‘Modern’ Health Care

To celebrate Bad Poetry Day, one of Daddy’s favourite stories!

"I insist!" she told the doctor in her firmest, loudest voice,

‘Fore out the door he sent her (she suspected was his choice).

"I'm not leaving without answers!" Her voice was now a shout.

"Is it measles, mumps or hiccups?! I'm prepared to have this out!"

The doctor sighed and shrugged, "You know there's someone I can try.

We know the what and where and who, well now let's find the 'why'."

So he found a room and parked her, tucked up snugly in her bed,

Tried, some peace, to whisper, and relieve her of her dread.

Then upon her firm insistence. And with no more ado,

He left, but said he'd send someone to give that second view.

All at once, her door swung wide, and a cat stepped in the room.

She stared at him in silence as he circled in the gloom.

Three times around, he strolled, and he did watch her carefully,

Then turned and with a feline grace, meowed to be set free.

A moment more, a dog walked in, with a great big doggie smile,

He sat upon his haunches and he stared at her a while.

The dog he left. She sat a while and finally, back he came--

Her doctor with some more intel. He called her by her name:

"Well, the catscan's perfect, Ma'am," he said, "I couldn't be more calm.

And the Lab work's just as positive, so it's time for moving on!"

So remember when its 'doctor time'. And you ask for more info.

Your doctor looks to many views to make his knowledge grow!

Being Neighbourly

Okay, I'm not sure if this is what it looked like,
but I know it had four wheels and seats for all of us . . .

My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.
It was our first foray into town without parental supervision.
For the first time, ever, there would only be siblings in the car.
A truly magical night was planned:
1. Great company. (Jerry and George wouldn't tease me, even once. They had promised.)
2. Great entertainment. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - but that is another story . . .)
3. Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
4. An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
5. The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
Best. Night. Ever.
Then, as with any magical night, twelve o'clock came. With some sadness, our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, partway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car. Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired.
I think they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly; they would have loved to crawl over, under and through  . . .
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas. Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And suddenly realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window. The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh tha's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
Oh, goody. They had a shain.
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded—with colourful language and various starts and stops—to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!
Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.

We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night. And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot shain . . . erm . . .chain.

I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti. (Go ahead, google him. We'll wait . . .)
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.
I have to tell you that was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment.
But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first experience.
I guess 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.

Ship-less

Hours of fun. Or aggravation . . .

Mom always appreciated a good joke. Usually, she stood back and . . . appreciated. Occasionally, she was the instigator.
Let me explain . . .
Our family had just been introduced to a new game. Battleship. Actually, an old game, originally played with paper and pencil, now in a new format.
Plastic peg boards of Mediterranean sea blue. With cute little plastic ships.
We spent many hours playing this game, trying to outwit each other with our clever placements.
Very occasionally, we were able to convince one or the other of our parents to play.
Dad was deadly. He systematically shot at your ships.
Every third hole.
You could see his juggernaut (good word) sweeping down on your hapless little fleet and were powerless to stop him.
The game always left you feeling like a butterfly on a pin.
But Mom was a little more. . . gentle. She would destroy your ships using woman's intuition.
You were just as dead, but you felt better about it.
One day, she was playing with one of my younger siblings, Blair. The game had been going on for some time.
Mom: "B-8."
Blair: "Hit." .
Blair: "G-3."
Mom: "Miss."
Mom: "B-7."
Blair: "Hit."
Blair: "G-1."
Mom: "Miss."
And so it went.
Finally, Mom had cornered Blair's last ship and was closing in for the kill.
And that's when Blair got tired of the constant discouragement. "Where are your darn ships anyways?!" he demanded.
Mom gazed down at her board. "Ships?" she said.
Then she grinned.
She hadn't put them on the board.
Game. Set. Match.

Kitten Mittens

Okay, let me state right off the bat that I am rather ‘iffy’ about the whole ‘kittens wearing mittens’ thing.  I mean...doesn't that just sound rather dirty and disgusting? And unnecessary?

I know the kitties in my life would have a shred-fest if they were presented with a pair of mittens. Or lose them entirely. Kind of like kids and socks.

On with my story…

So when our story starts, those mitten-wearing kittens have, in fact lost their mittens. Okay, they were sad, certainly, but honestly, who did not see this coming?

Their mother is, justifiably put out. She probably made the mittens. And to have all three pairs disappear at once? My kitties only ever lost one mitten at a time. Truth.

I don’t know if I agree with the whole ‘no pie’ scenario, however. A more appropriate punishment would be to teach those little beggars to knit. Maybe they’d be more careful…

Soon afterward, the kittens found their mittens. Rejoice! I’m wondering, though, if it was they who found them? Or Mom. You know the adage: Nothing’s lost till Mom can’t find it!

And their reward? What else? Pie.

I approve.

A lot of kitties I know would jump through hoops for pie.

And if there’s ice cream atop it? Through hoops of fire.

There follows a lot of purring. Again, appropriate.

Mittens found. Mama happy. Anticipation of full tummies.

This is as close to a kitty paradise as those mischievous little monkeys can get!

But alas, in this story, all will not stay serene and happy.

And I don't quite understand this next part: they 

donned their mittens to eat their pie.

Donned their mittens.

Okay, I admit it—when pie is being offered, I ‘gird my loins’ so to speak. Gloves set aside and apron donned. That way, cherry filling to the elbows distresses no one.

Except me, who simply cannot lick my elbows. And, please believe me, I’ve tried.

But these three kittens put on their mittens before tackling their personal little slices of deliciousness.

Cretins.

The outcome is much what you would have expected. Pie-soiled mittens. Remorseful, contrite kittens.

And a mama who is out of threats.

No wonder all anyone can do is sigh.

Sigh.

But in a surprising twist, those three suddenly-resourceful kittens drag out the old wash board and scrub those mittens clean.

Their mother is surprised and pleased.

Undoubtedly, smiles and hugs follow.

But only briefly.

In what one can only assume is a bid to begin training said kittens in their future rat-hunting duties, Mama announces that she smells a rat.

Close by.

The story ends there, in a total cliffhanger.

My concern is this: Did they wear their mittens?

Did they soil them?

What punishments should Mama invent for that scenario?

Any thoughts?

For your entertainment, my version of The Three Little Kittens…

The three little kittens

Had no mittens

Because said mittens would have been ridiculous and a hindrance to everyday life.

The end.

The real poem (with apologies to MessyMimi because this part doesn’t follow the word count!):

Three little kittens,

They lost their mittens

And they began to cry,

Oh, mother dear,

We sadly fear

Our mittens we have lost.

What! Lost your mittens,

You naughty kittens!

Then you shall have no pie.

Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.

You shall have no pie.

The three little kittens,

They found their mittens,

And they began to cry,

Oh, mother dear,

See here, see here,

Our mittens we have found.

What! Found your mittens,

You darling kittens!

Then you shall have some pie.

Purr-rr, purr-rr, purr-rr,

You shall have some pie.

The three little kittens,

Put on their mittens,

And soon ate up the pie

Oh, mother dear,

We greatly fear

Our mittens we have soiled.

What! Soiled your mittens,

You naughty kittens!

Then they began to sigh,

Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.

They began to sigh.

The three little kittens,

They washed their mittens,

And hung them out to dry

Oh mother dear,

Look here, look here,

Our mittens we have washed.

What! Washed your mittens,

You're such good kittens.

I smell a rat close by!

Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!

Hush! Hush! Hush!

I smell a rat close by.

Today’s post is a word challenge! 

Each month Karen, Mim or I choose 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: 31

It was chosen by Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings!

Now go and see what my friends have created!

Baking In ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

PassWordHell##

Though I spend a lot of my time staring at a screen,

Me and e-lec-tronics, well, we’re not what you’d call ‘keen’,

And often I am tempted to (what could be called) ‘disjoint’

What follows is what I would label as a case in point!

I got a message from my server. And it made me quake…

“Your password has expired and a new one you must make!”

I typed in ‘roses’, 'cause you know I love them. They’re the best,

But my answer? “Too few characters.” was to me addressed.

So ‘pretty roses’, next I tried. T’was simple, so I thought,

But, "Sorry, one numeric character, please." was what I got.

‘1 pretty rose’ I thought would work. I typed it cleverly,

And, “No blank spaces.” next they sent. I was not filled with glee!

So I obeyed. ‘1prettyrose’ I thought would do the trick,

And, "10 different characters, you must use." My wrath was getting thick!

‘1bloodyprettyrose’ was next. The best that I could choose…

But, "Sorry, at least one Upper Case letter you must use."

‘1BLOODYprettyrose’ I typed. I thought that it would do,

But, "No successive upper case characters for you."

‘1BloodyPrettyRose’, I typed. I thought that I obeyed,

“No less than 20 characters.” My hope’d begun to fade.

‘1BloodyPrettyRoseShovedSomewhere’FYouDon'tGiveAccessNow!’

My bland response: "No punctuation." I thought, Holy cow!

‘1BloodyPrettyRoseShovedSomewhereFYouDontGiveAccessNow’,

But, "Sorry, that password has been used." I’m done. I’ll take a bow.

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'll be an exciting one,

With 'Sea Monsters' we'll have fun!

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!)...

Roses (August 14) Today!

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Newspapers (September 4)

Remembering (September 11)

Cheeseburgers (September 18)

Dreams (September 25)

Birthdays (October 2)

Family (October 9)

Dictionary (October 16)

Talk Shows (October 23)

Mischief (October 30)

Watermelon (November 6)

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

A Little Unexpected

First of all, I should tell you that, following a home invasion a few months ago, Mom insisted Sally have an alarm system installed. A loud one.

With buttons in every room of the house.

Which, when pressed, can signal Arcturus.

Well, that’s what it seems like.

Actually, I was fairly enthusiastic about said alarm system, being intimately involved in said invasion.

On with our story…

Okay, I admit it.

I overreacted.

But when one lives with Sally…

Sally and Mort have returned. She was away, filming some sort of thriller—a departure for her. Mostly she’s been cast in adventures.

She doesn’t have to act for those. (snort!)

Ahem…

Anyways, this film featured Sally (in the starring role) as a girl who ends up staying in some sort of haunted castle. They were filming at a genuine castle somewhere in Romania. Where, apparently, the ‘spookiness’ didn’t have to be enhanced in any way.

‘Nuff said.

But since they’ve been back, Sally has been…anxious. You know, nightmares. Sleepwalking.

Like we didn’t have enough to contend with when she is just ‘normal’.

What am I saying?!

It’s been strange because, up until now, there hasn’t been anything that seems to disturb our girl. She has handled her usually self-inflicted chaotic life—including kidnapping—with equanimity (look it up) and courage.

Anyways, at about 11 pm I kissed Peter goodnight at the front door and waved him off, then headed to bed.

Everyone else had already retired and the house was blessedly quiet.

It remained so for a couple of hours.

Then there was a horrendous scream next to my bed.

I am not making this up. The scream was right there beside me!

Of course, it was Sally, on one of her new sleep-walking dream tours. Something I figured out later. After my brain actually caught up.

Of course, I sat straight up from my sound sleep.

Of course, I slapped the button on the night table next to my bed.

And the aforementioned alarm system?

Well, just know that there are emergency workers enroute from Arcturus as we speak.

The ones closer by—ie. the police—arrived within a couple of minutes.

Confusion, shouting and milling by partially-awake people along with the screaming of a very upset baby added to the confusion.

Let’s just face it—if anyone in our neighbourhood—in our city—had been asleep, they weren’t any longer.

By the time the police had shut off the klaxon, ascertained (Ooo! Good word!) that no one had broken in and Sally et al were safe and accounted for, every light in the neighborhood was on with most of the neighbours standing out on their lawns. Or ours.

Sleep was probably banned forever.

Sigh.

The police finally left.

Mom and Dad took Ivy Jean up to their suite to calm her down.

Even Sally and Mort disappeared downstairs into their apartment.

With stern admonitions for Sally to stay there.

And never work on another scary picture.

Ever.

I was sitting on the front step, enjoying the newfound peace when Peter appeared on his bicycle.

In his PJ’s.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the alarm also goes off at his house—something he insisted on after that home invasion wherein I…never mind. You understand.

“Gwen!” he gasped out. He dropped the bike on the lawn and scooped me up off the step. “Are you all right?”

I felt my face grow hot. “Yeah. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, man! I’ve never been so worried. I couldn’t get you on your phone—or anyone else either.”

“Oh, sorry. Things were a little—”

He didn’t wait for me to finish. “Then my stupid car wouldn’t start!” His hold on me tightened. “The distance from your house to mine might as well have been from here to the moon!”

“Yeah, I think they heard the alarm there—”

Again he interrupted. “I can’t stand this a moment longer!” He set me down, then dropped to one knee. “Gwen, will you marry me? Please?”

Use Your Words is a writing challenge!

Each month, I exchange words with my friend and 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: 

found ~ where ~ people ~ return ~ dream

Thank you, my friend!

Now go see what Karen did with my words!

BakingIn ATornado 

Motivated

What we wanted.

What we got.

Debbie and I had spent the morning dreaming about the big ‘B’.

Boys.

All of whom were fascinating and none of whom were interested.

Sigh.

We were drooling over yet another male lead in a long line-up of romantic movies.

This one was a Western. My personal favourite.

Mmmmm . . .

Suddenly, Debbie jumped up and shut off the TV right in the middle of our current favourite doing...erm...cowboy things.

Who does that?!

“I want to do something,” she announced.

I glowered at her and briefly considered pointing out that we were doing something. Her whole demeanour suggested . . . action. Which probably meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to get off the couch.

Ugh.

“I want to build a birdbath.”

I stared. Had I heard her correctly?

“I’m serious!” Her voice started to gain in pitch and enthusiasm. “I saw one in a magazine article. It was made of cement and had an all ‘harmonious-with-nature’ theme. It started with a little pool up top, then plunging down a waterfall  to the bottom!”

In her eagerness, she began to pace.

I hated it when she did that.

“We could make a little thatched roof to limit weather-ly interference.” She spun around to face me. “So what do you think?!”

I should point out here that her asking me that was merely a magnanimous gesture. We were doing it. She just wanted me to feel included.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. Let’s get this over with . . .

Pulling her little brother’s wagon, the two of us walked downtown to the hardware store. Then followed a frenzied rush to grab anything she thought would help. And the expenditure of two months of allowance.

As we toted her baggage home, she talked endlessly about the indelible impression her creation would make. About how the town gentry would stroll past, abandoning their normally impartial opinions in their excitement over this brush with the . . . wet and bird-like.

Yeah, she dreamt big, that Debbie.

What followed could only be considered inhumane – which is really ironic, considering we were creating something to benefit nature.

Because I was a farm girl – with muscles - I hauled cement. Mixed cement. Formed cement in a great hole which I had also helped dig.

Then I collapsed.

Debbie looked at the mass of grey glop in the bottom of our hole and then at her exhausted friend.

“It’s perfect!” she said.

I, too, looked into the hole. At the plop of cement in the bottom. Seriously?

Debbie got the garden hose and filled the little indent in the top of her creation. “See? Perfect!”

I blinked. Then turned to look at the paraphernalia strewn about. “What about . . .?” I got no further.

“Perfect!” Debbie nodded decisively, then gathered everything else up and packed it away.

After that, when the weather cooperated, Debbie happily filled her birdbath. Her beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing work of art.

Well, to her . . .

Debbie’s family moved away from Milk River decades ago.

But I think her birdbath sits there to this day.

A monument to what can be accomplished by the lazy and unmotivated. 

Or of an afternoon spent with a friend.

Take your pick.

Mom Advice

Twenty-five of her sayings . . .
Plus one.

Treasure Trove.

1. At forty, a man knows almost half of what he knew at twenty.
2. How do Mothers ever learn about all the things they warn their daughters not to do?
3. We do not live by bread alone, though dough plays a very important part.
4. Beware of salesman with 'Pie in the Sky' ideas--They plan to use your dough.
5. Happiness can be thought, sought or caught. Never bought.
6. Little wonder today's teenager gets mixed up--half the adults are telling him to find himself. The other half are telling him to get lost.
7. What's the difference between a teacher and a train? A train says Choo, choo, choo. A teacher says, "Spit out your gum!"
8. A wife with horse sense never becomes a nag.
9. The best thing about some popular songs is they don't stay popular long.
10. A man owes it to himself to become successful. Once successful, he owes it to internal revenue.
11.The horse and buggy are disappearing, but not the waggin tongue.
12. Sometimes my Dad takes things apart when they don't go. You'd better go.
13. This is the land of opportunity. Where else could you afford to spend so much for so little?
14. Half of your troubles come from wanting your own way. The other half from getting it.
15. Tact is the art of making company feel at home when you wish they were!
16. Life begins at 40. But that's also when everything begins to wear out, fall out or spread out.
17. Middle age is when actions creak louder than words.
18. A flood is a river that's grown too big for its bridges.
19. Political bed fellows not only share the same bed but also the same bunk.
20. A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject.
21. All a youngster wants out of school is himself.
22. By the time a man gets to green pastures, he can't climb the fence.
23. The worst place to live in the world is beyond your income.
24. The best night spot is a comfortable bed.
25. No wishbone ever took the place of a backbone.

And bonus--My personal favourite:
Smokey the Bear and his wife could never have kids. Whenever she got fire in her eyes, he'd hit her in the head with a shovel.

The Therapy of Thwimming

Okay, it was scary.

But it turned out all right . . .

Our family have always been swimmers.

Our children are introduced to the water soon after they arrive.

And spend copious amounts of time there.

When we take a holiday, our choice of hotel is always based on whether or not it has a pool.

On to my story . . .

We were in Great Falls with my Husby's eldest brother and his family.

We had a favourite hotel there.

With *gasp* two pools.

The main pool was popular.

And usually busy.

We had decided to gather beside the smaller pool.

Adults, visiting.

Kids, playing.

Because we grown-ups hadn't planned on swimming, my Husby put on his suit under protest.

But I insisted.

At least one adult needed to be prepared.

We went down.

And spent a pleasant half-hour talking and laughing.

Now I should explain, here, that this smaller pool had one major draw-back.

It really wasn't made with children in mind.

It was roughly circular in shape.

And was shallow at the outer edges.

And deep in the middle.

I know. Weird.

Moving on . . .

Our oldest boy, aged four, was playing happily with his cousins in the shallows.

The kids were shouting and giggling and generally making 'happy' sounds and our oldest nephew, aged six, was keeping up a continuous dialogue of, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!”

His parents had tuned him out.

Something I simply couldn't do.

And for which I am eternally grateful.

“Mom!” he shouted.

I turned and looked at him.

“Mark's down there!” he said, pointing toward the centre of the pool.

My Husby looked at me.

“Get him!” I shouted.

He jumped in and an instant later, came up with our little boy.

For a few seconds, Mark coughed and gasped.

Then cried.

And just like that, our swim was over for the day.

We left the next morning, everyone well and happy, and completely unaware of the psychological damage that had been done.

A few days later, we took our family down to the river to our favourite swimming hole.

Though the water came no higher than his ankles, Mark refused to put one foot into the river.

Odd.

Later, we went to the local swimming pool for what had always been our favourite Saturday evening activity.

Mark, our fish, clung to the ladder and screamed.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

For the next few months, every time we tried to go swimming, it was the same.

People splashing around.

Mark sitting as far from the water as he could get.

Hmmmm.

A year passed.

Without much change.

Then our family moved to Edmonton.

Within hours of getting settled, my Husby discovered the local rec centre.

And their 'wave pool'.

Sounded intriguing.

What on earth was a wave pool?

We packed up the kids and went to investigate.

It turned out that a wave pool was just that.

A pool.

With waves.

For fifteen minutes, the water was calm.

Smooth.

Then a horn would blow and the waves would start.

Small, at first, then growing in size until they were . . . significant.

Mark had been paddling in the ankle-deep water at the shallow end.

A big step for him.

The horn sounded.

He looked up.

And stared at the wall of water coming toward him.

Okay, it wasn't a wall.

Maybe more of a . . . fence?

Well, maybe a median.

But it was definitely coming toward him.

We watched as he considered his options.

Then, to our surprise, he dropped to his knees and . . . let the wave roll over him.

And just like that, his fear was gone.

Our fish was back.

There is a codicil:

Mark is married now, and the father of six.

Several times a week, he takes his family swimming.

It is their favourite activity.

Every time they appear with wet hair and faces glowing with exercise and happiness, I give thanks for the disaster that wasn't.

And for the therapeutic properties of waves.

Ahhh! Therapy!

GUI

The Alexander Bros were sipping moonshine on the deck,

They’d been sipping for a while and both were feeling rather wrecked,

It was their newest batch and had been left a little long,

And—let’s just face it—one word to describe it now was ‘strong’!

Well, as they sat and sipped a truck went past with rolls of sod,

And Archie spat across the rail and gave that truck a nod,

Said sadly to his brother, Lenny, “What I wouldn’t do…

To live life like rich people can when they can hire a crew!”

Then Lenny looked at him, said, “Archie, what you on about?

What is it ‘bout that truck that’s gotten you in such a pout?”

Said Archie, “I just want to get the things that I am owed…

When I win the lottery, I’ll send my lawn out to git mowed!

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?

Roses are red, or sometimes they're blue,

Come join us next week, we'll have roses for you!

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!)...

Moonshine (August 7) Today!

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)

Birthdays (October 2)

Family (October 9)

Dictionary (October 16)

Talk Shows (October 23)

Mischief (October 30)