Thanks for the Music

A repost of my most popular story.

Beauty? Or the Beast?

The world is full of divine music.

Violin music.

And it has my Husby to thank for it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When Husby was eight, his parents, like many parents have, decided that he should do something . . . musical.

Piano?

Trumpet?

Tuba?

No.

They opted for the violin.

And he agreed.

A small violin was purchased at no small sacrifice for a less-than-wealthy family.

Dutifully, Husby carried it to the home of his chosen violin teacher, Mrs. Baines.

A woman of nearly two hundred years of age.

Okay, probably not quite two hundred.

But to a small boy of eight, a woman in her seventies was truly ancient.

Back to my story . . .

Once a week, throughout the fall and the winter, she taught.

And he learned.

She took him on a slow and careful tour of the violin world.

Demonstrating proper technique.

Bow handling.

Correct finger positions.

Tried to pour into his young mind, her love of all things violin.

He was, admittedly, a slow learner.

She taught.

He struggled.

In the spring, his parents received a phone call.

There would be no more lessons from Mrs. Baines. The poor woman had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Shocked, Husby wondered if he was somehow to blame.

He put his violin away for a while. He needed to think this through.

Thinking lasted throughout the summer.

Finally, in the fall, he consented to try again.

His parents found another teacher.

One who was only one hundred and fifty years old.

Again, they started in.

She taught.

He struggled.

A few months went past.

Another fateful phone call.

Another heart attack.

Not fatal this time, thank goodness. But strong enough that his second teacher was hanging up her baton for good.

Sigh.

This time, when Husby put his violin back into its case, nothing could induce him to remove it.

Nothing.

He was convinced that his playing – or lack thereof – was the reason that both of his violin teachers suffered heart attacks.

That conviction remains to this day.

He takes the argument further.

By hanging up his bow, so to speak, he saved violin teachers everywhere.

Enabling them to continue to teach the bright, talented young people who have grown into the world's foremost violin players.

Thus preserving and ensuring beautiful violin music everywhere.

So when you hear an exquisite piece?

Thank my Husby.

A Devil of a Delivery

My son works for Fed-Ex.
This is for him . . .

“Ma’am, would you be so kind as to . . .” I got no further.

The large woman seated behind the desk surged to her feet and pointed a plump, shaking finger at me. “Insubordination!” she shrieked.

I felt my eyes widen. I took a step back. “Ex-excuse me?”

“You miserable excuse for a man!” Her voice became even shriller. “What do you mean by coming here at this hour?!” She shot a telling glance at the nearby clock.

“I . . . what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see retribution for you! I see despair and a plethora of demons just waiting to grasp you in their claws and pull you down to where you will be properly inducted into those halls from which the wicked forever burn and never escape!”

I blinked and looked around, then indicated myself questioningly.

The finger came out again. “Yes, you! Demon-spawn!” She waved her hand, indicating the spotless corridors that lead off in every direction. “Watch and beware. The demons are preparing as we speak. Your time is at hand!”

I glanced rather nervously to the right and left. “Demons? C-claws? But I only . . .”

“Speak not! You will only seal your fate!”

“Seal my . . . but I came to . . .”

“Silence!” the voice had become a shrieking siren of sound. The small, watery, piercing eyes glanced down at my hands. “Hold! What do you carry there?”

I lifted an almost-forgotten package. “I . . . um . . .”

“Is it a potion? A talisman? Something from your master?”

“I . . . master? Well, actually, yes.”

“Give it to me little man! Before I set the denizens of hell upon you!”

“Ummm . . . here.”

She pounced, holding the seized package up and peering at it closely.

I lifted the clipboard in my other hand. “Erm . . . you’ll have to sign here. And here.”

“Ooh! It’s my samples from the museum!” The woman poked out a thick tongue and licked rubbery lips which had curved into the semblance of a smile. Then she grabbed a pen and scribbled next to my finger. “There! Thanks, Bruce! Next time, don’t be late!”

“See you tomorrow, Clara.” 

Every week, without fanfare or glory, Delores of Under the Porch Light quietly posts six little words.

Words meant to stump and/or amaze.

Or just really, really aggravate.

Then, those of us who follow her without question dip pens in ink and attempt to obey.

This week's offering?

insubordination, inducted, despair, plethora, museum and retribution.

I thought a shot of flash fiction would be fun.

How did I do?

Phone Phraseology for Phools

King of creative calling

Answering the phone is an art form.

Ranging from cheerful.

My personal favourite.

To surly.

Not so popular. 

Then there’s: Clever.

Quirky.

Crass.

Even disgusting.

How you answer the phone says a lot about you.

Maybe not in actual words, but the meaning’s pretty clear . . .

Hello!! L (What d’ya want!? I’m having the worst, terrible, awful, no-good day. And you just made it worse!)

Or: Hello!! JJ (I’ve been running through soft fields of primroses and I’m so happy, I just want to share, share, share!)

See what I mean?

In the Stringam household, telephone answering was very often . . . creative.

My brother, George, being the king.

Case in point:

The phone rang.

I should probably explain, here, that these were the days of the rotary phone (Google it). There were no such things as call display, call waiting, or even answering machines (Except, maybe in the CIA or FBI or CSIS . . . or on Star Trek).

So there was absolutely no way for us normal folks to know who was calling.

Also, an actual electrical cord attached the single home phone to the wall and yet another cord attached the receiver to the phone.

It was entirely possible to get completely wrapped up in you call.

So to speak.

Just FYI.

Sooo . . . back to the ringing phone . . .

My brother, George, he of the creative answering technique, was closest.

He picked it up.

“This is the devil! Who in hell do you want?”

Whereupon (good word) my mother smacked George.

Figuratively speaking.

Now, normally, when my brother answered the phone, the person on the other end of the line would laugh and say something equally inappropriate and the conversation would continue.

On this particular occasion, all George heard was a mighty ‘click’ as the phone at the other end of the line was forcibly returned to its cradle.

He shrugged and hung up.

The phone rang again.

Again, George picked it up.

“This is the devil! Who in . . .” you get the rest.

There was a short, breathless pause, then, “It that you, George?!!!LLL”

I put in the little frowny faces to convey . . . displeasure.

Because the caller was my paternal Grandmother.

And she didn’t think my brother was funny.

At all.

Oops.

Sheepishly, George admitted it. “Yes,” he said.

“Let me talk to your father! LLL”

Notice the continuing frowny faces.

Ahem . . .

George handed the phone to Dad and headed for the nearest far-away place.

Dad received a lecture from his eighty-five-year-old mother, which he dutifully passed on to the culprit.

I’d like to tell you that the creative answering ended there.

That from then on, all calls were answered with respect and decorum.

I’d be lying.

At the Park

Our good friend, Shirley, is out of town.

Visiting with her son and his family.

She has been enjoying her time down south in the warmth and sun as her/our part of the world grows steadily cooler.

Yesterday was a warm, fall day. Perfect for an outing to the park with two of her granddaughters.

All went well.

The hike there.

Visiting.

Laughing.

Playing on the equipment.

The girls were especially enjoying the long slide.

Grandma was performing her grandmother duties.

Watching.

Laughing.

Encouraging.

Appreciating.

It was then the girls proposed something a little more pro-active for their beloved grandparent.

Upping the ante. So to speak.

And with much coaxing, they succeeded.

 Soon, Shirley was perched atop the slide, ready to slide ride hurtle to the bottom.

She took a deep breath . . .

Just then, Youngest Granddaughter turned to her older sister and asked, “If Grandma dies, do you know the way home?”

Playing at the park.

Not for everyone.

Watch for flying grandmothers.

Moose-tly Terrifying

See? Scary!

Gramma Berg's house had a sunroom.

A wonderful spot.

All windows.

And one permanent tenant.

The sunroom was wonderful.

The tenant wasn't. At least to a very small girl.

It was large.

Dark brown.

With great, glassy eyes, a huge nose, a wooly beard.

And large ears.

Oh, yes, and an enormous pair of antlers.
Yes, I admit it - it wasn't your normal tenant.

It was a moose.

The quite obvious fact that it wasn't alive made no difference to its terror factor.

I was certain that, if I went into that room, the great creature would blink its eyes and 'get me'.

Okay, obviously I didn't think that through. The creature possessed no visible limbs, and for all of my life, had resided in the same place on the wall.

Just exactly how it was supposed to 'get' me, we'll never know.

But the truth remains, it terrified me.

And knowing this, my cousins made great sport of daring me to go into the sunroom.

Something which inevitably sent me screaming to some moose-less part of the house.

I loved Grammas house.

The moose and I tolerated each other.

So long as he kept his place, and I could see that place from a distance, we got along fine.

Kinda like a large spider.

But that is another story.

After Gramma passed, the moose was donated and hung where it could scare scores of other people.

Moving forward fifty years . . .

Several members of my family were holidaying in Banff, Alberta, this summer.

We spent a week scrambling about the mountains and wandering through the townsite.

We took the kids to see the 'stuffed animal place'.

Or Banff Museum, as it is officially named.

It houses hundreds of perfectly preserved birds and animals native to the Banff area.

Many of which were present when the museum opened.

In 1903.

On the second floor, it is quite possible to get up close and almost personal with the head of Sir Donald.

A bison.

Several of us were standing, looking at the great animal.

My six-year-old granddaughter peeked out from behind me.

“He scares me,” she whispered, shivering.

“But he's dead,” I said. “He can't hurt you.”

“He's scary,” she maintained.

Quite suddenly, I remembered Gramma's moose. And trembling in fear as my cousins dared me to go into his sunroom.

Yeah. It pretty much looks as though neither Sir Donald (nor I) had a leg to stand on . . .

Of Beards and Blondes

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a tall, lean, man of few words.

Quiet, thoughtful and endlessly patient; when he spoke, you listened.

Usually what he had to say was of import.

But he had an aversion to blondes.

No one knew where this particular sensitivity came from. An unfortunate acquaintance.

A particular experience.

The true reason(s) passed when he did.

His wife, my Mother-in-Law (Ditto: MIL) was a small, dark-haired, bustling person of chatter and good humour.

Living for family and household.

The two of them, together, created a world of peace and calm.

Happy posterity and good food.

But there was one place where they differed.

Noticeably so.

Let me tell you about it . . .

FIL was a clean-shaven man. Never prone to going more than a day or two without face scrape-age. Even during harvest, a time in which many other rules and customs were sacrificed in favour of bringing in the all-important crop.

MIL preferred it that way. She liked to see the lines of one’s face.

But occasionally, FIL would tire of the ever-present razor and declare that he was going to grow a beard.

Anyone within hearing distance would suck in an astonished, slightly apprehensive breath and glance at MIL.

She would smile gently and announce, to no one in particular, “Hmmm . . . I think I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

FIL would silently lift his newspaper and go on with whatever had been interrupted.

MIL would go back to bustling.

And the conversation (so to speak) would die. Right there.

My In-Laws had an amazing rapport.

A friendship.

Companionship.

Truly loving relationship.
Even when they differed.
Interesting. Quietly heading off rebellion using one's partner's own aversions.
Only in the best of families . . .

The Price of Integrity

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

Pretty. But . . .

Love had paid off and my cow that was once a sick heifer grew up and became part of the herd.

She had a bull calf that also grew up and sold for a sizable sum of money.

And that’s where this story starts . . .

Oh the things that I could do with that money!

A motorcycle.

Stereo.

Maybe a motorcycle and a stereo.

I bought two heifers from Dad’s herd.

Two words: Dad. Convincing.

Sigh.

One of the heifers that I now owned was tall and growthy (Yeah, I know, but I have to use that word).  She appeared to be the picture of the perfect cow.  An orphan, she had been raised by a foster cow that had lots of milk. This meant that she had lots to eat and consequently became very big.

And fat.

She became part of the young cow herd on the ranch.

I took her to a couple of cattle shows and won first place trophies.

Eventually, my very fat, very big cow had a very big, growthy (yes, that word again) calf.  It was about then, we discovered why she was a very big, fat cow.

All the feed that she consumed maintained her large body. She had very little milk and her calf did not grow. 

Dad and I decided that she would have to go to market (Can you say Big Mac?). 

About that time, we had a visitor to the ranch. The kind of rancher that always had a good story to tell about his “prize” bull or cow at all of the cattle shows and sales.

The other ranchers would listen politely, all the while restraining the urge to roll up their pants and start ‘shoveling’. (A term used by ranchers when a fellow rancher tells stories that are a little hard to believe. I'd like to go into more detail but I am trying to be polite.)

Ahem . . .

The verbose rancher looked at all of dad’s cows, spotted my very fat, big cow and immediately offered a healthy sum of money for her.

Dad told him she was headed to market and gave him the details. 

The other rancher went pale.

Really.

I think he started to hyperventilate.

He wanted that cow.  He could get around the ‘no milk’ issue by having her calves raised by milk cows.

But dad (and I) had determined if a cow could not adequately feed her calf, she was not worthy of being a cow in our herd.

Or in anyone else’s. If a cow or its calves did not perform well, it would eventually reflect back to our herd.

The rancher was very upset and (once he started breathing normally), left dad’s place in a huff.

We continued with our plans and the very fat, big cow that had no milk went off to auction (burgers). 

And provided a healthy sum from which I bought my motorcycle one or two more calves.

Dad, again.

Sigh.  

An Old Joke

Inconsequential day with friends,

A drive along the thoroughfare,

The kind of day you hope n’er ends,

To see the sights and take the air.

Three friends were seated in the car,

Minister, Priest, and Rabbi, too.

Talk of life, both near and far,

And things they’d done or’d like to do.

Sensationalism was a theme,

As the dashboard clicked the miles away,

Discussed atomic problems, schemes,

 The mayhem common to the day.

Then talk turned with sincerity,

(Though nondenominational!)

How to divide with parity

Donations congregational.

Then one proposed a circle made,

Donations thrown aboard,

The coins, which from the circle strayed,

Would be given to the Lord.

The second shook his hoary head,

And gravely said,” Not so!”

The coins inside the circle spread,

He’d to the Lord bestow.

The third man deeply frowned, “Instead,”

“Here’s what I’d do, my peeps!”

“I’d throw the money high o’erhead,

And what the good Lord wants, He keeps!”

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge to her devoted followers.

Then sits back and watches the scramble.

And laughs.

I'm almost sure she laughs . . .

It's the highlight of my week when I get to participate.

This week's words?

inconsequential, nondenominational, sensationalism, atomic,

dashboard and mayhem

Hop over to Delores' and see what the others have created!

Fuzzy Love

And each of them has/had a name. Please don't test me . . .

My first date with my Husby-to-be was memorable.

On so many levels.

You can read about it here.

Go ahead . . . I promise you won't miss anything . . .

Our second date was even more memorable.

But for more exciting reasons.

It was the occasion of our first kiss.

Yumm.

Let me see if I can describe it . . .

Chore time.

The sun has set.

Darkness drifts slowly over the prairie.

A large, quiet feed lot.

Young bulls in the background, munching on grains.

The smell of fresh manure wafts on the cool, autumn breeze.

A young man and woman snared in the light of the mercury-vapour lamp.
Hey, this is ranching country, what did you expect? The light of the moon?! 

Their eyes lock.

They move closer . . .

You get the picture.

Romantic?

Okay, maybe not to the normal person.

Fortunately for me, Husby-to-be was as un-normal as his wife-to-be.

A perfect match.

But the date was only beginning.

After our kiss, we returned to my parent’s home.

And that’s when I received my second surprise of the evening.

When we stepped into the vestibule (ooh! I like that word), Husby-to-be pulled a little package out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, smiling. “I brought you something.”

Have I mentioned that I love surprises?

Well, I do.

Moving on . . .

I quickly opened the little bag and tipped out two little fuzzy men.

Pom-pom people.

With magnets on the back.

Ooooh! Cute!

“Thank you!” I said. Then I gave him a kiss.

It seemed like an appropriate response.

And I’d just discovered he was a great kisser.

Ahem . . .

And so began a tradition that lasted for years.

And covered a large part of our fridge.

Until a bottle of home-made root beer sprayed all over them.

Sigh.

Then they were relegated to a shadow box.

For safety.

And posterity.

I love traditions.

Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .

Words, Adorable Words

Me. Swinging. And reciting.

Words are amazing.

Descriptive.

Alliterative.

Explanatory.

Lyrical.

Adventurous.

Romantic.

And I love them.

I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.

Let me explain . . .

My Dad loves to recite.

Poems, mostly.

On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.

Or verse.

I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.

Always there was a story involved.

The boy stood on the burning deck

His feet were in the fire.

The captain said," You're burning up!"

The boy said, "You're a liar!"

The telling was truly magical.

And often educational.

Little Johnny took a drink.

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4.

I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.

When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.

Memorizing a poem.

She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim.

A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.

What better poem for a young girl to start with?

As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.

I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.

My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.

I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.

Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.

I followed her around for days.

“What's the next line, Chris?”

She would tell me.

And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.

Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.

I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.

Moving on . . .

By the end of a week, I had it.

All of it.

Then, the fun began.

For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.

In perfect rhyme.

It could only lead to a career in writing.

Or maybe some 'zombie apocalypse/end of the world scenario.

Hmm. Maybe both . . .

For your pleasure –

Jim 

 By Hillaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

P.S. I can still remember it . . .

Getting the Boot

Baby brother . . . being entertained

My father (herinafter known as 'Dad') was a rancher.

He had been born that way.

In his twenties, he added the title of 'Veterinarian' to that.

But he was first and foremost, a rancher.

As a rancher, his wardrobe seldom varied.

Heavy work pants.

Work shirts. (Which have a history of their own . . .)

And boots.

Which were so much more than mere footwear.

Dad's boots were, in fact, the signal that opened and closed the work day.

As well as a source of entertainment.

On several levels.

Dad's boots were - because he had 'special' feet – special.

They were heavy.

And specifically designed to compensate for his long, narrow, profoundly flat extremities.

They laced up the front.

And fit . . . well.

They were the favourite entertainment for my baby brother.

When he was . . . umm . . . a baby.

A source of laughter for us kids when we'd try them on.

Then attempt to walk.

Usually covered in mud and manure during the day's labours, then scrupulously cleaned before being brought into the house.

With Dad's pocket knife. (But that is yet another story.)

In short, they were a part of my Dad.

An important part.

Dad always donned them himself.

Said donning, after breakfast, was always the signal that visiting was over and the workday starting.

But Dad never, ever took his boots off by himself.

In fact, the removal of Dad's boots was quite a process.

And a family tradition.

Let me describe . . .

Dad would take his seat in his usual comfy recliner.

And his numerous children would scatter, suddenly recalling activities that needed immediate attention.

Somewhere else.

But there was always a laggard.

Someone who was the slowest to react.

Dad would pin them to their chair with a look.

Then silently hold out a foot.

Reluctantly, the child would assume the position.

Facing away from Dad and bent forward, clutching said boot between their knees with both hands.

Dad would then put his other foot on his helper's backside and start pushing.

His boot would be quickly and efficiently . . . removed.

And dropped on the floor.

The process was repeated with the second boot.

The footwear was then gathered.

And set aside.

Only then was the slave helper, released.

Mission accomplished.

As mentioned, this procedure signalled the end of the work day.

Odd, isn't it, that a humble pair of boots would assume such proportion in our daily life?

But they did.

Now in his late eighties, Dad has given up boots.

Shoes now replace his slippers when he is going outside.

And, like his slippers, they slip on and off easily.

I was watching him the other day as he sat down.

Staring at the footwear he now pulls on.

And remembering.

Bread Balls

Yumminess.

Twice a week, and sometimes more, the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through the Stringam home.

Magic.

It was followed, almost immediately, by the sight of children munching great slices of fresh yumminess, thickly spread with fresh butter.

Mmmmm.

I wasn't one of them.

Oh, I loved Mom's bread.

It was amazing.

And I definitely was munching.

But I chose a unique - ie. weird - way of doing it.

Often to be followed by my Mom saying, “Diane! I work hard to make perfectly good, soft bread! Why do you do that to it?!”

She said this because . . . I squished it.

Squished.

Into a tight little ball.

Which I - then - ate.

Really.

Mom would watch, in disgust, as I took my slice of freshly-baked awesomeness.

Quickly peeled off and ate the crust.

Pressed and molded the rest.

Then nibbled.

I have no idea why I did this.

Maybe it was because I had seen the screen cowboys eating little balls of bread out of their saddlebags.

Okay, it looked like little balls of bread.

I didn't realize that what they were eating was, in fact, biscuits.

I wasn't known for my powers of observation and deduction.

Ahem . . .

I no longer eat bread this way.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

The biggest one being that it's rather hard to spread any significant amount of peanut butter and/or nutella on a tightly pressed ball of dough.

And, let's face it, bread is just the medium by which such things are ingested.

And, in a choice between eating balls of dough or getting nutella to the mouth?

Even the cowboys would agree with me.

For A Monday

A poem.

Because it's Monday . . .

Mildred's Nose

Mildred, my friend, has a marvelous nose.

Not bulbous.

Or hook-ed.

Or bellicose.

Not crooked.

Or flattened.

Or shaped like a bean.

The most beautiful nose that you ever have seen.

Can't say it's large.

A potato,

A squash.

A crooked ol' carrot.

An acorn.

A cosh.

(A nickname for what's really a good copper's 'billy'.)

Yes, nothing to ever make Mildred look silly.

It is shapely,

And small.

In reality – fair.

The grandest

Appendage

To ever

Draw air.

Fine-boned.

And slender.

With rose petal skin.

The kind that can always draw everyone in.

But with all its beauty, her friends still make fun.

They laugh,

And they tease.

They jeer.

And they shun.

But why with such beauty for them to behold,

Would they scoff,

And deride,

Mock,

And then scold?

Ridicule, ostracize, taunt, and tell jokes?

Snicker

With all

Of the fair

Jungle folks?

Because Mildred, oh, she of the wonderful nose.

The beauty,

Perfection.

The colour

Called 'rose'.

Well there's something about her that I've not disclosed.

Something, about which you need to be told.

Though our Mildred is all she could possibly be,

Good friend,

And clever,

And kind

As can be.

Yes, Mildred,

Has one,

Little secret

to hold.

Our Mildred's an elephant, truth to be told.

P.S. If you think that Mildred's true story's a laugh,

You should hear about Harold,

The short-necked giraffe.

Thank you, Teacher.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Wornoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Wornoski had a list of words on a large flip chart.

And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it.

I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip.

Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room.

Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

Very well.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn.

Miss Wornoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled.

Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Wornoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Wornoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski.

You changed my life.