Mostly Good

I have a selective memory.

Sometimes, there’s a reason . . .

I was going on a date. A nice young man had asked and we were heading out to see a movie.

It was one I’d seen before. Death Wish. A Charles Bronson getting-it-done, bad-guys-beware sort of movie.

I had recommended it to my date. I had seen it already and remembered it as a most satisfying experience where the bag guys get got and crime in New York hits an all-time low.

All because of one man who, for some reason, decides to take the law into his own hands.

We pulled up to the drive-in entrance, paid our fee and found a place to park.

“You’ll love this movie!” I told my date as I stuffed popcorn into my mouth. “Charles gets it done!”

The lights came up on the screen. The opening credits. Opening scene.

Two women getting attacked in their own apartment.

I slid to the floor and stuffed my fingers into my ears.

My date, wide-eyed as he watched the screen, finally turned to me. “I thought you said it was a good movie!”

“Oh it is! Is the bad stuff over?”

“Ummm . . .”

I slid back into my seat. “Oh, I love this part! Where Charlie takes out his attackers with a roll of quarters!”

And, just like that, I realized something.

I had never seen the ‘bad part’.

I had covered my eyes and plugged my ears until that scene was over.

Fast forward forty years.

I still do the same. Ignore the ‘bad parts’. Well, first of all, I avoid violent movies altogether, but when I’m sitting through a movie and it unexpectedly dumps a nasty scene on me, I cover my eyes – usually with Husby’s hand. Let's face it, through my lens, Platoon was just a walk through the jungle with some soldiers.
I don't like it when good people get hurt. It happens enough in real life. I don't like it in my entertainment . . .

I’ve seen a lot of good movies.

Just don’t ask me to ‘scene-by-scene’ them for you.

I might leave something important out . . . 

Moving Music

I forgot! One last story re. Player Pianos.
Because we moved a lot . . .

Player pianos are HEAVY!
About 400 pounds heavier than a normal upright grand.
Ugh.
The first (and only) time we moved it ourselves, it took a crew of eight men and a donkey to get it the four blocks from our old rental to our newly purchased.
I'm sure friendships were strained along with the muscles.
We vowed never to test our friends again, and, when we moved next, this time from Edmonton to Beaumont, shelled out the bucks to hire a professional moving company.
Dorcy's.
It came highly recommended.
I made the call.
On moving day, two burly men (wearing weight belts over their clothes) showed up.
With a little, square, leather-covered dolly.
That was it.
Two men. And a dolly.
Sounds like a movie title.
As first I studied them suspiciously. Even took a gander through the window to see the big, clean Dorcy's truck parked outside. (I wasn't about to let impostors in, let alone allow them to touch our 800 pound treasure.)
But they were legit. And they knew their stuff. They sat the dolly down beside the piano, each took an end and hrruummpp! they lifted that beastie and set it down on the dolly. Then squeekee-squeekee-squeekee-squeekee, they shoved it out the door and into their waiting truck.
It took about five minutes.
Or less.
I watched them go, thinking of the effort and strain and bad language that had accompanied that last move.
Dorcy's had just become our greatest friends.
Our next move from Beaumont to a farm just outside Beaumont was handled by the same men.
With the same dolly.
And in about the same time.
Then the move back to town when we sold the farm.
In the words of the new Dorcy's employee: We took the call to pick up a piano just outside of Beaumont. My co-worker handed me the sheet and I wondered at the look on his face. As we grew closer to the address, he started to sweat a little. Then, when your driveway appeared and grew closer, he uttered these words, "No . . . No . . . NOOOOO!!!!"
Not only was our piano popular in our family, it had finally achieved infamy.
That has been our last move.
To date.
I still have Dorcy's on speed dial.

Herman

On a Final Note...

When we purchased our player piano, it came with 170+ player rolls – some dating back to the ‘teens’ of the 1900s.

If you’ve never seen one of said rolls, they’re quite interesting. They look like the old-time official perforated cards that the government used to send out. Yes, I’m that old . . .

The piano generates suction, which pulls the roll in. Then these holes allow the suction to break in very specific places, causing the corresponding note to play. Yeah, it makes no sense to me, either. And it has been explained and explained. Look! A squirrel!

All I know – or care – is that when you insert the roll in a certain way, flip this lever, and pump the pedals, music emerges.

Nice music.

Music that no human being – unless he is equipped with four hands and/or thirty fingers – could play.

An aside here – Husby and I, while in Buffalo, New York, visited the last of the piano roll makers, QRS. And actually watched one of their musicians play out a new roll. And I use the world ‘play’ deliberately. He was seated at a large apparatus that vaguely resembled a piano. On steroids. It was hooked by numerous appendages to another apparatus that was marking a long strip of paper.

The whole process was fascinating. And busy enough to keep even my attention.

Back to my story . . .

As I mentioned, our piano has to be pumped to work. So, you have to work to make it work.

You realize just how much effort it takes when you’ve played three or four rolls in succession.

Whew!

Fortunately we had lots of eager feet and legs.

I remember, years ago, when I was on one of my fitness kicks, I asked Husby for an exercise bike.

And he bought me four new rolls for the piano.

Now I can see his reasoning – beautiful music AND lots of exercise – then, I wasn’t as impressed.

Our player piano has been the focal point for our family for an entire generation. Tonight, I’m introducing the next generation.

You’ll probably be able to hear us . . .

Play On

Husby and I both love music.

When we married, one of our biggest problems was how to mesh two gi-normous (my word) record collections.

We did it (and still have it . . . somewhere . . .).

We both love to sing, but only Husby plays an instrument. (You should hear him on the bass guitar!)

With the acquisition of our new piano, we discovered a whole new world of music in the one hundred seventy+ rolls (dating from the early 1900s) that accompanied it.

The words are usually written on the rolls, so, as they play, one can sing along. If one is so inclined.

We were.

At the top of our voices because, hey, that sucker is loud!

When there weren’t any words, we had a plethora of non-musical - musical instruments to accompany. Kazoos. Noisy, rhythm gadgets. A Stumpf (yes, I spelled it right) fiddle.

Our family spent hours around that piano. Making music.

Or, more probably, noise. But we absolutely loved it.

And our kids know all the words to such timeless classics as: Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?; Pip, Pip, Toot, Toot Good-bye-ee; The Hawaiian War Chant; Little Bo-Peep Has Lost Her Jeep; Over the Waves; Shuffle Off to Buffalo; I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream; Hungarian Goulash and dozens (I do mean dozens) more.

A little aside here: Those words pop up at the best times. When our daughter met her future husband (a man from England with accompanying beautiful accent) she hit him with the words to Pip, Pip. And received what we have discovered is an appropriate response, “I’ve never used that word in my life!”

Can I say it? That piano changed our lives – or more correctly, molded our lives.

One last story tomorrow . . .

Mr. Stumpf. You though I was kidding, right?

Playing Piano

I’m a piano player.

That sounds really good, so I’ll say it again . . .

I’m a piano player.

My problem is, the only piano I can play is my own.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I’ve always loved the piano. I would sit and listen for hours to someone who can really play. Classical, modern, ragtime. You name it – I would happily listen.

In an effort to get to that level of expertise, I even condescended to taking lessons. Oh, not for very long. My ADD wouldn’t allow for any extensive concentration.

But for a while, about when I was 12, the piano and I were very good friends.

Fast forward several years, a marriage and a few children.

Husby, the kids and I were driving through Lethbridge, Alberta.

Suddenly, Husby made a sudden – and quite violent – right-hand turn.

I looked at him questioningly as I clutched at the door handle.

He merely pointed toward a white, hand-lettered sign tacked to the light pole we were just passing. It read: Garage Sale. There followed a list of items. Then, right at the end, someone had scrawled in large letters: Player Piano.

Okay, yes, I knew what a player piano was. Husby loved them. We had even tried out a few of the modern, electronic does-it-all-for-you types at local music stores. Then noted the (for us) astronomical price and fled.

This time, with a private seller, he must have been hoping our chances were better.

He was right.

It proved to be the home of a dear friend’s parents.

And soon the deal had been made.

We were the proud new owners of a player piano.

The story doesn’t end there.

Buying the great hunk of furniture and actually laying claim to it proved to be two separate stories. For example: The sellers had finished their basement after they had installed the piano. There was no way that sucker was ever coming out of there whole.

It took a piano expert to completely dismember our acquisition to get it up the stairs.

And that was merely the first hurdle.

From there, we had to figure out where to put the thing. We lived in a 14 X 24 house at the time. (I am not making this up.) We barely had room for us and our four children.

No great problem for Husby. He happily found a place to store it until we moved someplace bigger.

Perhaps that piano is the reason he found someplace bigger. I never thought of that.

Moving on . . .

Our sweet little townhouse in Edmonton, Alberta, soon had a proud focal point.

Our beautiful, oak, mahogany-jacketed, Heintzman, 1916, real-ivory-keyed, lead-piped, foot-pumping marvel of music-producing ingenuity.

And, for the first time - ever - I could play the piano.

More stories to come . . .

Novel News

I am so excited to announce that my newest novel is also my Granddaughter's newest novel!
It's true!
High water has just been released.
And it was co-written with my eldest granddaughter, Megan!





High Water was conceived during our annual hike in the great Rocky Mountains.
So this is it.
The next generation.
I could die happy right now.
But I think I will stick around for a while and see which of my other amazing grandkids has a story to tell.
Meanwhile . . .
Interested in a great read for the Tweens in your life?
Check it out!
High Water

Small But Mighty

Our youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) was a tiny little thing.

Not walking yet, she scurried using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.

Hands and knees.

At eleven months old, she could sure get around.

Her favourite toy/workout apparatus was her rocking moose - one of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.

(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)

If BG wasn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she could be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.

And she was more than a little possessive.

Something that had only recently discovered.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.

Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)

I should mention here that said older sister had waist-length hair.

This will be important later.

Moving on . . .

BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.

Hey!

She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.

Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.

Then she pulled.

“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.

BG pulled again.

“Mom! She’s got me!”
BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.

Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.

Then she turned and grinned at her sister.

A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.

Did I mention that she was eleven months old?!

I predicted she’d be CEO of a major company by the time she’s five.

Stay tuned . . .

The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.

Lights Out

Husby has always paid the bills in our home.

As a single income family and he the one earning the money, it seemed apropos.

He has also tried to convince his rather large family that we need to at least make a show of being economical.

It’s an uphill battle.

Lights are a biggie.

Because power is a biggie.

It isn’t unusual for one to hear – several times per day – the phrase, “You forgot to shut off the light!”

You’d think we’d learn.

Sometimes, though, the shoe is on the other foot.

With mixed results . . .

Husby and I were getting ready for bed.

Actually, he had already readied and was cozily cocooned and, I thought, drowsy.

I was a few minutes behind him.

I approached the closet wherein the change to pajamas would occur.

And noticed that he – the-mighty-earner-of-the-money-and-payer-of-the-bills – had left the light on.

My day (night) had come.

“You left the light on!” I said gleefully as I entered the closet.

I should probably mention here that some joker, when designing the closet, put the light switch on the outside.

No sooner had I closed the door, when the light went off.

Yeah. He thought it was pretty funny, too.

Cat Cleaning

Two things you have to know before I start.

Blacken was a black cat. A thirty-pound black cat.

And Blacken could take care of himself . . .

It was a fairly normal day in the Hippard household.

People doing . . . household things. Cooking, tending children, office work, cleaning.

It was this last that was ultimately responsible for the ‘incident’.

Logan was in the office, attending to the afore-mentioned work when he detected a change in the regular household sounds.

A different voice.

A man’s.

Stepping to the door, he clearly heard, “And as you can see, the Sux Vacuum can easily clean up this mess. Far better than any other conventional cleaning product. Because it really sucks!”

Or some such statement-guaranteed-to-make-a-sale.

Shaking his head, Logan returned to his work.

But no sooner had he crossed the room, when he heard, “And now I’d like to show you the ‘pet attachment’.”

Logan knew the only animal that could possibly be within reach was Blacken (see above).

This, he had to see . . .

Hurrying down the short hallway, Logan was just in time to see the salesman – not without difficulty – pick the large cat up from its comfortable ‘I’m-relaxing-don’t-bother-me-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you’ position on the living room rug.

Gripping the animal firmly, he picked up the vacuum hose with handy-dandy pet attachment . . . erm . . . attached.

“Okay, turn it on!” he said to someone else in the room.

The sound of the motor was immediate.

As was what happened next.

Just a hair (pardon the pun) behind the sound of the motor, and in an effort to get somewhere – anywhere – else, the cat instantly came to life.

With every sharpened digit fully extended, it climbed the man’s face.

And leaped from the top of his head to the nearest vacuum-less place.

Everyone in the room, with the possible exception of the two protagonists, saw the fall-on-the-floor-laughing potential of the incident.

Which they did.

For some minutes.

Because.

I should probably mention, here, that both claw-er and claw-ee survived the encounter – though the cat with much less wear and tear.

And, possibly in an act of contrition, the family purchased the vacuum.

Without the pet attachment.

Church Bunnies

As a rancher, during the work week, Dad was usually seen in work shirts and pants.
Heavy boots.
Leather gloves.
But on Sundays, all of that changed.
He would appear, dignified and tidy, in 'church' attire.
Suit.
White shirt.
Polished boots.
And a tie.
Usually, Dad chose his own ties.
He had good taste.
Well . . . conservative taste.
No garish patterns.
No fluorescent colours.
Yep. Conservative.
But one of his ties stands out in my memory.
One that . . . wasn't conservative.
It was a quiet, dark tie.
With tiny, white polka-dots.
His favourite.
He wore it for three years.
And that is hilarious.
Maybe I should explain . . .
One day, just after church, I was giving my dad a hug.
Something I did often.
But now I was getting tall enough that his tie and my eyes were pretty much on the same level.
I buried my face in his clean, white shirt.
Then I opened my eyes.
And saw . . . dots.
No . . . wait . . . they weren't dots.
They were . . . something else.
I grabbed his tie and examined it closely.
Huh.
“Dad, do you know what's on this tie?”
“Polka-dots,” came the ready answer.
I lifted the end of the tie up to his face and held it there.
He looked. Then took the tie from me and looked again a bit more carefully. “Oh,” he said.
That tie he had been wearing for the past three years, teaching and/or officiating in church before lots and lots of people.
That tie.
Well, the tiny, regular pattern?
Wasn't polka-dots.
No.
It was playboy bunny heads.
Tiny little white playboy bunny heads.
My dad had been a leader in our local church congregation for three years . . .
Wearing a tie with playboy bunny heads on it.
See? Hilarious.
I think he thought it was funny, too.
But the tie disappeared.
Where it ended up, only big brother, George, knows.

When he passed away, Dad still had quite a collection of ties.
Long.
Cork.
Bow.
Feather.
Bolo.
But not one of them had polka dots.
Real or imagined.

Rain's My Choice!

I remembered something while talking to my baby brother yesterday.
A quote from Daddy:

It ain't no use to grumble and complain.
It's every bit as easy to rejoice.
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain . . .
Rain's my choice.

It reminded me, that, not only can't we control the weather, sometimes it does precious little good to stew over much of what happens in life.
So, whatever life chooses to dish out, that's what I'm going to go with.
Thanks, Dad!

Getting Smashed

Getting ready for the LONG trip . . .

It was the late 1950’s and Dad was in Toronto.

With 15 friends.

Twelve hairy chaps with four feet each.

And three not-so-hairy fellows who were . . . more like Dad.

Intrigued? Stay with me . . .

During the 50s, the government had programs encouraging people to raise bigger and better cattle. They even sponsored ranchers who were interested in hauling a few of their best cattle to agricultural shows around the country. They reasoned that said ranchers, eager for some first-place ribbons, would selectively breed bigger and better animals.

It worked.

Ranchers arrived at shows with trailer loads of their very best animals, hoping for a trophy or two and some recognition.

And that was what had brought Dad to Toronto. He and young friends Mike, Leroy and Patrick had driven from Alberta, carting a ‘carload’ (twelve steers) halfway across the country to the agricultural show there.

They learned a few things.

Some of which were unexpected.

Maybe I should explain . . .

The four friends arrived with several days to spare.

After unloading and settling their stock, they found they had time for some sight-seeing.

And the great Niagara was where they wanted to do it.

Renting a car, the four of them set out, touring, first the Canadian side of the falls, then crossing over the border to the American.

After several hours of ‘tourist-ing’, they decided that the next item on the agenda should probably include some sort of sustenance.

They began to scout around for a likely place.

And discovered that the restaurants nestled close around the falls were of the ‘posh’ variety.

Uh-oh.

Now these boys were all from the ranches of Southern Alberta. They were good boys. Polite. Respectful.

They just hadn’t been out and about much.

And never had any of them eaten at such high-class establishments.

They wandered around a bit, looking for a place where four young men – clean, but with calloused hands and traces of real manure on their boots - wouldn’t feel quite so out of place.

Finally, they picked a likely-looking prospect and walked in.

And discovered that the quiet exterior was slightly misleading.

This restaurant was definitely of the five-star variety.

Taking a collective deep breath, they hailed the Maitre’D and secured a table. Then further hiding their discomfort, proceeded to order, trying to sound as blasé about their surroundings at the other patrons appeared to be.

They did well.

Until Patrick was asked how he’d like his potatoes prepared.

“Smashed,” he said clearly.

The waiter stared at him. Finally, “Smashed?” he said.

“Smashed,” Patrick repeated.

The waiter nodded and, making a careful note on his pad, collected the menus and disappeared into the kitchen.

Leroy punched Patrick in the arm. “Smashed?” he said.

Patrick started to giggle.

Leroy joined him.

Then Mike.

All of their pent-up nervousness and discomfort burst out of the three of them in a joyous bubble of sound.

That they vainly tried to suppress.

This went on for some time. One of them would nearly gain control. Then look at the others and start again.

Ever try not to laugh? Seriously. In church or school or somewhere people aren’t supposed to laugh?

Yeah. It’s impossible.

Certainly it was for them.

Before long, the four friends were the cynosure (real word) of all eyes. And that just made them more nervous.

And less able to control their laughter.

They managed to make it through their painful meal.

Paid and finally escaped.

Oddly enough, none of them can remember what they ate. Apart from the smashed potatoes, of course.

But each of them learned a few things.

1. When in ‘Rome’, act as the Romans do.

2. When in ‘Rome’, speak as the Romans do.

3. Avoid potatoes in public.

And, most importantly . . .

4.  Don’t laugh.

Make a note in your guidebook.

Non-Sports-Related Injuries

Some of our blessings.
Caution: Lift with care.

I’ve been fairly active all my life.

And I have the scars to prove it.

I had all the usual bumps and bruises learning to walk as a baby.

Climbed and fell off of numerous fences, buildings, and assorted furniture.

Got trampled by an angry mama cow in the barnyard and got a flattened right boot.

Tried to fly using mom’s circular clothesline and almost bit my tongue right through.

Took a high-flier off my brother’s horse and landed on my face, resulting in impressive scratches and bruises.

Got a faceful of hoof from the same horse moments later.

Had an altercation with the arm of the armchair in my parents’ front room which resulted in one remarkable eyebrow.

Tore a twenty-two-inch groove in my leg from ankle to thigh, when I fell headfirst over the barbed-wire fence I was trying to cross.

Nearly lost my right hand in a cattle headgate.

Put all of my lower teeth through my lip when I got head-butted by an angry mama cow whose calf I was sitting on at the time.

And these were just injuries incurred in the course of growing up on a ranch.

I also sprained each ankle numerous times playing basketball, volleyball or baseball.

Sprained every single finger at least once – ditto.

Broke a wrist doing a celebratory leap.

Wrecked a knee running marathons.

Wrenched shoulders.

Sprained backs.

Twisted necks.

My purpose in telling you all of this is not so you will think I’m tough.

Or superwoman.

But because I don’t want you to think I give up easily.

That I can take pain and carry on.

But recently, I’ve developed a new injury.

Something I’ve never had before.

And I’m really struggling with it.

I went to the doctor complaining of pain in my elbow.

You heard me correctly.

My elbow.

She examined the offending joint. Worked it around. Hemmed and hawed. “You have tennis elbow,” she said decisively, moments later.

“Tennis elbow? How on earth did I get that?!” Since the knee injury, my sports participation has been strictly limited to laps of the pool.

And the occasional bike ride.

I’ve never even picked up a tennis racket.

“Well . . . golf elbow, then.”

Golf?! “Umm, that’s a game, right?”

She stared at me. “Well, what activities do you do?” she asked.

I frowned. “Swim. Bike. Play with my grandkids.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Grandkids?”

I nodded.

She smiled. “Do you lift said grandkids?”

I scratched my head. “Ye-es,” I said slowly.

“A lot?”

“Well, two of them live with me and one I babysit every day.”

She nodded, once more crisply confident. “That’s it, then.”

“What?” I was confused.

“I’m sure that the pain in your elbow can be directly attributed to the constant lifting of small bodies.” (Doctors talk like that . . .)

“I have . . . toddler elbow?”

She smiled. “In a word.”

Huh.

It’ll never be discussed in ‘Sports Illustrated’.

Never be the topic of concern for professional athletes.

But it’s real.

Toddler elbow.

To be found at a many grandparents’ houses near you.

You heard it here first.

Music to Hold Hands By

1965.

The year boys were discovered in Milk River.

Okay, yes, they had always been there.

And yes, I had seen them.

But up until that time, they had been covered with cooties.

True story.

Also true was the fact that, in 1965, I got my first, ever, boyfriend.

A real. Living. Breathing. Boy. Who liked me.

1965 was also the year for miracles.

Moving on . . .

I was finding out about the wondrous world of sitting in a movie with a boy.

Hanging out at recess with a boy.

Talking on the phone with a boy.

Sitting in assemblies with a  . . .

You get the idea.

It was new.

It was unusual.

It was amazing.

Okay, it didn’t last long. Let’s face it, both of us were ten. Attention spans are notoriously short when you’re ten.

But for a while . . .

My boyfriend and I and another friend were sitting in the travel trailer behind his parents’ house.

I should mention here that 1965 was also the year that we realized the radio played . . . music.

Rock and roll music.

I don’t know about you, but my parents’ radio was always tuned to the news.

Yep. The news.

Twenty-four hours a day.

Yuck.

Back to my story . . .

My boyfriend had fallen hard for a newly discovered group, The Beatles. He had bought one of their records and we were listening to it.

They were SO COOL!

It was the fifth or sixth time we had restarted the LP and by this point, all three of us were getting quite proficient with the words to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand!”

“I wanna hold your ha-a-and!” I was singing at the top of my lungs, really not caring who else might be listening. “I wanna hold your hand!”

My boyfriend took the hint. Sat beside me, took my hand and sang along.

It was the best moment of my life.

Then, suddenly, his mother appeared in the open door. “Diane, your Mom is here. Time to go.”

I looked at my boyfriend and grimaced. (Yes. Grimaced.)

Our moment was over.

But that was all right. I was sure there would be others.

Lots of them.

I was wrong. Not long afterwards, my boyfriend’s attention . . . wandered.

As did mine.

That’s the good thing about being 10.

But whenever I hear The Beatles sing, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, I’m back in the trailer behind his house and he and I are singing along at the top of our voices.

And holding hands.

Memories don’t get much better than that.

Cake Break

Home again.
With a real, working internet connection!
Yay!

I love hearing about people.

Where they came from.

Who their families were.

Their stories . . .

I have a good friend who was raised in a bakery.

Really.

Her family lived on the third floor of the building. The bakery was on the second, and the ‘workings’ (ovens and things) on the first.

I think it sounds like a small slice of heaven. Or maybe a large slice. Pun intended.

This is a part of her story . . .

Her father immigrated to their small Alberta town as a young man, intent on finding his way.

He took a job at the local bakery and, using skills brought with him from the old country, quickly made himself useful.

There was a girl at that bakery.

A pretty girl.

Daughter of the owner.

Much to the owner’s dismay, the two quickly became an item. I expect it was all right for Papa to be a baker, but he wanted more for his daughter.

Daughter had other plans.

The two made arrangements to be married.

And the father/boss gave grudging permission, both for the ceremony, and for the time away from the shop. But he only gave them enough of said time to perform the actual ceremony. Then both of them were to be back at the store to work.

Yes, it sounds odd to me as well.

Moving on . . .

The two slipped away to be married.

An hour later, they were back, aprons donned and ready to work.

Now the young new husband was very handy at decorating cakes.

Very handy.

In fact, he had been doing most of the decorating in the shop almost since his arrival.

As a gift for his young bride, he had created something really special. A many-tiered cake, astoundingly decorated with angels and trumpets and flowers painstakingly fashioned out of icing.

It had taken him some time.

Upon their return to the shop, he presented his gift.

It was . . . well received.

It was at that moment that another young groom came into the shop, intent on picking up the cake he had ordered for his celebration.

The cake, another decorated by our young husband, was duly handed over and paid for. Then, as the second groom carried his precious cargo out of the shop, he slipped and he and a mound of perfectly-arranged, meticulously-bedecked cake and frosting both hit the floor with a resounding splat.

He emerged unscathed.

The cake . . . didn’t.

The young man scrambled to his feet and stared down at the ruin of what had been a work of art.

And his gift to his new bride.

Dismay writ large, he looked over at the young baker.

Who, in turn, looked at his bride.

Who nodded silently.

Our young groom went into the back of the shop and emerged with his own gift. The one he had spent hours decorating for his beloved. The one she had enjoyed so briefly.

The two of them handed it silently over to the unhappy groom.

The story ends there.

I have to imagine the joy on the young man’s face.

The pain in the heart of the creator.

And that of his darling . . .

The two of them celebrated many, many years together. Took over the bakery and raised several children there.

There were other cakes.

Just as meticulously decorated.

Just as beautiful.

But none more appreciated than the first.

For the Love of a Child

Been travelling again.
Finally found a WIFI connection!

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

When he was 19 years old, Husby went to live, for two years, in France.

It was an exciting time.  A time of growth, education and change.

And of new and varied experiences.

One of the latter had such a profound effect on him that it defined his life . . .

He and his companion were visiting with a woman teetering on the very brink of disaster.

She had been married. But to an abusive animal of a husband whose daily and favoured recreation seemed to be the use of his very manly fists.

With his wife as the target.

When he finally abandoned them, he left her and their two children completely destitute.

Desperate to feed her small family, the wife, after much tearful consideration, decided the best course would be to send her small son and daughter  to live in the very large and efficient orphanage some ten miles away. Knowing, even as she did so, that she would seldom, if ever, be able to even visit.

This was the situation when Husby came by.

At the end of their call, the mother tearfully begged them to make the ten mile trip to visit her children.

They agreed to do so, covering the distance fairly easily on their bicycles.

Husby clearly remembers his first glimpse of the massive building – a former hospital – now given to the housing and feeding of hundreds of young children.

There were children everywhere. Clothed and clean and obviously well-fed, but almost without adult contact.

He and his companion made their way to the main office and inquired after the two children. They were directed to one of the wings of the building. Carefully, they mounted stairs and counted doors, coming at last to a massive room.

The young boy – about nine – and his younger sister met them in that doorway.

Husby peered into the room and saw literally hundreds of beds placed in regimental order down each side of the huge room.

Here was home.

Clean. Tidy.

Institutional.

Their only adult supervision supplied by the nurse in charge and their daily contact with their teachers.

Husby thought of their grieving mother and his heart melted inside him.

He and his companion spent a few minutes chatting with those children, but in that few minutes, he was changed forever.

Into the loving, giving caretaker of any child – every child - he sees.

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

And sometimes, though the experience is painful, it’s for the good.