parked in our new house.

Sally and I were having fun opening said boxes.

Until Sally realized they were just filled with all our old junk from our old house.

Then she lost interest.

I’m quite sure you’ve realized by now that a bored Sally is an unpredictable Sally.

A small group of kids came to the open door and peeked in at us.

The biggest, a girl, spoke to Mom. “Hello! I’m Vivian! Can your girls come out to play?”

Mom smiled at her, then looked at the two of us—me, still opening boxes, and Sally…not.

“I’m quite sure they would love it,” Mom said. “They need a break!”

I straightened from the box I was currently exploring and started toward the door, but Sally beat me to it. “Hi! We’re Sally…” she put a hand on her chest, “…and Gwen. We’re Irish Twins. We’re six. Our Dad died.”

Trust Sally to get the important stuff out in the first ten seconds.

“Oh,” Vivian said. “Well, I’m Vivian and these guys are Blaine, Todd and Choteau.”

Sally looked at the third boy. “Choteau is a weird name.”

“I’m named after my sixth great-grandfather,” the boy said, proudly. “A great explorer. I’m going to be just like him!”

For some reason, my mom looked up at that.

Sally joined the others and the five of them disappeared.

“Aren’t you going with them?” Mom asked me.

I shrugged. “I think I’d rather stay with you.”

Mom smiled. “Well, I do appreciate the help!”

The two of us went back to work.

I use this term lightly. Because 'work' on that day consisted of unpacking a bit...

Then fishing Sally and her new friends out of one scrape after the other.

Mom grabbed the lot of them just as they were starting across the street wearing the unpacked boxes.

And no, none of them could see.

And yes, there were cars passing.

Mom confiscated all boxes into perpetuity.

Then they somehow managed to shut one of Mrs. Ames' (yes, this was the first time we met her) cats into the closet.

With spectacular results.

Mom then forbade all cats into perpet-- you get the picture. 

Finally, things seemed to quiet down.

I don't know about you, but that's when one should really start to worry.

Both of us were in the upstairs bedroom that would soon be Mom's. She straightened, stretching her back. Then she cocked her head to one side, listening. “What is that?” she asked.

I frowned. “Ummmm…”

Muffled voices from the first floor. Then shrieks and giggles.

Mom pushed open the window and looked down at the front entryway.

I heard a cry of triumph, then a thump.

Mom gasped and headed for the bedroom door.

I followed.

If I knew Sally—and I did—something momentous was about to happen…

The stairway in our new house was tricky. It was built almost entirely into a box. Walls on either side and a third wall at the bottom. The only escape routes were on either side at the bottom.

Mom blasted down that staircase like a pro, grabbed the corner of the wall to her right and shot out into the living room without even slowing down.

It was kind of amazing, really.

I was justifiably slower and arrived just in time to see Mom make a grab for…I think it was Todd…as he leaped off a chair and swung toward the front doorway.

Using our front-room curtains as a rope.

Two other kids, notably Sally and Vivian, were already outside, standing in what would eventually be Mom’s flower bed, obviously having successfully completed the same maneuver.

Mom missed and Todd sailed through the doorway.

Sadly the curtains--and wall--not used to this form of abuse, chose that moment to effect a wholesale release.

The entire section of dry wall from the window to the ceiling, along with the now-mangled curtain rod paraphernalia, sailed out the door with him.

Or would have.

If we had a bigger door.

The resulting crash was truly spectacular.

“Wow!” Sally said. “That was even better than mine!”

What should have been--in Sally's eyes--Todd’s triumph was dimmed somewhat by Mom charging toward them, through the pile of debris that now cluttered her front doorway.

I was behind her, but I could guess at the look on her face by what was reflected on Todd and Vivian’s.

“What are you kids doing?!” Mom said in her ‘usually-reserved-for-hollering-at-Sally-and-me-when-we’ve-done-something-naughty’ voice.

Sally shrugged. “Playing pirates.”

“With my curtains?!!” Mom’s voice has risen dangerously.

I was ready to run and I hadn’t even been involved.

“Hey! We didn't get a turn!” a voice said, plaintively.

Mom had started scraping the heap of rubble outside with her feet--like an angry bull.

She spun around and pointed at the other two obviously disappointed boys, “OOOOOOOUT!”

Their eyes on Mom, they quickly joined Sally and the others out front.

Mom slammed the door.

She looked at me. “Most of the boxes are still packed," she said, almost to herself. "We can just keep moving.”

Then she shook her head. “Nope. She’d just find us." She sighed. "If anyone needs me, I'll be under my bed. I have a headache."

Use Your Words is a writing challenge!

Each month, I exchange words with our intrepid leader, Karen of Baking in a Tornado.

Neither of us knows what the other will do with her words.

This month, Karen gave me: 

headache ~ twin ~ door ~ curtain ~ wow

Thank you, my friend!

Care to read more?

BakingIn ATornado 

What Day is it?

With special days all through the year to celebrate the great and small,

It’s sometimes difficult to choose a single topic from them all,

With things like ‘Ice Cream Sandwich Day’ and ‘Girlfriend’s Day’, to name a few,

And ‘Tell a Joke Day’, ‘Bow Tie Day’. And don’t forget ‘Spumoni’, too!

There’s ‘Single Working Women’s Day and ‘Be an Angel Day’ as well,

And ‘Kiss and Make Up Day’ (to follow that one day of ‘Kiss and Tell’!)

‘Work Like a Dog Day’s’ special too. And while we’re on that subject, there,

There’s ‘Dog Appreciation Day’ for those with dogs for whom they care.

We’ve ‘Sister’s Day’ and ‘Lover’s Day’ and ‘Son and Daughter Day’ besides,

And even one called ‘Lighthouse Day’ for those who love to watch the tides!

There’s hundreds more for all of us, a ‘Day of Beer’ and ‘Day of Sun’,

A ‘Fresh Breath Day’ and one for ‘Hoyle’ and one for ‘Middle Child’ fun.

But with them all, we chose the one that spoke to each of us for sure,

Not ‘Creamsicles’ or ‘Eat Ouside’ or ‘Chocolate Pecan Pie’s’ allure,

I’m sure you’d like to know the champ. (And yes, I feel like such a tease!)

It’s ‘Relaxation Day’ today! I get to catch up on my ZZZZZZZZZ’s

Staying Alive

Today is Husby’s birthday. His 69th. 

I had many stories to choose from to honour him.

I chose this one. 

There are a lot of ‘almosts’ here.

But it ends well...

I love Nutella.

For many reasons.
This is the main one . . .

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

Ten years ago . . .

My Husby had been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book-signing tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill, indeed.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into the emergency room.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess. And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

Taken the day before he went into hospital.

P.S. Husby still struggles with this health problem. Pernicious Anaemia.
But with regular treatments, he is able to live a completely normal life.
Well...regular treatments that include regular 'applications' of  Nutella!

My Very Own Teddy

When I was young, the dark I feared,

My brothers teased and thought me weird,

I sighed and recognized my lot,

Imagination’s what I’d got.

Then Mama gave me something warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my small bed were parked.

‘Twas plump and cuddly, soft and sweet,

It blotted tears, caressed my cheeks,

When monsters came (at close of day),

I cuddled hard—they went away.

I called it ‘Teddy’, ‘cause it was,

A Teddy Bear with furry paws,

And so together he and me,

We grew as close as friends could be.

And time went on and then I grew

Got married to a boy I knew,

But though much older, I’d not outgrown,

That fear of darkness that I'd known,

I had no bear to cuddle with,

Protect me from my monster myths,

But then I found I’d something more,

To stop those monsters at the door.

My marriage gave me someone warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my large bed were parked.

He’s not fuzzy, but he's sweet,

He blots my tears, caresses cheeks,

When monsters come (at close of day),

I cuddle hard—they go away.

So though I don’t have Teddy now,

It doesn’t matter anyhow,

‘Cause what I have is far more 'good',

Than what I had in childhood!

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?

Need to express your mood a bit?

Emojis will take care of it!

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!)...

Teddy Bears (July 10) Today!

Emojis (July 17)

Cousins (July 24)

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)