Toddler Volume Knob

Cute AND quiet.

I’m getting older.

And, let’s face it, my hearing is not what it was.

Okay, yes, it was never perfect.

But it was better . . .

We have a little three-year-old granddaughter.

A tow-headed, blue-eyed little pixie of a thing.

And she keeps us entertained.

When we can understand her.

Don’t get me wrong.

She speaks in complete sentences.

I think.

Her problem is volume.

Now, I should explain that our family is known for its volume.

One can’t reach the back of the hall from the stage if one doesn’t have sufficient lung power.

And our ‘raised on the stage’ kids have learned that lesson too well.

There isn’t any among them who cannot raise the roof when called upon.

With voice only.

And this includes the grandchildren.

Our family get-togethers aren’t so much visits as they are efforts to be distinguished from the hubbub.

And that is what makes our little pixie-girl such an anomaly.

She will say, in a high, squeaky little voice, “Gramma! Habee-debee-debee-debee-debee.”

At which point, I will lean closer. “What sweetheart?”

“Gramma! Habee-debee-debee-debee-debee.”

“You’ll have to speak up, sweetie. Gramma can’t hear you!”

“Gramma! Habee-debee-debee-debee-debee.”

“Sweetie. A little louder, please!”

“------------------------------------------------.”

You know she’s imparting much-needed, important knowledge. YOU JUST CAN’T HEAR IT!!!

My question to you is this.

Is there such a thing as a Toddler Volume Knob?

One that both raises and lowers?

Please send me the link.

I’ll be forever grateful.

Look Up

It’s winter here in our corner of Canada.
 This means cold.
 And snow.
 Fortunately, I like snow.
 Though cold and I regard each other with suspicion bordering on outright dislike.
 And now, I’m thinking about summer.
 Because that’s how I roll . . .
 When I was growing up in the Deep South . . . of Alberta, the kids of our neighbourhood played together.
There were running games.
 Hiding games.
 Games of skill.
 Games of brute force.
 Games of pretend and make-belief.
 And not one of them electronic.
 In fact, the only thing that interrupted our play was the setting sun.
 Or our parents calling us in to supper.
 One of our neighbourhood favourites was a game we affectionately called, ‘Anti-I-Over’.
 Okay, I don’t know where that name came from.
 And maybe you played a similar game but by a different name.
 But we loved it.
 I will describe . . .
 The game consisted of at least two players. 
And a ball. Preferably a softball or something softball-sized.
 Each player took up a position on either side of the house.
 You heard right.
We were standing on either side of the house.
 Where visibility was . . . limited.
 Then the person with the ball would shout, “Anti-I –Over!” and throw the ball.
 In an arc.
 OVER the house.
 The person on the other side would brace themselves, waiting for their first glimpse of the incoming ball.
Then run and try to catch it.
 It took speed.
 And lightning reflexes.
 And a good arm.
 Because it took a bit of oomph to get said ball over the house.
 Oddly enough, no windows were ever broken in the playing of this game.
 Although no few balls ended up in the rain gutter and had to be fished out by someone with authority.
 And ladder skills.
 This summer, I introduced my grandkids to this game.
 We started simply.
 One on either side of the pirate ship. (The one in our back yard. And yes, we have a pirate ship in our back yard. Don’t ask…)
 One would yell, “Anti-I-Over!” and the other would brace for the retrieval.
 They loved it instantly.
 And played it for hours.
 Happy sigh. My work here is done.
 Nearly.

Gramma! See!

Delores has challenged us again. 

This week's words: Indecent, vertical, deserted, spectacles, moon, fleeting

How convenient that her words just happen to fit in with my life!

Okay. Yes, I added the spectacles...

The moon was playing ‘peek-a-boo’,

It’s presence somewhat fleeting,

When Little Bug and I stepped out

To give it proper greeting.

A brittle cold had settled in

I labelled it, ‘indecent’,

For, though we live in Canada,

Our winter was still recent.

But Little Bug must see her friend,

So, bundled past our eyebrows,

Crept onto the deserted street,

And gazed up through the tree boughs.

“Oh, Gramma, see!” said Little Bug,

As she pointed to the sky,

And sure, enough, there hung the moon,

For Little Bug and I.

Our necks stretched nearly vertical,

We regarded it with awe,

All fat and golden, shining, still,

Perfection’s what we saw.

Then Little Bug, with happy eyes,

Noticed something nice,

I’d not detected it before,

And I’d looked. Once or twice.

“Oh, Gramma, see!” she said to me,

“When all the clouds are gone,

And you can clearly see his face,

His spectacles are on!”

‘Twas then I realized that when

Observing’s your objective.

We all see something different, its

 A matter of perspective.

Age-Related . . .

Pfff . . . kids!

Men really don’t pay much attention to age.

At least the men in my life.

Not like women do.

Cases in point:

I had just turned twelve.

An important milestone in my world.

I could now go to 4-H.

And youth activities in our church.

Of course, there were drawbacks.

The price of admission to any of our local movies doubled.

From twenty-five cents.

To fifty.

Yikes.

But I was twelve.

It had taken me twelve long years to get here.

And I wanted the whole world to know it.

Dad was taking us kids to the movies.

And was in the process of buying tickets.

“One adult, three youth and three children, please,” he said.

“Da-ad!” I said. Loudly.

All eyes in the theatre foyer turned to us.

“I’m twelve now!”

“Oh. Are you?” I’m sure he was embarrassed, but he covered it well. “When did that happen?”

“Da-ad!”

Kids aren’t tactful.

Even when they’re twelve.

Moving ahead several years . . .

My Husby and I were at the home of some friends.

Dinner was over.

The visiting had begun.

The conversation had turned to the inevitable - and painful - progression of old age.

My Husby and I were speaking from the advanced ages of twenty-nine and twenty-eight, respectively.

But our friends had both rounded the corner and were into their thirties.

Elderly indeed.

My Husby was teasing the wife. “Well, speaking from the advanced age of thirty-six, you would . . .”

I don’t remember the rest of his statement.

But I do recall that the wife turning an instant and remarkable shade of red. “Thirty-six!!” she said. “Thirty-six?!” She got up and looked in the mirror. “I just turned thirty-four!”

Oops.

Later I asked him what on earth he was thinking.

“Well,” he said. “I thought I was really exaggerating. You know? Over-estimating?”

Oh. Note to Husby. When over-estimating, REALLY over-estimate.

Decades.

Centuries.

Missing by a couple of years is . . . dangerous.

Because - as it turns out - age, to women, is important.

See?

Froze Clothes

Canadian Entertainment

Winter has come to our corner of Canada.

Winter with a vengeance.

We’ve received a foot of snow in the past two days.

A curtain of the stuff is forming off the side of the garage.

Perfect!

And, oddly enough, it makes me think of laundry.

Laundry?!

Maybe I should explain . . .

During Mom’s very early years, growing up on a farm in Central Alberta, she and her mother did the laundry on a scrub board.

And dried it on the line.

Finally, they graduated to laundry cleaned in a miraculous new wringer washer.

But still dried on the line.

This made for some . . . entertaining times when cold weather hit.

On laundry day, Mom and Grandma would dutifully lug the heavy baskets of wet laundry out to the line to hang.  

In the parched winter air, they dried completely.

But froze solid during the process.

This is where the fun part came in.

Mom and Grandma would haul in the frozen sheets and overalls and underwear and stand them up against the walls in the kitchen and front room.

As the clothes thawed, they . . . crumpled.

Finally, when they were lying on the floor, they were ready to fold and put away.

Who needs modern electronics?

With only a wringer washer, a clothes line and a cold snap, you can have clean clothes and entertainment all in one process.

Genius.

Snack Time

How do you spell 'delicious'?

There was a bright spot to every school day.

And no, it wasn’t that magical moment each morning when we first stepped into the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge.

Sheesh.

It was that moment, when the whole thing was safely in the past.

The long bus ride to school.

The sweat and toil.

The long bus ride home.

Ta-da!

That moment.

When Mom would usher us into the house and the smell of warm deliciousness would sweep over us like a welcome blanket.

Snack time.

The wonderful reward for having made it through yet another school day.

And mom made it special.

Homemade snacks like pudding, cake or pie.

Hot chocolate.

Sometimes the extra-special spudnuts.

Fresh, warm bread with melty butter.

It made all of the pain and drudgery worth every drop of effort.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Then, as we grew older, Mom stepped back a bit and let us create our own snacks.

In the process, something was lost. But something else was definitely gained.

Our snacking of preference grew and changed as our skills did.

At first, my brother, George, would simply spread cheese on crackers and create a giant stack.

Which was then happily consumed, layer by layer.

I would toast bread – just barely – and spread it with peanut butter.

Peanut butter is better all soft and melted.

Just FYI.

Then Mom got a new invention, a Teflon frying pan.

And I discovered the magical world of omelets.

With lots of melty cheese.

Hmm . . . I’m beginning to see a pattern there.

Mmmmmmelty things.

Moving on . . .

Then George was introduced to tapioca pudding.

Made from scratch and eaten while still warm.

And sometimes shared with his sister.

Until she was shown the amazing chocolate wonderfulness of puffed-wheat squares.

I should explain here that the puffed-wheat is simply a medium to get the chocolate syrup to your mouth.

And it does it well.

Did you know that a hungry teenager can eat an entire pan of puffed wheat squares and still have room for supper?

It’s true. And I proved it on many an occasion.

Moving forward many, many years.

Yesterday, I dug out my tattered old recipe for puffed-wheat squares.

It was stained.

And worn.

But still readable.

I mixed and cooked.

Added, pressed down and cooled.

Then, with my daughter and granddaughter, sliced and consumed.

And, just for an instant, relived the best part of growing up.

Country Art

Art isn't always found on display.

And real artists don't necessarily work in a studio.

A true work of art . . .

On a ranch, fences are rather important.

They mean the difference between control and chaos. 

With a good fence, one can dictate which animals live where.

And which of the bulls certain cows are exposed to.

It probably isn't obvious, but with purebred animals, control means the difference between a progressive herd.

And one that is headed only for the meat market.

It is an exacting science of reading pedigrees and understanding genetics.

I rode the horses and put cows where Dad told me.

You can see where I was on the 'ranching is science' scale.

So back to the control thing . . .

A good fence means that things are ordered.

Predictable.

Profitable.

Poor fences spell trouble.

And diminishing returns.

Thus, the most important task on the Stringam Ranch outside of actually . . . associating with the cattle, was building fences.

Something Dad did rather well.

Let me tell you about it.

Building a four-wire barbed wire fence takes many stages.

First, the building of the corners, a sturdy framework of posts and neatly twisted wire, capable of sustaining enormous pull.

Then stringing the wire between the corners. This is a tricky part. As my brother, George can attest.

Then, planting posts in a straight line along the wires.

Note: Hold post from the side 

Accomplished with a 'post pounder' mounted on a tractor. A useful, but potentially dangerous gizmo.

Then tacking said wires to said posts.

This was my job.

All it took was a steady hand.

Or if you lacked that, stamina.

Which was what I had.

If the first whack or two didn't get the staple into the post, the next 14 whacks would.

Moving on . . .

This was at that point most of the fence-builders would pack up their tools and call the job finished.

And where the true artists shone.

Remember, we were talking about my Dad.

Once the fence was actually assembled, Dad would stand back and look at it.

I should point out here that the fields in Southern Alberta are seldom flat. They may not change much, but they do change.

And a fence has to run smoothly along them.

I emphasize the word 'smoothly'.

If a fence goes down into a dip, then up again, the tightly stretched wires can actually, over time, pull the lower posts up out of the ground.

True story.

And that is where Dad came in.

He would walk along the fence, find the places where the line would dip, and weight it.

Really.

He would find a large rock (not uncommon on the prairies), tote it over to the dip, fasten a wire around it firmly, then attach the rock to the fence, pulling the wires down so they followed the ground perfectly.

I had watched him do this so often that, to me, that's just how it was done.

I was wrong.

Once, an elderly rancher from west of us came looking for the county veterinarian.

Who happened to be out building fence.

The man drove up in his rusted old pick-up and stopped near where my Dad and brothers were working.

Climbing out of his truck, he greeted everyone, then stood and watched their activities.

Finally, Dad finished with his current wire and rock creation, and turned to speak to the old man.

Only to find him in tears.

Thinking the man had a real emergency, Dad quickly walked over.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh nothing," the old man said, blowing his nose. "It's just that I haven't seen that kind of fence-building in fifty years!"

True artists appreciate true art.

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.