A Crime of Coffin

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.

Husby has a scar on his chin.

A long scar from a large wound.

A wound that took several stitches to close.

And I gave it to him.

Well, me and a coffin.

You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.

Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.

An almost endless round of ‘ing’.

For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.

Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.

After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.

Ugh.

At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.

Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.

Back to my story . . .

Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.

Hefted the coffin.

And started in.

And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.

Literally.

Husby, on the front end, tripped.

Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.

Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.

And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.

A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.

The bedroom of several more.

And at least ten living rooms.

A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.

When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.

And blood was dripping through his fingers.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.

“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.

Ewwww.

A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.

And a sexy scar.

Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.

Sigh.

P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

Carpent(h)er

See?

Her Mama (Daughter #2) is a carpenter.

Has been for over a decade.

Soooo . . . since long before Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as GD6) was born.

Mama is remarkably talented at building stage sets. In the dark backstages of Edmonton Alberta’s theatrical world, she is considered a tech bright light.

So to speak.

Ahem . . .

Yes. That is a kitchen...

Her mother was building sets and props in their kitchen when GD6 was only a week old.

I have a picture of Mama painting the floor of a set with GD6 snug as a bug in a carrier.

At the age of five months, GD6 and Grandma took up residence in one of the change rooms at one of the theatres while Mama was building down the hall in the shop.

It was fairly entertaining to watch Mama blow the sawdust of herself when it was time to come and nurse the baby!

But I digress . . .

To say that GD6 has grown up with it is probably an understatement.

In her little world, Mama is a carpenter. The end.

A couple of days ago, GD6 got a bit of a shock.

Let me tell you about it . . .

They were out and about. Mama collecting materials for the building of a set for the soon-to-open Pinocchio by Alberta Opera.

Then working on said set in the bowels of yet another Edmonton theatre.

GD6 had been tagging along. Watching the fabrication.

Playing on her IPad.

Doing those things she has been doing for much of her six years.

As they drove home, they passed some building construction.

A fairly common sight in the always-growing city of Edmonton.

They had stopped for traffic. There outside the window was a house currently being assembled.

GD6 sat, looking at it. Then she noticed something. “Mama! There’s men carpenters!” She pointed.

Her Mama nodded. “Yep.”

“Huh! I didn’t know there could be men carpenters!”

Truly the world is a place of surprises.

One of many.

Pocket Prizes

Mom (seated in the light-colored dress)
And her parents. And her eight brothers...

My Mom had eight brothers.
And each of them had a sister.
Most of the time, this was a good thing.
They played together.
Worked together.
And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, the boys 'protected' her.
It was a good balance.
Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.
Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.
Cooking, cleaning, dishes.
Laundry.
Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.
Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.
You never knew what you would find . . .
There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.
You cleaned your plate at mealtime.
Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.
Each of the sons and the daughter had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.
If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.
Or get creative.
Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, took the second option.
He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.
Just not inside of him.
What to do?
Hmmm.
No dog or pet was allowed inside the house so one couldn't slip food to them under the table and his parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.
His options were definitely limited.
But he would think of something . . .
When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.
Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.
Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.
Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes and that while he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear. He was wearing trousers. And they had . . . pockets.
What followed was inevitable.
Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.
Clever.
And, as I said, entertaining.
And that was just the laundry.
Imagine what he could do with such things as chores.
Livestock.
But that is another story.

More Than Talk

Because today is, in many parts of the world, Talk Like A Pirate Day, I am re-introducing the Tolley Pirate Ship!

From a post of July 2, 2012:

For several months, my Husby's health wasn't . . . very good. 

In fact, we were quite worried about him.

But, with excellent medical care and ongoing treatment, he has stepped back from the brink. I'll bless forever the Canadian Health Care system!

Ahem . . .

The conception and planning for a new project completed the cure.

I present his 'cure'.

The New Tolley Grandchildren Playhouse

We now have a pirate ship in our backyard.

Or as my Husby prefers to call it, a 'Pie-Rat' ship.

I won't mention the looks we have been getting from the neighbours.

Or the speculation over whether 'we know something they should know'.

And the watching of the sky for the threat of heavy rains.

Moving on . . .

Our ship is built completely out of recycled and scavenged materials.

It consists of three levels.

Spiral staircase.

Rope ladders.

A plank, ideal for walking into the family pool.

A slide.

Swings.

And a flag picturing a pie and crossed forks.

I should probably mention that we rather like pie.

Hence the renaming of all grandchildren, 'Pie-Rats'.

Looking forward

The spiral

Looking back
Photos by: Kallie Tolley

We opened it to the grandchildren - ahem - Pie-Rats, on Saturday (June 30, 2012).

Following very brief speeches.

The tossing of a pie.

And the equipping of grandchildren with the necessities.

Pirate headscarves.

Swords.

And lots and lots of food.

I think it is a hit.

Who says the Tolleys don't know how to party?!

P.S. This story was picked up and broadcast worldwide a few months after the 'launch'. Enjoy!

https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=437861

Identified

Okay, they look a little funny, but we love them.

A couple of years ago, our youngest daughter and her daughter moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.

They had been away for far too long.

It was cause for celebration.

So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.to

I should probably explain here that, at that time, when all of our kids and their families gathered, we numbered twenty-five people.

Twelve of whom were under the age of ten.

Organized confusion.

Generally, the parents and very youngest members gathered in the front room upstairs to chat.

The oldest of the grandkids fled to the basement.

Where the toys were.

Now, these kids were used to being together.

And treated each other like siblings.treated

Getting along fabulously for the most part.

With occasional bouts of tears and irritation . . .

It was a fairly normal evening.

Adults – visiting.

Kids downstairs – playing.

Someone started to cry.

Our six-year-old came running up the stairs.

“Someone’s crying!” he announced. Needlessly, I might point out.

I looked at him. “Who is crying?”

Now, my daughter’s daughter hadn't been around for some time. And when she was here last, she had been a babe in arms. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, this little girl was not.

He handled the confusion well.

“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”

Ah. Identification complete.

Maybe we should put that on her passport.

The Baker

Then

My blonde-haired son with eyes of brown,

Who rode his bike all over town,

He’d reached the grand old age of nine,

Had learned so much in all that time.

But mostly, how he loved to eat,

My cookies were a special treat,

He’d lick a beater, taste the dough,

Then grab a handful, off he’d go.

But soon, my boy just wanted to

Find out how he could make them. True.

And so he watched and so discovered,

His baking soon surpassed his mothers.

Tonight he joined us in our home,

He brought his wife and kids along,

We sat and talked and had such fun,

‘Twas hard to think it'd soon be done.

The grandkids said they had a yen

Our boy went in the kitchen then,

And set the oven, got some ‘stuff’,

Then added till he had enough.

It only took a moment, till,

He, all his kids’ dreams, he’d fulfilled,

And cookies warm were on the tray,

Enough to last till end of day.

And now, it was his mom. T’was so!

Who licked the beaters, tasted dough,

Then, as the cookies, warm, emerged

Stole a few, by hunger urged.

We gathered them (Just one more bite!),

To send with folks into the night,

I watched him pack up kids and then,

I thought of ‘now’ and thought of ‘when’.

It’s not so long since he was nine,

And still so young and still all mine,

Where did the years all pass away?

Did this not happen yesterday?

Today is his, it’s his turn now,
I wouldn’t change things anyhow,

I wave to them from on the porch.

I’m happy now. I’ve passed the torch.

Now

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, us three, both me and they,

We'll talk of games we liked to play!           

Respect

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

Husby is retired now.

As am I.

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

He knew the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

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

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

But they were beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

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

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

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

Out of date.

Useless.

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

And they’d definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

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

Ignored.

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

And experience.

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

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

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

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

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

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

But left better than when they had ridden in.

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

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

And the men respectfully listened.

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

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

All spoke of my Dad with respect and affection.

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

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

The bond of friendship remained strong.

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

Who did they turn to?

My dad was nearly ninety.

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

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

Is this being taught today?

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

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

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.

And a pity.

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

Sundays are for my Ancestors. Okay, yes it was about my dad again.
What did your ancestors do? I’d love to hear!

Crowbarred

I honestly didn’t see this one coming.

Okay I’m quite sure you’ve realized that, with Sally, you can’t always predict things.

But this really caught me off guard.

Let me explain . . .

Mom was away for the weekend. For any of you who know Sally and me, that fact alone should be an indication that things would not proceed normally for the duration of Mom’s absence. It’s kind of a given.

But her sister gifted her with a mini vacay to the city and an all-inclusive pass to the Mint Julep. Which, if I understood Mom’s jabbering as she perused the card, is the name of a spa. The posh-est of the posh if said card was to be believed. Mom babbled on about much-needed massages and hot stones and mudbaths.

All I heard was: You’ll be responsible for Sally 24/7 until I get back. Yikes.

Oh, mom hadn’t left us totally on our own. She’s smarter than that. She asked Mrs. Ames from down the street to look in on us from time to time. The Mrs. Ames of the cats. Who had regarded Sally--and by association me--with suspicion bordering on . . . suspicion since that day we (that is to say, Sally) purloined her big, yellow, savage, spitting fury for what turned out to be an unexpected reno job.
Sometime I'll tell you about it. Ahem . . .

Sooo . . . Mom.

Gone.

For the first few minutes all went well. Sally was unexpectedly quiet. I was in the kitchen, whipping up one of my semi-famous fudge brownie cakes.

Sally was doing something in the front room.

Mrs. Ames showed up for her first check in, tapping authoritatively on the front door.

“Come in!” Sally shouted cheerfully.

I should have known.

The door swung open.

Mrs. Ames was met in the doorway with a faceful of water.

Shot from the garden hose.

That Sally had dragged in through the back door for that exact purpose.

I probably don’t have to tell you that that’s the last we saw of Mrs. Ames for the entire weekend.

Sigh.

On another note, who knew The Cat Lady could run that fast?

Moving on . . .

A couple of hours later, Sally, doing her best to look innocent, walked rather awkwardly through from the garage and headed up the stairs.

Yes, the alarm bells started ringing. But I was just about to beat the level I had been despairing over for a week and no way I was going to drop that controller just because my sister walked through looking innocent.

I know you see the flaws in that argument.

Something upstairs crashed loudly, but as there was no yell of pain and/or death, I ignored it. A short time later, Sally was back and moving fast.

She darted past me into the garage, emerging seconds later clutching the roll of duct tape. She held it up. “Is gray the only colour this comes in?”

I frowned. “Well, no. I think it comes in other colours. But gray is all we have.”

“Will it prevent . . . leakage?”

“Leakage? What . . .?” But I was talking to empty space. Sally, still grasping her tape, had darted into the stairwell.

I sighed, dropped my controller and bounded up the stairs behind her.

The twin sounds of water splashing and tape ripping drew me to the doorway of the bathroom.

A large and growing puddle, being blotted ineffectively by several thick towels was creeping toward me across the lino.

Sally, tongue held firmly between her teeth, was busily applying strips of tape to a large gap in the side of the full tub. A large gap.

Remember when I mentioned the ineffectiveness of the stack of towels?

Well that term would also apply to her efforts with the tape.

Water was pouring out unabated.

I splashed through it and pulled the plug.

Sally blinked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Why, indeed.

The next few minutes were taken with soaking up water.

Then the two of us stood side-by-side, gazing down at the shattered tub.

“How . . .” I began.

“It was the stupid crowbar!” Sally said. She reached over behind the toilet and brought out the iron implement. “It slipped and . . .”

I help up a hand. “You had a crowbar in the bathroom.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.” Sally set it down and headed for the medicine chest over the sink. “Do we have any antiseptic cream. I think I may have cut my finger.”

“A crowbar. In the bathroom.” I couldn’t quite get past it.

“Yeah. For the tiles. I thought as long as I had some time, I may as well start . . .”

Again I help up a hand. “Tiles? But why fill the tub with water? And . . . You know what? I don’t want to know.”

Sally again came over to me, wrapping a Band-Aid around her finger. She handed me a vitamin pill. “Here this might help.”

I rolled my eyes, but took it and began to chew thoughtfully.

Sally looked from the tub to me. “So how are we gonna fix it?”

"We?!" I took a deep breath. “How much money do you have in your account?”

She looked at me again, and back at the tub. Then sighed. “Right.” She bent to retrieve the long, iron tool. “Huh. Look at that.”

“What?”

“I bent the crowbar.” 

Each month, Karen's followers exchange words.

And craft stories.

This month, my words, antiseptic ~ cream ~ leakage ~ savage ~ vitamin, came from my good friend, Rena at: The Blogging 911 

Rena. This one's for you!

See what the others have done!

Baking In A Tornado
The Bergham Chronicles

The Blogging 911
Cognitive Script

My Brand of Crazy
Part-Time Working Hockey Mom

Southern Belle Charm

Climaxed

Baby Trap

This

Plus this.

It was a pretty normal Saturday evening at the Tolley’s.

Parents and children seated on every available chair.

Spill-over . . . spilling over.

Onto cushions on the floor.

An old musical on the screen.

Several family members were singing along with the lyrics. “When I was a lad, I was gloomy and sad as I was since the day I was born . . .”

You get it.

One member of the company, 15 month-old Granddaughter #12 (hereinafter creatively known as GD12) wasn’t watching. Rather, she had discovered the box of baby toys conveniently placed in the very likely case of boredom. And/or  . . . yeah. Boredom.

One of the toys, a ball inside a ball, was especially intriguing. She carried it around for several minutes—a great period in babytime.

Sometime during these moments of discovery, GD12 realized that she could put her little hand inside the ball.

And grasp the second ball trapped there.

But there, her play came to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t extract that dratted second ball.

She could reach in a grasp it, but the holes in the outer ball weren’t large enough to allow for baby hand and grasped ball to emerge.

Stumped, she brought the whole thing--hand, balls and all.

To me.

Her dilemma was immediately apparent. How to get that second—and infinitely desirable—second ball . . . out.

Her little hand was still firmly grasping it. And no way was she going to let it go.

“Oh, look!” I said. “We caught a little monkey!”

Modern monkey/baby traps.

Colourful and effective.

With big sister.
Getting her hands into other mischief...

Times Twenty

In our house, birthdays came and went

With regularity,

And though we tried, it was so hard,

To act with parity.

The cake was simple, ‘Mama’ made,

In chocolate or spice,

Then decorated more or less,

So it would look sooo ‘nice’.

But gifts! Oh, boy those were the test,

You wanted something great,

But fluctuating finance made kids

Happy or distrait.

As they grew older, Papa’d say,

In stentorian voice,

“All birthdays now are cancelled, kids!”

His kids did not rejoice!

But deep inside, his children knew

He really meant it not.

They really needn’t worry that

Their day’d be forgot.

The kids are grown and moving on,

Now their kids’ birthdays loom,

And once again we find that we,

Our duties we’ve resumed.

Instead of six, there’s twenty now,

And everything costs more,

Every other week we’re found,

Perusing. In the store.

This week my Husby tried that thing

That he had tried before,

Announcing that all birthdays

Would not be fêted more.

But what a clamour then arose,

Each one outdid the next,

One didn’t have to look too hard,

To see that they were vexed.

But deep inside, his ‘grands’ all knew

He really meant it . . . not.

They really needn’t worry that

Their day’d be forgot.

And truth be told we love it when

They open up our gifts,

They may think it’s theirs alone,

It’s us that feel the lift.

So every other week you’ll find

With minimum of fuss,

That Husby and his loving wife,

Are there at Toys R Us.

Each month 'mid lives both old and new,
Our Karen gives us poems to do.
And now you see what we have writ',
Impressed, now, with our smarts and wit?
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: September Twelfth

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Another Year Has Passed

Sarah of My Brand of Crazy: 10 Years of a Lifetime

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Unwanted Anniversary

Fixed

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds. Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog. Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with longish, silky black and tan and white hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet. He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy. Injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

53 years later:

I was visiting with my Dad and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

Or someone similar...

My 'Teddy'

When I was young, the dark I feared,

My brothers teased and thought me weird,

I sighed and recognized my lot,

Imagination’s what I’d got.

Then Mama gave me something warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my small bed were parked.

‘Twas plump and cuddly, soft and sweet,

It blotted tears, caressed my cheeks,

When monsters came (at close of day),

I cuddled hard—they went away.

I called it ‘Teddy’, ‘cause it was,

A Teddy Bear with furry paws,

And so together he and me,

We grew as close as friends could be.

And time went on and then I grew

And married a boy that I knew,

But though much older, I’d not outgrown,

That fear of darkness that I'd known,

I had no bear to cuddle with,

Protect me from my monster myths,

But then I found I’d something more,

To stop those monsters at the door.

My marriage gave me someone warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my large bed were parked.

He’s not fuzzy, but he's sweet,

He blots my tears, caresses cheeks,

When monsters come (at close of day),

I cuddle hard—they go away.

So though I don’t have Teddy now,

It doesn’t matter anyhow,

‘Cause what I have is far more 'good',

Than what I had in childhood!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, in our own way,

We'll celebrate those baking days.                      

Sobering Truth

Picturesque.
And deadly.

Branding time was an opportunity to celebrate.

The calf crop – the ranch’s major source of income - had mostly passed the first difficult months and was growing well.

The warm, summer months had arrived.

One got the chance to spend a day or two in company with one’s friends and peers. For the mostly solitary riders, a rare treat. On many ranches, it was a time to kick up one’s heels.

So to speak.

Now the Stringam Ranch, where I was raised, was a liquor-free zone.

But on many ranches, the alcohol was flowing even before the last animal was branded.

Happy cowboys.

Semi-tame animals.

Sharp knives.

An open fire.

Red-hot irons.

And liquor.

Who doesn’t see any sources of concern here?

One particular tale of woe, told to us by our dad, stayed with me forever.

Let me tell you about it . . .

The branding was nearly finished for the day.

One of the hands had produced a bottle of something code-named ‘Hair of the Dog’.

It was . . . strong. And its effects pretty much instantaneous.

Said bottle made a couple of rounds.

By the end of the second pass, the boys were (to quote something ‘ranch-y’) feeling their oats.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a literal blur.

The last animal was branded.

Who, what or where, by this point no one really knew.

Or cared.

Someone shouted, “Let ‘em go!”

The corral gate was swung open.

I should probably mention that these cows and calves had been cooped up all day.

They were hungry, tired, stressed and sore.

The great outdoors looked just like that. Great.

En masse, they poured through that opening, heedless of anything that may be in the way.

The boss of the outfit suddenly remembered, through a slight haze, that there had been a cow noticed earlier. A cow with a horn that had curved the wrong way and was now threatening to actually grow into the animal’s head.

Easily fixed with a couple of lassos and a small saw.

But now that cow, along with her fellows, was making her way as quickly as possible toward the G.O. (see above).

He leaped aboard his trusty steed (which immediately proved itself to be anything but trusty) and gave it the spurs.

The animal, lacking somewhat in dignified communicative skills, resorted to the less dignified.

It began to buck.

Now, normally, this would have resulted in a few strong words with maybe a dusting in the prairie soil. But in this particular instance, location was everything.

Because the animal chose to express itself under the crossbar of the corral gate.

That first leap mortally injured the rancher.

Now the man had lived a rough life. Worked rough. Played rough. And drank rough.

And now he had a rough death.

A sadly sobering truth.

I don’t know what the effect was on those boys who witnessed the event.

But for me, even listening to it third-hand made me vow never to mix alcohol and any form of ranch work.

I know most of you probably won’t be toting a branding iron any time soon.

So, this is for everyone else . . .

When branding?

Leave the liquor in the bunkhouse. 

Sundays are for Ancestors. I know that none of my forebears were actually involved in this story. But it was told to me by Daddy.

I think that counts!

Fly With Me

Mom, George, Chris, Jerry, Dad and me.
Not picuted: The clothesline.

Climbing was my thing.
Ask anyone.
My climbing ability was legendary. My experiences, many and varied.
Many's the time my mom would sprint up the old machinery hill to save her tiny daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Or at least from a very unpleasant fall to the bottom of the 100 foot TV tower.
My father, too, was no stranger to my favorite activity. During a visit with the manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Alberta, the new chandelier in the great room was being discussed.
"It's magnificent," Dad said, gazing up into the rafters 50 feet above them.
"Yeah, we really like it," the manager said, following his gaze. "The only thing I'm concerned about is how we're going to clean it."
"Clean it?!" Dad said. "Well, I have a daughter who will climb it!"
Together, my parents plucked me off the top of horses, bulls, pigs, haystacks, combines, tractors, trees, fences, shed roofs, barn roofs, garage roofs, car roofs, water towers, windmills, and even the occasional propane tank.
Admittedly, a fall from many of them probably wouldn't have been fatal. Just . . . uncomfortable.
But no amount of lecturing or lurid stories illustrating the dangers of such activities could discourage me.
I just had to climb.
And then that fateful day . . .
Isn't it odd that fateful days never, ever seem to start out any different from any other day? I mean, sullen, red skies would be entirely appropriate. With phenomena. That way, you'd know that something momentous was about to happen.
But I digress . . .
I had discovered a wonderful new activity.
It included Mom's clothesline and the picnic table.
And climbing.
For some reason, the table had been shoved close to the clothesline. Close enough that someone daring - me - could make a run along the table and launch oneself - also me - onto the clothesline.
Now I should point out here that Mom's clothesline wasn't one of those boring long stretches of wire so useless to an enterprising youngster. No.
It was a new-fangled round one.
That spun when pushed.
And if you leapt and caught the wires just right, you could spin all the way around and back to the table.
Which I did.
Several times. In fact, I was the neighborhood champion. Again and again I would perform for my audience to appreciative oohs and aahs.

Several of the kids tried it, but no one could go quite as far or as fast as I could, although some were getting close. I decided it was time to up the ante. 
Slightly.
I was going to try for a double axel.
It had never been done. Never even been attempted.
But I was going to do it.
My audience was assembled.
I dusted my hands together and poised at the back edge of the picnic table.
The crowd grew hushed.
I took a deep breath and launched myself along the table.
Perfect.
I flew gracefully across the intervening space.
Even more perfect.I reached out for the wires.
And for the first time in my life, missed.
Missed?
I reached again, frantically, then looked up at the wires, as they slowly moved further and further from me.
How could this be?
With a heavy thump, I hit the ground, driving every square millimeter of air from my lungs.
My friends stared at me, frozen. Then there was a collective scream and they all rushed forward.
"Diane! Diane! Are you all right?"
I just stared at them and tried to catch my breath.
Then a horrified, "Diane, you're bleeding!"
I looked down. They were right. Blood was spattered on my shirt and shorts. I looked at my arms. My legs.
Nothing.
Then I tried to talk.
And realized where the blood was coming from.
My mouth.
Shocked, I put a hand over it.
"Mrs. Stringam! Mrs. Stringam!" several voices began shouting.
My Mom came on the run.
"Oh, my!" She knelt beside me and put a towel to my chin. "Open your mouth, Honey."
I tried to obey, but my mouth didn't want to. It had suddenly begun to hurt.
It wanted to stay shut.
I felt the tears begin.
"It's okay, Honey, just open your mouth."
Finally, I was able to open it. A little.
Mom gasped, and put the towel over my mouth.
"Come on, Dear, let's get you into the house."
"Mrs. Strin-gam? Will Diane be all right?" I vaguely recognized Laurie's voice.
"She'll be fine, Dear. I'll just take her into the house and get her cleaned up."
Mom half-led, half-carried me into the cool, quiet house and sat me down on the cupboard in the kitchen. Then she sponged the blood off my face and neck.
"Let me have another look, Honey," she said.
Obligingly, though I really didn't want to, I opened my mouth for her.
"Okay, well, you've cut your tongue, Honey. It's probably going to hurt quite a bit. But it'll be all right."
So she kept saying. Why didn't I believe her?
"Here. Hold this while I call Doctor Clemente."
I took the towel she was pressing to my face while she went to the phone.
"Yes, Doctor." I could hear her in the hallway. "Yes. Okay." She hung up the phone.
Then she was back beside me. "Here, Honey, let me take it."
She gently swabbed at my mouth again.
Mom could make anything feel better.
Almost
Later, after I had refused supper, a new thing for me, I overheard her talking to Dad.
"Yes, I think it's bitten at least half-way through. It's still attached, but barely. The doctor thinks it will heal just fine, but it'll be a while, and it'll be painful."
A while?
That is parent code for 'forever'.
Sigh.
It did heal. And quite quickly, too, in 'Parent' time.
During that time, I was the focus of all of the neighborhood kids. Everyone would come up to me and ask me to stick out my tongue.
Then ooh and ah delightedly.
I was a celebrity.
It was almost enough to get me climbing again.
Almost.