New Age Princesses

Not just another pretty face!

Our family was together today.

Because we do everything in a group.

Or in our case, a herd.

Grampa and a couple of mothers/aunties had gathered several of the younger kids together in the gym.

In a circle to play some games.

Most of which included loud noises.

Clawing, scratching and biting gestures.

And animal sounds.

They were . . . involved.

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

Stomping.

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

Auntie stopped her.

“Are you a bear?” she asked.

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

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

It’s a new world.

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

But still wear pretty dresses.

Just FYI.

Crime, Punishment . . . and Laughter

It's my big brother's birthday today.
Again.
Hmmm . . . I just realized something.
This happens every single year.
Always on the same day.
Amazing . . .

Second birthday.
He's considerably older now . . .

I was raised in the fifties.

When a good swat on the backside got a child’s attention.

And cured all types of bad behaviour.

In one, swift, *smack*.

Sometimes with the cake spoon.

It didn’t happen often.

But it happened.

Well, to me, at any rate.

My oldest brother, Jerry, was a whole different story.

Which I’d like to tell you about . . .

I don’t know what he’d done.

Okay, yes, he was a tease and, occasionally, a torment.

And sometimes this behaviour spilled over onto Mom.

Who usually took it with a grin and an, “Oh, Jerry!”

But on this occasion, my scamp of a brother had roused her ire.

Enough that she went for the cake spoon.

Uh-oh.

You know how it is when one child in the family has gotten themselves into trouble.

All of the other children drift in from the nether regions of the household to stand and watch.

And rejoice that it isn’t them.

So the rest of us were ringside as Mom went for the spoon.

At which point Jerry started to laugh.

Laugh.

Said laugh caused Mom to laugh.

Which entirely nullified any feelings of outrage.

And ditto, the previously-mentioned and well-deserved swat on the backside.

Huh. So that’s how it’s done!

I stored that little crumb of knowledge away for the next time Mom’s ire was raised.

In my direction.

But, on that inevitable day, I discovered something important.

It’s takes real skill to be able to laugh directly into the face of anger.

Real skill.

I didn’t have it.

And neither did I avoid the application of correction.

Sigh.

My big brother Jerry.

I could have learned so many important and life-saving things from him.

If only . . .

P.S. Jerry and mom also have a history with the broom. But that is another story . . .

Getting Hammered

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam. Where the humour comes from . . .

My Dad has a great sense of humour.
He came by it rightly.
Let me explain . . .
Dad was in Lethbridge, running errands, shopping.
He stopped by the local hardware store.
There, in a bin just inside the door, was a pile of hammers.
Ordinary, wooden-handled hammers.
He stopped.
He was a rancher.
Hammers were in constant use.
Building.
Repairing.
And they were just as constantly disappearing.
He could always use another one.
He reached out, picking up the one on top.
And made an important discovery.
These weren't normal hammers.
They were light rubber.
But painted so perfectly that they could easily fool even the most scrutinizing (real word) glance.
The only way to tell was to actually pick one up.
Dad picked up several.
In fact everything the store had.
On his way home, he stopped off at his parent's comfortable home near the center of the city.
His father, George, a man past eighty, was seated in his recliner in the front room.
Sounds and delicious aromas were emanating tantalizingly from the kitchen.
Obviously, Dad had come at a good time.
He walked in, tossing a greeting to everyone in general, then entered the front room.
And whacked his father on the knee with one of the hammers.
Grandpa jumped.
"Oh!" Then he chuckled. "I thought you had lost your mind!"
Dad laughed.
Grandpa reached for the hammer. "Well. Isn't that remarkable!" He turned it over and over in his hands.
Then he leaned back in his chair. "Vina!" he called.
My Grandmother bustled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. "What is it, George? Dinner's almost . . ."
That's as far as she got.
As soon as she came around the corner, Grandpa threw the hammer at her.
"Oh!" she said as the soft rubber bounced off her chest. She put one hand to her heart. "I thought you'd lost your mind!" she gasped, unconsciously repeating Grandpa's words.
Grandpa chuckled as Grandma picked up the trick hammer and threw it back at him.
Yep. Humour is inherited.

Heroes

Front and Center.

I stood with my family to watch the Remembrance Day celebrations.

We had to stand because there were no seats left in the packed, gi-normous, seats-a-million, Edmonton Butterdome.

Yes, it looks like a huge chunk of butter.

And no it doesn’t really seat a million.

Moving on . . .

Our son, Erik was part of the Edmonton City Police Honour Guard.

We’ve watched him march in numerous parades.

He’s easy to pick out.

Always right marker.

Because he stands a head taller than anyone else.

Hear the buttons popping? That would be me. Pride does that to a mom.

Back to my story . . .

Two things stood out in my mind.

First, watching my son.

Second, watching those young men and women - and some not so young - representing all branches of the service as they stood in their ranks across the broad field.

As the celebration drew long, several of them, as my son puts it, ‘thundered in’.

That is the PC term for what happens when the human body is expected to remain motionless in a rigid stance for a long period of time. It gets light-headed. And, sometimes, loses consciousness.

The medics were kept busy in the latter half of the celebration, escorting soldiers off the field.

As I watched those young people making their rather wobble-legged way to the edge of the grounds, it occurred to me that those people we put up there on a pedestal are human.

Just like us.

They have weaknesses and are subject to physical limitations. Fatigue. Hunger. Illness. Fear. Sorrow.

Just like us.

They don’t have super powers. Can’t fly, don’t have x-ray vision, are not impervious to pain and certainly can’t make bullets bounce off their chests.

And yet, they are out there on the front line, putting everything they have between us and anyone who might try to hurt or deprive or enslave us.

Despite their human frailties.

And that makes them, in my eyes, even greater heroes.

Thank you.

Grandma's House Rules

by Grant Tolley

Disclaimer

Parents are responsible for their own children while at Grandma’s House.  Grandpa and Grandma used to be responsible but they’re not any more.

Toys

All toy trucks with sirens are forbidden – the neighbours keep running out to see if I have run over their cat.  Again.

All musical toys are also forbidden.  The national anthem of the Tolley house is not “Turkey In The Straw.”

“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” is not on the list either.

Food

All treats for grandchildren are under Grandpa’s control.  He’ll share with you as soon as they release him from the psych ward, which will be when he stops humming “Turkey In The Straw.”

  

Food prepared at Grandma’s house is made with TLC.  Despite what Grandpa puts in it.

At Grandma’s house the “best before” date on her food expires in two hours.  Food not swallowed before this time will not be recycled.

Diapers

Soiled diapers cause leprosy.  All pre-lepers shall be banished immediately to the leper colony at the end of the hallway.

All soiled disposable diapers shall be immediately wrapped securely in a plastic bag and placed on the front porch for eventual transport to the garbage can.  Most grandchildren should be removed from the diaper first.

Reusable cloth diapers soiled for longer than one day before washing shall be sold as fuel to the nearest nuclear power plant or placed in a rocket and shot into the sun.

No pooping under the dining room table, even if you are wearing a diaper.  This means you, too, Grandpa.

Becoming Friends

A repost of my favourite Remembrance Day story.

Because it's Remembrance day . . .

Tangmere. History makes me cry.   (bbc.uk.co picture)

My Husby worked for Alberta Culture.
Specifically building the great museums for which Alberta is famous.
The last two museums had been announced.
One to house a collection of cars and trucks and thing that go. Or fly.
The other to showcase the horse-drawn vehicle era.
Both having to do with transportation.
In preparation for this, my Husby was sent to the UK.
They have museums.
They could offer insight.
Thus, twenty-five years ago, he went.
Taking me.
Because.
It was a wonderful, informative, exhilarating, exhausting, emotional trip.
We saw farm museums. Transit museums. Air museums. Automobile museums.
We even went to the mews at Buckingham palace and got up close and personal with the gold coach.
But one visit stands out above all of the others.
Oh, we had seen exhibits expertly assembled.
Cunningly and beautifully displayed.
Extensive, professional artwork in beautiful buildings.
And trained, informed staff.
But none of them could compete with the (then) little museum, Tangmere.
Near Chichester, England, on the site of the old RAF Tangmere Airfield, this museum was almost exclusively manned by airmen who had served there during WWII.
Perhaps that is what made the difference.
The displays came to life when your guide, who had known the showcased men personally, described them.
He had many stories to tell.
And no few tears were shed in the telling.
One, in particular, I remember most vividly.
The worker/veteran described a gentleman entering the museum.
Alone.
This man wandered from exhibit to exhibit, reading the hand-lettered cards and information.
Studying the artifacts.
Finally, he approached the desk.
"Have you a cemetery?" he asked in heavily German-accented English.
"Why yes, sir. It's just through there." The worker pointed towards a door.
"Thank you." The man went outside.
To the small cemetery directly behind the main building.
There rests everyone lost during the August 16, 1940 raid on Tangmere during WWII.
Everyone.
The visitor stayed outside for a long time.
Finally, he re-entered the building and returned to the front desk.
"Please excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you have buried the German dead with the English."
The man telling the story got a bit teary-eyed at this point.
"Why yes, sir," he told the man. "They were each and all someone's son."
The German visitor began to cry. Finally he whispered, "I was in the wave of German fighters who bombed you."
The Englishman put out his hand.
"Well it's nice to actually get to meet you!" he said heartily, shaking the other's hand. "And I should tell you that you and your boys made one hell of a mess!"
The worker looked at us. "I don't know what we were when he came in, but we parted friends," he said.
I cried all of the way back to our hotel.

Soup Bowl Conundrum

Guaranteed to make mealtime . . . interesting.

I had been smart.

I had managed to find two of each of the four patterns of the Campbell's Kids soup bowls.

All cute.

All . . . capable of holding soup.

And none of which was ‘the right one’ at any given meal.

Child #1: Mom! I wanted the skater bowl! It’s my turn to get the skater bowl!

Child #2: She always gets the skater bowl! I wanted it this time!

Me: I bought two of them! Where is the other one?

Child #3: I have it.

Me: Well, would you mind using the soccer bowl instead?

Child #3: I already started eating.

Child #1: Yuck! I don’t want it if he’s been using it! I’ll get his germs!

Me: Gaaahhh!

Moving ahead twenty years . . .

Dinner was served.

The table had been laid with the finest of paper-thin, bone china and glistening, polished silver.

Crystal goblets caught the light of myriad candles.

Heavily laden dishes, steaming hot and breathing out the teasing, tantalizing scents of basil, thyme and rosemary had been placed with distinct attention to both aesthetic detail and practical access.

Family had gathered.

In a surge of thankfulness for the bounties before us, Grace was said.

And then, from the kids’ table . . .

Grandchild #1: Gramma! I wanted the blue cup!

Grandchild #2: She had the blue cup last time! It’s my turn!

Grandchild #3: I don’t want the pink cup ‘cause it’s a girl colour!

Gramma: Gaaahhh!

Sigh.

Yep. Dumb.

Okay. This IS rocket science.

Have you ever done anything dumb?
I mean really, really dumb?
I'm not saying that I have but . . .
Okay, I'm saying that I have.
But, in my defense, our family always had a shower cubicle.
With a door.
Maybe I should explain . . .
It was my first time living away from home.
I was dizzy with joy.
And heavy with responsibility.
So many things that I suddenly needed to know.
And hadn't paid attention to, when my parents had tried to teach.
Sigh.
The learning curve wasn't just steep.
It was nearly vertical.
I muddled through.
With prayer.
And many phone calls home.
Our apartment had indoor plumbing.I just thought I'd mention it.
And a bathtub with a shower nozzle.
I stared at it.
Huh. How could one use that and not spray water everywhere?
You would have to make sure that the nozzle was pointed directly at the wall and be very careful.
Weird.
Why didn't they just put in a cubicle, like the Stringams?
And there was something else I had never seen before.
Above the tub and reaching from wall to wall, was a long rod.
I stared at it, mystified.
What on earth could that be for?
I went to my roommate.
“Guess showering is out of the question.”
“Why,” she asked.
“How do you keep the water off the floor?”
She laughed. “Diane, please tell me you've used a shower curtain before.”
“A what?”
Okay, I should clarify here that I had seen shower curtains before.
It's just that I had always designated them decorative, rather than useful.
“I have one. I'll get it.”
My roommate was not only smart, having lived on her own before, but she was also handy.
In no time, we had a brand new plastic curtain strung from the rod over the tub.
Cool.
But did my education stop there?
Sadly, no.
I prepared for my first shower in my new apartment.
As an adult.
I added that last, because you might not have realized it.
Moving on . . .
I had a nice shower and pushed back the curtain.
Oh, man! Now there was water all over the floor!
I was going to have to lay down towels to catch the water that ran down the curtain and onto the floor.
What a pain.
I mopped up the water and dressed.
“Shower curtains are dumb!” I said as I passed my roommate, headed for my room.
“Why?”
“They let water get all over the floor!”
“Ummm . . . Diane, you're supposed to put the curtain inside the tub.”
I stopped and looked at her.
“Really?”
I'm sure she spent the next few moments regretting her decision to invite me to stay with her.
She hid it well.
“Yes,” she said patiently. “If you put the curtain inside the tub, the water runs down the curtain and down the drain.”
“Huh.”
My kids call it the two percent rule. You have to be two percent smarter than whatever it is you're using.
I failed.
I'd like to say that was the last time I did something silly.
I'd be lying.
It wasn't the curtain that was dumb.

Streaker Peeking

Tell me you remember this.

Streaking.

The weirdest fad, ever, to show its hiney to the world.

Well, the only fad to ever show . . . never mind.

I was in college when I first became aware of this . . . dare I call it a phenomenon?

Yep. My current boyfriend and I were sitting at the local Dog ‘n Suds.

A car-hop burger joint.

Enjoying one Texas burger, one yummy Chili Dog and two of the ‘World’s creamiest root beers’.

With fries.

Suddenly, he stopped, mid-chew, and pointed.

I turned.

And almost choked on my hot dog.

Three young men, of varying size and . . . well, size, were coming toward us.

On the run.

They ‘streaked’ past the burger joint, through the parking lot of the next door Chinese food place and disappeared.

I know it’s not polite to leave your mouth hanging open, especially during meal time and especially when it’s full of food.

My mom would have pitched a fit.

Okay, first she would have fainted dead away at the sight of three naked, young men running hard past her ‘dining table’. Then she would have been revived and coached over her shock. Then she would have pitched a fit.

But she wasn’t there.

And her daughter was.

Let’s face it, that hot dog was cold before it got swallowed.

Then I turned and looked at my boyfriend.

“Did we see what I think we just saw?”

He nodded, grinning. “And we knew two of them.”

It was true. Two of them went to the same college as us.

One of them was even an ex-boyfriend.

Yikes.

After that, it was not uncommon to see naked bodies running.

Mostly through parking lots and drive-ins.

Football games and other sporting events.

And at least one down the long main concourse of the College mall.

The fad rather died out when winter hit.

It is Canada, the famous ‘nipper’ of regions nether.

And that when one is fully-clothed.

Oh, a few hardy souls still managed.

The fastest, fittest runners.

The rest of us huddled in our overcoats and shivered for them.

And then, suddenly, the fad was gone.

Done.

Yesterday, I was at the swimming pool.

Where ‘brief’ is the abiding fashion statement.

Huh.

Streaking is back.

Sunny Beaches

Don't let the dapper exterior fool you.
Somewhere inside is that  9-year-old.

Ah. Influencing the young and innocent.
Even in families, it's not always a good thing . . .
My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.
If anyone asks him if he is related to Owen (his eldest brother) he tells them: Distantly.
When my Dad was nine, said oldest brother lived close by with his family. A wife and three-year-old son, Brian.
Brian adored his much older uncle.
He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.
Usually a good thing.
Occasionally . . . not.
My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.
Brian loved to go along.
Just because.
It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.
All was well.
One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.
She combed the unruly locks into submission.
"Ouch!" Brian  said.
"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."
"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"
"Almost through."
"Ouch!"
Brian glared at his mom.
"If you do that again, I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"
"I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'."
"What?" she asked again.
"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.
Light dawned.
"You mean 'Son of a . . .'"
Her mouth popped open in horror.
She gripped his small shoulder. "Where did you hear that?!"
He stared at her, not understanding her panic.
She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"
"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"
Two things resulted from that haircut.
1.  Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2.  "Unca Mark' received a lecture on language and its proper uses. Oh! And . . .
3.  I just realized that, when it came to cursing, my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on - or maybe a beach to lie on (see here).
It's a good world.

Miss Ernestine

Delores has challenged us once again.

This week's words?

Insignificant, crimson, mottled, track, border, spinning

And/or the phrase: She was as stiff as last year’s Christmas tree.

What would you do with those?

Time for a short story . . .

Her name was Miss Ernestine.

And the kids in the neighbourhood were terrified of her.

We all called her Miss Scare-estine.

Miss Ernestine was a maiden lady.

A tall, slender person. Always impeccably groomed.

She had many talents.

For thirty-five years, she had taught home economics to hundreds of young girls at the local high school. Now, in retirement, she spun and wove. Was a seamstress extraordinaire. And worked in her garden - a cool, wondrous place that could sometimes be glimpsed through the slats of her back fence - with carefully laid-out tracks and flowered borders.

But her greatest talent was her ability to stare at kids through reading glasses that magnified her eyes to unbelievable proportions.

And see into their souls.

At any time of the day, you could see her sitting beside her great front window, spinning.

And watching.

Soaking up the intimate details of the actions of the kids on the block.

Obviously recording them in her steel-trap brain to tell our parents later.

The moment any of us stepped out through the front door of our homes, we felt like little insignificant insects under the careful watch of a giant, bug-eyed scientist.

Whenever her sharp, magnified blue eyes turned toward me, I could feel my face turn crimson and my heart speed up. Or my face drain of colour and my heart stop. In fact, I was always in a state of mottled anxiety: red, turning white. Or white, turning red. 

Fear does those things to you.

Sometimes, we would see one or more of the adults on the street stop and chat with her.

But it was obvious that, when it came to the art of jovial conversation, she  . . . struggled.

Okay let’s face it; she was as stiff as last year’s Christmas tree.

She would spend her time correcting any hapless person who chanced to make a comment that fell within her areas of expertise. And said areas of expertise included any and all topics.

She was sharp, critical, outspoken and downright scary.

And the bane of the entire block’s worth of children.

And then my mother got sick.

At first, it was ‘just the flu’, and would be over and done with shortly.

But it stayed, and worsened.

Finally, the doctor diagnosed it as pneumonia.

He assured us that, with proper care, she would recover and continue to live a full and happy life.

But she did need that proper care.

And how she was going to get it as a single lady with six kids - and the eldest only ten - was anyone’s guess.

Then came that knock on the front door.

My older sister answered it.

And there was Miss Ernestine, loaded down with boxes and bags.

Without even waiting for a ‘come in’, however timidly it might have been offered, she swept into the place and . . . took over.

For the next week, she cooked for us, cleaned, did laundry, helped with homework, kissed boo-boos and nursed my mother.

Bedtimes, though strictly enforced, were a relaxing time of storytelling and learning about bygone days as Miss Ernestine regaled us with tales of growing up in the mad, wonderful city of San Francisco in the roaring twenties. Of her wish for marriage and children that never came to fruition. Of her careful watching of the neighbourhood children to make sure they were safe and happy.

The day that I woke up to see my mother once more installed in the kitchen was both the best – and the worst – of my life.

And later, when Miss Ernestine disappeared out the front door, laden again with boxes and bags, I thought my heart would break cleanly in two.

After that, things on our street were different.

Gone was the fear. The dread. The ignorance and uncertainty.

Armed with the knowledge and understanding of a different perspective, we discovered there was something else that Miss Ernestine excelled at.

Love.

Drop by Delores' place and see what the rest of us came up with!

Sisters. And Fear

Go ahead. Scare me.

It shouldn’t have been frightening.

Really.

We knew her. She knew us.

Previously, we had been chatting happily with her.

And we were in a church.

But it was.

Frightening, that is.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Kathy, her older sister and I had been at an activity at the church.

The activity had ended.

My ride hadn’t materialized.

I should mention, here, that, when I had a church activity, my Mom had to abandon her uber-busy life and drive twenty miles to get me.

On sketchy roads.

In the dark.

Uphill both . . . never mind.

Sometimes, her life didn’t let go easily and she arrived late.

Okay, often, her life didn’t let . . . you understand.

My friend and her sister stayed with me so I wouldn’t have to wait alone.

We were wandering around in the chapel, chatting, peering out of the tall windows.

It was dark outside and all of us were anxiously watching for the tell-tale lights of Mom’s car.

Kathy’s sister, as a joke, shook her long hair over her face and started walking slowly toward us.

That’s it.

Long hair over face.

And walking.

It FREAKED US OUT. Screaming at the tops of our lungs, we fled.

To the other side of the chapel.

(Okay, none of us should have been playing in the chapel – don’t tell the Bishop.)

Sister kept on coming. Just slowly, never increasing the pace.

But inexorably. (Ooh! Good word!)

We shrieked and ran. Turned and looked.

And shrieked and ran.

Funny, now that I look back on it that it never occurred to either of us to  - you know - leave the chapel.

I guess it was because the rest of the building was much scarier. Even without someone’s stalking sister.

The trailing and scaring and shrieking went on until the lights of Mom’s car finally lit up the front of the building.

Whew.

Sooo . . . like I said, we knew her. She knew us.

Why on earth were we so scared?

But we were . . .

And we loved it.

Not-So-Empty Purse

www.loveitsomuch.com

I carry a purse.

This isn’t unusual.

I carry lots of necessities in it.

Kleenex.

Cosmetics.

Gum.

A small first-aid kit.

A screwdriver.

Pliers.

A flashlight.

Assorted small toys to entertain grandchildren.

A book.

Used Kleenex.

Medications.

Nailclippers.

But there is not (and never has been) a kitchen sink.

I just thought I’d mention that.

My Husby teases me about my purse.

With many and varied references to said kitchen sink.

Sigh.

I have discovered that he is not alone in this.

Let me explain . . .

We were holidaying aboard a tall ship in the Mediterranean.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Our ship was anchored in the bay near Santorini.

Let me take the opportunity to encourage you to go.

It’s . . . nice.

Moving on . . .

The ship was sending us pampered passengers to the island in the launch.

There were helpful attractive-young-men-persons to help us on and off.

One elderly couple were a trifle concerned during this process.

The woman, perched precariously between sea and sky, dropped her purse.

Before it could hit the water, it was snatched from grief by a quick-witted (and very fast) attractive-young-man-person.

Who proceeded to hand it back to its owner, now safely on board.

She thanked him graciously and commended him for his lightning reflexes and quick wits. Then she turned to her husband.

“It probably would have been all right, wouldn’t it, hon? It would have floated for a few seconds at least.”

Her husband grinned at my husby. A conspiratorial man-grin. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Straight to the bottom! Kitchen sinks don’t float!”

See?

Our steed.

The Blanket Conundrum

See? Blankets are traitors. Fun one minute . . .

I was helping Mom.

Okay, I was four, so ‘helping’ might be more of a hopeful term.

We were tidying the family room.

Dusting: check. All one had to do was slide a cloth over every and all surfaces. My job was actually the pre-dusting. Getting things ready for mom’s bigger and better cloth.

Vacuuming: check. I watched and moved out of the way at strategic moments.

Window washing: check. I washed. Mom dried and got rid of my fingerprints.

Putting toys away: check. Well, maybe a tentative check. Every toy I carried to the toybox must be played with a bit before actually putting in the toybox.

Folding the blankets: check. All right, a definite no check.

Because this is where I came to grief. Those blankets were huge! At least a thousand times bigger than me! And, yes, I know I was the one who dragged them out. I mean, one can’t build much of a blanket fort without the . . . you know . . . blanket. But they were huge!

Mom! Huge!

But she insisted.

And left the room.

Rats.

I gathered the blankets up and set them on the couch.

We regarded each other with suspicion.

I mean, how can you trust something that is a friend one minute and a job the next?!

Finally, I pulled the top one off and set it on the floor. Then I saw a corner and pulled it out straight.

I saw another corner and did the same.

Hey!

I found the other two corners and pulled on them.

Soon, I had a blanket laid out flat on the floor.

I adjusted and straightened until there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen.

I stood back and looked.

It was a thing of beauty.

Then I lifted the one corner and pulled it across, matching it to the corner opposite.

I found this technique worked better if one wasn’t standing on said blanket at the time. That definitely slowed down the process.

Just FYI.

I grabbed the second one – pulling it across to its corresponding corner.

Then I straightened and smoothed.

Eureka! I had succeeded in lessening my problem by half!

I grabbed the two corners together and pulled them down to the other two corners.

More straightening and smoothing.

This was working!

I did it again.

And again.

Finally, I had a tidy, neatly-folded bundle, just perfect for stuffing into the cupboard.

I called my mom and showed her my thing of glory.

My triumph.

My folded blanket.

She nodded and smiled.

And disappeared.

Hmm . . . sometimes moms really don’t get the stupendousness/remarkableness/amazingness/marvelousness/fabulousness/exceptionalness of what their four-year-olds have accomplished.

Moving forward fifty-some years . . .

My granddaughter had been playing with blankets.

It was time to tidy up.

She grabbed the first blanket and spread it out on the floor.

Then proceeded to fold it by matching corners.

And straightening and smoothing.

Soon she had a neatly-folded little bundle.

I blinked and stared.

Not everyone would appreciate that tidy little parcel of neatly-foldedness.

But I did.

Horace P. Flee

More Delores words!

And rhyming ones. What could be better!

thump, bump, dump, clump, rump, plump

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

No loveliness in his demeanour,

He lived all alone near the old county dump,

Developed his skills as a screamer.

Whenever he heard just so much as a bump,

His head would pop out of the door,

With a noise that would make almost everyone jump

And his displeasure then underscore.

One day to the village known solely as Frump,

(Please don’t think it’s for fashion expression!)

Came a strong-minded widow, quite pretty and plump,

With her children that numbered eleven.

Now, when moving, one’s household goods come in a clump

And are sorted through carefully after.

And necessitate many a trip to the dump,

For the children: Adventure With Laughter.

Now, Horace P. Flee, that old village grump

Wasn’t happy with all of the joy.

So he shouted a phrase that made all of them jump,

He intended to hurt and annoy.

Then Abigail, she who was pretty and plump,

But possessed of a lively, bright spirit,

A piece of her mind, she gave that village grump,

And forced him to stand there and hear it.

Then something strange happened that day at the dump,

With all of the parties together,

For Horace’s heart hit his shoes with a thump,

While Abby’s beat light as a feather.

Their marriage was viewed by the Village of Frump,

With the two of them there in the heather,

The minister stood on a great old tree stump,

With a smile, he joined them together.

From then, anyone using the Frump Village dump,

(If it’s not too hard to believe . . .)

Found the happy noise now from the home of the ‘grump’,

Was much more than what they could achieve.

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

Until life with his Abby ‘begun’,

When you least expect it, you’re knocked on your rump,

‘Cause there’s someone for ev-er-y-one.

They Never Look Up

-or-  I'm in Reverse! Everything Stay Out of My Way!

Our Delores has issued this week's challenge.

static, precursor, inclement, tractor, stump, racing

Six unrelated words that we must stitch together into something cohesive.

Or at least believable.

Fortunately, tractors and I have a history.

What follows is, unhappily, true . . . 

My victim. Again.

Dad had bought a new tractor.
Painted bright yellow, it was a thing of real beauty.
Or so the men in my family thought.
Pffff. Men.
It was parked proudly between the shop (formerly our home - see here) and the pasture, wherein my horse was . . . erm . . . pastured.
The tractor stood there in lonely glory, awaiting the delivery of two more back wheels.
Now it was unheard of, at that time, for a tractor to have more than the requisite two.
Back wheels, that is.
But this one did.
Or soon would have.
Each of the existing wheels had three feet of extra axle sticking out in happy anticipation.
This is important and a precursor to what follows.
And I didn't care.
I was racing to get my horse ready for a show.
I needed to load up my tack.
This entailed maneuvering the car between the pasture fence and the shed door.
Easily done.
I could see the tractor.
I could see the fence.
I could see the shed.
All was well.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Crunch.
What on earth had I hit?
There was the shed.
There was the tractor.
There was the fence.
All in perfect sight.
Okay. I was stumped.
I got out to inspect.
I should point out here that this was the same car that I had only recently filled with diesel fuel. My popularity had developed chills and fever over that event and was still rather . . . inclement. Any new stunt guaranteed that storm clouds would swirl forever more.
Sigh.
I walked to the back of the car.
To see six inches of extra axle poking into the rear car fender.
Oh.
The extra axle.
That would, one day, support extra wheels.
In all of my careful looking, I had forgotten to look up.
To the stupid axle hanging in the air three and a half feet above the ground.
Rats.
Once more, I drove to the house to show my dad.
Who gave me static and labeled me a driving menace.
He was right.

P.S. Tune in tomorrow for the rest of Delores' words . . .

Ups and Downs

Easy

Harder

Living on a great Alberta cattle ranch has its ups and downs.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In Alberta, cattle are generally raised in one of two locations.

In a feedlot. This is for the ‘feeder’ cattle. Those animals one to two years old without offspring.

The upside of a feedlot operation is that when you have to check on your animals, you just walk out into the corral and . . . look. The downside is it’s rather smelly.

But the cattle are happy and healthy with regular feedings and good friends to stand around with, so all is well.

The other location most frequently used is the field. Now the field, as suggested by its name, is out . . . in the field. So . . . not close to the house.

Checking the cattle every day requires a good horse and rider. (ie. me and/or Chico or Bluey or Zee or Zephyr or Fancy or Peanuts or Pinto or Rebel or Lady or Topper or . . .)

Or Dad in the family car. (ie. yikes)

Now, for many fields, the second option wouldn’t be a problem. Those fields are flat. (Saskatchewan flat. Google it…)

In our part of Alberta, the fields aren’t.

Flat, that is.

Maneuvering around them on a horse is simplicity in itself.

In a car? Less so.

And still, Dad did it.

A suggestion of a Sunday drive inevitably ended up in one field or another, ‘just to have a look’.

I, in the back seat would white-knuckle the entire trip as the car went straight up.

Or straight down.

Or, the very worst. Straight sideways.

We kids would roll around in the back seat like dried peas (seatbelts were only something they used at Cape Canaveral).

Fortunately, the speeds were kept to a minimum as we crawled about the field.

But that allowed for me to imagine tipping over backwards. Or forwards. Or sideways.

In slow-motion.

Believe me, I would rather have been crawling.

Quite literally.

The smell of sage in my nostrils.

The feel of the stiff, prairie grass under my palms.

The threat of some messy accident far away in the ‘never-going-to-happen’ realm.

Sigh.

One good thing came of our little trips through the fields.

I mastered the art of breathing only in short gasps.

P.S. I get sick on boats. Something about the up-ing and down-ing and sideways-ing. Perhaps a holdover from my childhood . . .?

Surprising the Surpriser

Little Sister's birthday has always taken a back seat to Halloween. This year, I'm changing that . . .

Happy Birthday, L'il Sis!!!

Before

During

 It was a surprise.

In more ways than one . . .

Mom and I were away for the day . . . somewhere.

My twelve-year-old brother and ten-year-old sister were home alone.

Well, technically, they were in the house alone.

Dad and my older brother were out in the barnyard.

But I digress . . .

Little Sister decided to surprise everyone.

With a delicious, delightful, delectable (that’s all the yummy ‘d’ words I can think of right now) dessert.

A cake.

She had seen Mom do it.

Even helped.

She dragged out the recipe and equipment and proceeded to assemble and stir.

All went well.

Soon, the smell of ‘cake’ was permeating the house.

Skillfully, she tipped the finished product out onto a platter.

Perfect!

And pulled out the ingredients for icing.

Sugar and milk and vanilla.

All according to her handy, dandy (oooh, another ‘d’ word) recipe card.

She added the requisite amount of sugar and milk.

A dribble of vanilla.

And . . . voila . . . what’s wrong with this stuff?!

The mixture at the bottom of the bowl more closely resembled soup than icing.

What had she done wrong?

She read the recipe again. She had measured correctly. Why wasn’t it working?!

She added more sugar.

Still a watery, sugary mess.

She knew that Mom often added flour to soups to thicken.

Maybe that’s what she needed. A bit of flour . . .

Nope. If anything, that made it worse.

She stared into the bowl.

Maybe that was how it was supposed to look?

She tried smearing some on her perfect cake.

Disaster.

Then she did something not mentioned on the recipe card.

She cried.

And that’s when Mom and I walked in the door.

I think Mom managed to salvage the situation.

And the cake.

With a gently-taught lesson on which kind of sugar to use. (Did you know there were kinds?)

Powdered is best for icing.

Turns out that granulated only works in certain, very select situations.

And flour never, ever goes into icing.

Little Sister still bakes. Infrequently, according to her.

After

Maybe she simply too busy being a wife, mom, grand-mom, flight attendant, business owner, cub leader, runner and all-around good friend to worry about anything else.

And that’s okay.

Love you, Best Friend!

Jail Break

Countdown to Halloween . . .

Mischief-maker extraordinaire!

Halloween was a time of hijinks and high-spirited fun in Milk River in the 60s.
Much like it was everywhere.
My brother's stories always surpassed anything my friends and I could dream up, however.
Our lone constable tried hard to keep order in his town.
By different techniques . . .
1. Keeping a strong presence. Rather hard when you are the only cop in  town.  And the 'hooligans' (his word, not mine) know that as soon as you've driven past, you can't see them.
2. Locking everything up. Also only effective if one actually . . . locks . . .
But I am getting ahead of myself.
One group were especially rowdy.
My eldest brother's group.
Oh, they didn't do actual damage, unless you count the time they burned down a rickety old shed and, along with it, the power lines to the entire town.
But that is another story.
They just had fun.
One Halloween, our intrepid, lone policeman decided that the best defense was a good offence.
And the only way to do that was to round up the troublemakers before they actually . . . made . . . trouble.
Which he did.
My brother and his friends were escorted, under protest, to the local jail and locked into one of the cells.
Throughout the evening, many more were brought in.
The cell was getting crowded.
Our policeman was quite proud of himself.
He had single-handedly stopped the mischief in our town.
Genius.
What he hadn't considered was the imagination and daring of this particular group of young men.
And the security of his police station.
With its back door that was never locked.
Ever.
Something that all of the kids in town knew.
Partway through the evening, one of the mayor's sons sneaked in by that door and gave the 'prisoners', which included his brother, a file.
An actual file.
I am not making this up.
Then he left.
The boys locked in the cell immediately went to work and, in short order, filed through one of the bars.
Turns out it can be done . . .
One by one, they sneaked through the opening and out the back door.
One of them, however, refused to leave.
He wanted to see the face of the constable when he discovered the empty cell.
He got his wish.
The constable came in to collect one of the young men for delivery to a waiting parent.
He found, not a sound cell full of potential law-breakers; but instead, a cell minus one bar and most of his prisoners.
Consternation warred with chagrin in his expressive face. (Ooh! Good sentence!)
The lone young man was laying back on a bunk, both hands behind his head.
He sat up. "Sir! There's been a jail-break!"
And you thought Milk River was a sleepy little town!