That Quonset Summer: Part Two

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here.)

Home!

I drove right into the quonset and parked close to the living room area.

My thoughtful husband had already arranged the living room furniture in an orderly manner - complete with end tables on each side of the sectional couch.

It looked . . . inviting.

I wanted to drop my weary bones into the nearest chair!

However, there was no time.

Everything else there was chaos. Packing crates, boxes, and furniture everywhere.

Doc was busy setting up beds and improving bedrooms with dressers and wardrobe cases for partitions.

The electrician had been busy and two deep freezers were already humming their normal tune whilst preserving the family food.

My stove was being set up in the kitchen area east of the living room space, and it was comforting to know that I would be able to use most of the electrical conveniences I enjoyed.

Two tables were set up in the kitchen - one to be used as a work table and the other for eating our meals.

A set of steel shelves had been erected beside the tables for storing dishes, bowls, kettles and all my baking and cooking materials.

We had found an old cutlery drawer and it came in very handy when it came time to sort all the various kitchen tools.

I covered most of the articles on these shelves with tea towels. We discovered, with some annoyance, that the cement dust settled everywhere.

No amount of sweeping seemed to solve this problem.

In fact, I think it aggravated it!

We covered most of our furniture with grey flannelette sheets and old bed spreads. They stood like great, hooded monsters in the fading light.

It was nearly time to have our evening meal and the thought of food was farthest from my mind.

Our children were dancing about the crates and boxes in gleeful abandon and I hated to intrude upon this carefree joy with restrictions.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

A dear, sympathetic neighbour brought in a hot, steaming casserole of peppered steak and a crisp green salad. (I shall always have a soft spot for hot, peppered steak and a thoughtful friend.)

We suddenly discovered that we were not only hungry, but ravenous.

Just to smell this delicious food set our taste buds to dancing. We set the table quickly and all sat down together to share a moment of thankfulness and enjoy this wonderful food.

It had been a long day, this 23 of June. A warm, sunny day after the refreshing rain of the night before.

It was a day full of sound and activity, of confusion and frustration.

A day ending one segment of our lives and beginning a new one in a long chain of segments - each one an event that would shatter, frustrate or console us as we met new challenges.

That Quonset Summer: Part One

Everything Under Construction

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes:

The red letter day was here.

There could be no more stalling - no more postponing - no more compromising.

We had sold our house three months before and we just must move!

All the planning and indecision washed over me like a cold shower.

Nothing had been resolved, though all angels had been considered.

While our new home was being built, should we move into a motel? To a trailer? Rent a house?

All of them were ticked off for various reasons - too expensive, too many children (six when our eldest was home), and homes to rent were not available.

There was one alternative, however.

My rancher/veterinarian husband had built a quonset.

A huge quonset (100 feet by 40 feet).

And it had a cement floor, smooth in the center and rough at one end where he eventually planned to build a barn with stalls for convalescing animals. (The rough floor would keep the animals from slipping.)

It had a cold water outlet and a sewer outlet at the rough end.

I don't know how the great light dawned, but we suddenly came up with this fantastic idea.

Why not move into the quonset for the summer?

We could assemble our living area in the center near the water outlet and carry all our waste water to the sewer outlet in the future barn space.

It would work.

We still had many misgivings about living in 'the shed' and they seemed to multiply as the day for the move drew nearer.

So, it was with many the doubts still swimming through my head that I set myself to the task of packing.

The confusion grew as the moving van arrived and it progressed steadily through the length of the day until by late afternoon my mind and limbs were numb.

Finally, though, I was looking about the nearly-empty home I loved.

It was as if I were viewing a funeral procession of a dear friend.

The car was packed to the roof. There was room only for me as the driver, and my littlest child, Anita, on a heap of articles beside me.

Thank goodness the others were all in school and didn't have to witness this agonizing transformation. (Although I had reason to suspect that they were entranced by the whole idea - anything so unusual would be a great adventure!)

They could not possibly perceive all the 'mechanics' of the operation. And definitely would not experience the re-organization and planning that would have to be done before our family would resume a smooth day-to-day living.

No one could help me with this.

I felt as if I had been prepared for slaughter and my unwilling body was being swept toward the surgeon with scalpel poised and grinning teeth mocking me.

Life's necessities and comforts had gone.

I had to accept that.

So, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and quivering lip clamped firmly in my teeth, I shifted the family car into reverse and drove resolutely toward my 'summer home'.

A Close Shave

Our Fred decided that he’d pamper himself just a bit,

Cause he was feeling grubbier than he cared to admit,

Went down to the Salon to ask them for a pedicure,

And maybe get a shave and have them trim up his coiffure,

The pedicurist was a girl and she was sweet and kind,

And pretty as the day was long. He thought he’d lose his mind,

And as she worked, ol’ Fred decided, he’d ask for a date,

“I’m married,” was all she would say. He frowned and told her, “Wait!

Why don’t you call your husband and just say you’ve work to do,

Then I could take you out and maybe spend some time with you!”

She didn’t even look up as she gave a little wave…

“Why don’t you just tell him yourself. He’s giving you your shave!”

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 all about

Newspapers! Give us a shout!

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!)...

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28) Today!

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)

Decisions...

A politician standing there outside the pearly gates,

Listened to St. Peter as the man discussed his fate,

“Now you can come right in,” he said, “But better you should see

The way that they do things in Hell. Informed, then, you will be!” 

So ‘Gerrold’, as we’ll call him shrugged and told the man, “Okay.

I really didn’t have another thing planned for today.”

The next he knew, was waking up in a five-star hotel room,

With Satan standing by his bed, with jokes and naught of doom. 

He offered Gerrold drinks from his convenient mini bar

Then took him to the window. What he saw there was bizarre,

For all his friends were teeing off in a golf course for the pros,

“You like golf?” Satan asked him. “Well, Son, we’ve got ten of those!”

“There’s everything that you could want to make forever sweet,

And all you have to do is say you’ll stay to play and eat!

Well Gerrold spent that day enjoying all they offered him,

Including time spent with his wife, once more so young and trim.

Then finally, once more he stood outside the pearly gates,

With St. Peter once more asking what he wanted for his fate,

Well, Gerrold shrugged and told him, ”Hell. You know it was a lark!”

St. Peter said, “I figured so.” Then snapped. And all went dark.

Gerrold frowned and peered around, but not much could he see,

The air, it smelled of cinders and the light, dim as could be,

As his eyes adjusted, there stood Satan by his side,

“What’s going on? This isn’t right, old buddy!” Gerrold cried. 

“Where’s the golf course? Where’s the food. And where’s my wife?” asked he,

“Before all this was beautiful. Just lovely as could be!

But now there’s grief around me everywhere, that I have noted!”

“Before we were campaigning, but dear Gerrold, now, you’ve voted!”

So know when making choices that you need to be aware,

Cause sometimes there are options that could catch you in a snare,

And things won’t be exactly what you think that you behold…

I guess you’ve learned by now that: All that Glitters is not GOLD!

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,

With GOLD this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Mimi at messymimismeanderings

With Love

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner one night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

Not steamed. Boiled.

I kid you not.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And you know something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Having Respect

The work is getting done. Guess who's in charge?

Husby is retired now.

As am I.

He had been at the same organization for over thirty years.

He knew the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

But in his organization, a new wave of up-and-comers were . . . up and coming.

They’d not changed any of the policies. Yet.

But they were beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

There are always new and improved ways to do things. I have no problem with that.

What I do have a problem with was the way they regarded my Husby.

Suddenly this man who has been a main cog in the great machine was being regarded as a bit rusty.

Out of date.

Useless.

The fact that he had personally schooled and guided every single one of these young people meant nothing once they’d gotten their momentum.

And they’d definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

I see it happening all around me. Older people who were once at the forefront of their fields of expertise are being sidelined. Disregarded.

Ignored.

Those who, though they may have fallen a bit behind in the technological side, could still be viewed (and utilized) as a source of wisdom and knowledge.

And experience.

Husby and I were speaking of it one morning. The lack of . . . respect.

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

All of this is my long-winded way of telling a story.

Which I’m ready to begin. Finally . . .

During its heyday, the Stringam ranch was a hub of activity and a great source of employment.

Cowhands came and went. Learned a little or a lot.

But left better than when they had ridden in.

And a large part of that was due to my Dad’s example.

He led, choosing to work with the men rather than give orders and watch from the sidelines. He counselled. Disciplined. Instructed. Corrected. Instructed again.

And the men respectfully listened.

Oh, there was the occasional man who didn’t like the discipline that the Stringam ranch demanded. But even they learned to show respect during their short stay.

Most of the men went on to lives of industry. Some to direct their own enterprises.

All spoke of my Dad with respect and affection.

One man came to my parents fresh out of high school and had then stayed a number of years under the tutelage of my Dad. In his quiet way, he soaked up everything he could learn.

Then he married and finally left to begin his own ranching enterprise.

The bond of friendship remained strong.

One day, he called my Dad at Dad’s room in the local senior’s lodge. The man, and his son who was now running their family ranch, had a difficulty and needed some advice.

Who did they turn to?

My dad was nearly ninety.

His days of directing the affairs of a large ranch, riding the range and commanding crews of hired men were long behind him.

But the respect for his knowledge and expertise and the genuine affection went on.

Daddy hung up the phone from that conversation and cried.

Is this respect being taught today?

Do we look at the elderly people around us (and they are growing in number) and see someone who is merely old? Redundant? Stupid?

Or do we see the person they were? A person full of life and new ideas. Contender and driving force and world changer of their generation. A person who could still be a fund of knowledge and experience.

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.

And a pity.

P.S. About the picture. The guy in charge is the one kneeling on the ground, holding the calf.

Interested in reading and ‘liking’ my semi-finalist short story, Nighttime in Newsome?

Go ahead! It’s totally fun!

Nighttime in Newsome

I have some exciting news!

A short story I wrote is a semi-finalist in a contest.

I would love for you to read and comment...

You can find it here:

Nighttime in Newsome is the story.

A little bit mysterious.

A little bit kooky.

A whole lot entertaining!
Thank you.

 I promise to love you forever!

Sea Snacks

Two heads popped up above the surf,

Two monsters of the sea, they were,

They recently had left their cave,

Were sailing west above the waves,

And looking for someone to scare,

Plus, maybe find some tasty fare.

A string of ships were sailing by,

A gleam sparked in one monster's eye,

And moving closer, took a sniff,

Then gobbled that ship in a jiff!

The second and the third one, too,

He did what monster's always do

And one by one, he ate them all...

His buddy'd watched this all befall,

Then tapped his friend upon his neck,

And loudly asked him, "What the heck?!

Potatoes are what those ships hold!

There's better stuff--or so I'm told."

His friend just raised his monster brow,

Said, "I don't mean to cause a row,

I know there's much more tasty fare,

In lots of ships tween here and there,

Potatoes Ships are snack-y fun,

And none of us can eat just one!

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,

At the ‘Beauty Parlor’ 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!)...

Sea Monsters (August 21) Today!

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)

‘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)