'Jet' Setter

Astonishing.

Kids are observant.

If you don’t believe me, try spending an hour with a three-year-old.

They just don’t always understand what they are seeing . . .

Our good friend, Shirley, though a medium plane trip away, spends as much time as she can with her young granddaughters.

She (and they) love it.

She flies into the local airport and her son and his family meet her at Arrivals. Hugs and kisses are exchanged.

And she and her luggage are scooped up and transported to her son’s house.

Everyone enjoys time together.

Then, at the end of her visit, she and her baggage are returned to the airport, where more kisses and hugs are exchanged and she disappears through to Departures.

A fairly mundane – and not infrequent – chain of events.

And one that everyone thought the little granddaughters understood.

During Shirley’s last visit, the topic of transportation came up. Specifically, the astounding revelation that “Grandma can drive?!”

Her youngest granddaughter was particularly amazed.

“I didn’t know you could drive, Grandma!”

“Well, I can. I even have a car of my own!”

“Huh. I didn’t know you had a car.” A short pause. Then, “I thought you had a jet.”

Yep.

Our little ones are observing.

They’re just not always putting things together in the right configuration.

Be warned.

Aaaand...Parked

Ha! Did it!

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving. Mowing. Baling. Stacking. There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in. And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Just FYI.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to traveling in the fields and doing ranch work but I was still driving.

And in control . . . more or less, as I made wide turns about the fields.

On to my story . . .

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked, spent an hour or so riding in the early morning sunshine, and drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where it all went so very wrong.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding really early. By the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

And remember where I said that I was only accustomed to maneuvering in large spaces?

Well, that would apply here.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine. This was going nowhere fast.

And suddenly, standing there in a shaft of early morning light looking like the avenging God of Sleep(lessness), was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wore pajamas. Nicely pressed, matching, button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They were quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed. Oddly enough, it's usually when I'm around.

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me. I knew that look. I'd seen it before.

A few times.

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience. I disappeared in a heartbeat.

Dad surveyed the damage. There were a couple of 'bruises' on one of the carport supports and a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out later when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor if you don't count lost sleep.

Which Dad does.

Sigh.

I want you to know that I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time. And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget. 

A Quarter Thief

Me. Sigh.

What you are about to read may be shocking. You may even want to re-think continuing your friendship with me.

I’m a thief.

Well . . . a would-be thief. If I’d gotten away with it, who knows where I’d be now.

And the funny thing is, she probably would have given me one if I'd just asked.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was nine.

Mom was chatting in the front room with one of her friends. Their discussion had turned to something that said friend was interested in purchasing from Mom.

Goods were produced and delivered.

Exclamations of surprise and delight. (Okay, I’m assuming here.)

Friend’s handbag appeared.

Was opened.

And a coin purse came into view.

A number of quarters were counted out and cradled in friend’s hand.

To this point, all was above board, friendly and honest.

But this is where bright-eyed, slightly avaricious Diane came into the picture.

Mom turned to me. “Diane, could you please bring me the money?”

I nodded, my eyes already on the gleaming silver in the woman’s hand. I moved closer and held out my hand. She tipped hers and poured the pile of coins into mine.

And that’s when my heinous plan was hatched.

There were a lot of coins. Surely Mom wouldn’t notice if just one went missing?

Deftly (?), I sneaked one quarter into my other pocket as I turned and walked over to Mom - duly delivering the treasure.

Then, task completed, I dashed upstairs with my booty (ie. Ill-gotten gains), already planning how I was going to spend it.

A few minutes later, I vaguely heard the front door close.

And then my Mom was standing in my bedroom doorway.

“Diane, we need to talk.”

Uh-oh.

She sat on my bed and held out her hand with the quarters in it.

I looked at them. Then at my Mom. “Ummm . . . yeah?”

“Diane, one of the quarters is missing.”

“Really?” My brain started turning frantically. “A quarter?”

“Diane, did you steal a quarter?”

“Umm . . .”

“Diane?”

“Maybe it dropped. You know, when I took the change? On the floor? I’ll go look.” And I escaped out of the door and into the front room where I quickly (before my Mom could get there and see what I was doing) flipped the coin under our recent guest’s chair.

Then, dropping to my hands and knees, I miraculously, ‘found’ it moments later. Holding it out proudly in my hand, I presented it to Mom. “It was there! See?”

Mom nodded and took the coin. Then looked at me.

With a ‘Mom’ look. “Don’t ever take anything that doesn’t belong to you, Diane.”

“But I dropped . . .”

“Okay?”

I nodded unhappily. How had she seen through my clever subterfuge?

My career as a thief ended that day.

I obviously didn’t have the ‘knack’.

Mom saw to that.

Amen to That

You'd better be thankful for that!
Just sayin' . . .

Suppertime at the Stringam Ranch.

Wonderful food.

Great company.

The best part of everyone’s day.

Well . . . most everyone.

Mealtimes on a spread the size of ours inevitably meant the mixing of people of vastly different lives and lifestyles.

There was the family. Mom, Dad, children, babies.

Hired men. Ranging in age from the world-weary, leather-faced, taciturn individual who had spent a lifetime squinting into the sun, to the young, smooth-cheeked, ready-for-anything boy, away from home for the very first time.

And assorted people who simply found themselves in the vicinity when the dinner bell rang; and happily joined the queue heading into the dining room.

A fairly eclectic mix.

All knew they would be treated to the very best of good, ranch cooking.

And that the traditional meal would begin with another, more important tradition.

Thanking the Lord.

Regardless of race, creed or colour, the people gathered around my father’s table to eat my mother’s food, would patiently and solemnly bow their heads as Grace was said.

Further participation was optional.

Case in point:

My eldest sister had just turned four.

And had taken on all the heavy duties and responsibilities associated with that venerable age.

Seated happily among the people gathered around the table for the evening meal, she folded her hands tightly, bowed her curly red-haired head, and squeezed her eyes shut when the prayer was said.

There was a chorus of ‘Amens’.

Chris’ head swiveled around and she pinned the hired man seated next to her with a blue-eyed glare.

“You didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said loudly.

The man turned slightly red and squirmed in his chair as he reached for the stack of still-warm, freshly-sliced bread.

Chris turned to her father. “Daddy! He didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said, even more loudly.

Dad paused in the passing of a large bowl of potatoes. “Ummm . . .” he said.

She turned to the other end of the table. “Mom...!”

“That’s okay, dear,” Mom soothed.

The now red-faced man managed to make it through the rest of a meal punctuated by the side-long glances from a tiny girl with strong convictions.

I’m sure he had had more uncomfortable meals in his lifetime.

I’m also sure he was wishing he was at one of them.

Grandma Ears

For years, poor Grandma’s hearing had been slowly growing worse,

T'was steadily much tougher for her loved ones to converse,

So she marched herself to Costco, had a hearing aid put in,

When told her hearing’s perfect, well now, Grandma only grinned.

A few weeks later, back she popped for further tests and such,

Her doctor asked if life had changed. She told him, “Not that much.”

“The hearing aid you chose is number one,” he said. “First rate!”

“Your family must be pleased, now that your hearing’s gotten great!”

But Grandma merely smiled. “I’ve yet to tell them anything.”

“I sit around and listen to the chats of my offspring.”

“They don’t know I can hear their many sordid gripes and crimes,

“But I can tell you, doctor, dear, I’ve changed my will three times!”

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? That scary time of year,

Yes, Halloween. You'll find it here.

Hospital F(e)ast

Two small boys were patients in the same hospital room.

One of them was my Dad, Mark.

Age: eight.

He had been admitted to hospital for the sole purpose of having his appendix removed. He wasn’t particularly uncomfortable at the time, but the doctor had so decreed.

And removed it must be.

The day of his surgery arrived.

In those days, a folder containing a chart and/or other pertinent information was hung at the foot of every bed in the hospital. Doctor’s orders and observations were recorded there. Nurse’s actions and observations, ditto.

As of that morning, Mark’s folder contained a singly-worded sign.

“FASTING”.

Yikes. Mark, the active and usually well-fed small boy was being denied food.

Don’t you wonder why it’s called fasting?

At no other interval does time move more slowly.

Just a thought . . .

Mark knew what the word meant. But his appetite wasn’t about to be denied that easily.

Grabbing a pen, he made a tiny, little change.

Then, satisfied with his ingenuity, he sat back on his bed and waited for lunch to arrive.

Promptly at noon, an attendant appeared with Mark’s roommate’s tray.

She set it down and started back toward the doorway.

Mark sat up. “Wait! Where’s mine?”

She looked at him. “You’re fasting.”

“No, I’m not. Look!” Mark slid down to the end of the bed and held up his chart.

The woman took it and peered closely.

At the ‘FASTING’ sign.

The one which now read ‘FeASTING’.

She leveled a look at the grinning boy, then turned on one squeaky rubber-soled white shoe and left.

Mark didn’t get his lunch and he duly reported to the operation theatre for his little procedure.

Without anyone acknowledging his inventiveness.

Sigh.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Some days later, his mother received the bill for his hospital stay.

Itemized carefully in the list was a charge for $3.25 for ‘One Sign’.

Oops.

I guess someone noticed after all . . .

Sundays are for Ancestors!
Tell me about yours . . .

A Little Mystery

Could you help me with something?
A few months ago, Husby and I purchased a secretary.
Now before you get worried, it was the kind that is beautifully crafted of wood.

See?

We purchased it in an antique store just outside of Courtenay, British Columbia.
Husby dragged out his oils and rags and other paraphernalia and got to work.
Refinishing.
But that isn't why we need the help.
That part comes now . . .
While Husby was busily taking apart and putting together, he discovered, trapped in a far cranny, this:

Don't they look happy?

Now comes the help part.

Anyone recognize them?

I'd love to discover the story!

If I don't find the real tale, I'm going to have to create one.

And, let's face it, the created probably won't be anywhere near the actual.

Just sayin'.

So, pass it along!

Slide!

Aerial view.

The day after.

Not far from Calgary, Alberta, and just east of the Crowsnest Pass, lies the small, bustling town of Frank, Alberta, nestled on the floor of a deeply-glaciated valley.

Looming menacingly nearby is Turtle Mountain.

Also nearby is a scene of destruction of such magnitude that it has never been equaled!

In the early morning hours of April 29, 1903, Turtle Mountain collapsed, resulting in the greatest landslide in North American history.

In 100 seconds: at least 76 people were buried alive under tons of massive limestone boulders; three-quarters of the homes in Frank were crushed like balsa wood; over a mile of the Canadian Pacific Railroad was completely destroyed, and a river became a lake.

Yet, few people have ever heard about it.    - Neil Simpson                                                                        

My parents were driving out to the coast and travelling through Frank Slide was a necessity.

In the years after the tragedy, not much of the rubble had been disturbed. The giant boulders and pieces of mountain lay where they had fallen, a silent testament to those trapped forever beneath.

The road had been cut through and the railway reconnected.

Little else had been touched.

Driving through, one's car dwarfed by the massive chunks of rock, one could easily imagine the horror and heartbreak of that fateful morning.

Unless one was four.

Which I was.

I should mention here that, when our family travelled, the scenery or anything else flying past us outside the car never interested me. Because when I was in a car I was either:

1. Sick
2. Oblivious
3. Sick and oblivious
4. Asleep

The only thing that could rouse me were the words, “Look! Horses!”

I would leap up instantly, despite being heretofore (real word) comatose and press my nose against the nearest window. “Where!? Where!?”

One or the other of my parents would point out the eagerly anticipated animals.

I would stare at them for as long as time permitted, then collapse back onto the seat with a sigh and return to whatever I had been doing.

I was fairly easily entertained.

But I digress . . .

The road had been long. We had already been travelling for an hour.

I was drowsing on the back seat.

Suddenly, Dad spoke up, “Here we are kids! Frank Slide!”

At almost the same time, my Mom said, “Look at all the rock!”

The tone of voice was the same as what my parents used whenever they pointed out something interesting.

Like horses.

But because the word 'horse' had not actually been used, I was slow to respond.

I must admit that I never even heard my Mom's comment.

I sat up and pressed my face against the window.

I don't know what I was expecting. Dad had said something about a 'slide'.

To me that meant something 'playground-y'.

All I could see were huge rocks.

What kind of playground was this?

Finally, I turned to my parents and said, “Can't see it!”

They burst out laughing.

What was that all about?

Mom pointed out the window. “Can't you see all the rock?”

I glanced outside. “Yeah.”

“Well that's it!”

I looked again. “But I can't see it!”

I don't think they ever figured out that I was talking about the 'slide'.

The real slide. The one Dad had seen.

All they wanted was to look at the stupid rocks.

Parents are so weird.

Perspective.

P.S. As part of his amazing job, Husby was project manager for a large, government-sponsored interpretive center built among the ruins. It's worth a visit!

The Pie a la Mud

Mmmmm...

I've used many, many recipes in my life.

Starting with simple: crackers and cheese.

And, believe me, you have to get that one just right . . .

To more complicated: hot dogs.

And I'm sure I don't have to explain the vital importance of the meat to bun ratio. And I won’t even go into the selection and/or serving size of condiments.

But my very first recipe was not nutritious.

Or even edible.

In fact, though it smelled rather good, I wouldn't have fed it to the dog.

Well, actually I did try.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was staying with my friend/cousin, Jean.

It was summer.

We had been playing in Aunt Grace's kitchen. Under Aunt Grace's feet.

Till Aunt Grace finally had enough and kicked us outside to play.

Dutifully, we had played.

Then we started looking for something a little more . . . constructive.

“Let’s make mud pies!” Jean suggested.

Mmm. I like pie. “Okay.”

She found an old pot and we started adding ingredients.

I should mention here that, as we didn't have all of the ingredients for pie, and really weren't completely sure what those ingredients were, we . . . erm . . . substituted.

Back to my story . . .

Dirt. (For flour)

Water. (For water) And I should tell you that you have to get this ingredient just right. Too much and your mud pies are sloppy. Not enough and you can’t do a thing with them.  Just FYI.

Rocks. (Those were the raisins)

Two eggs that we stole from the hen house. (For eggs)

Grass. (For coconut)

We didn't mix any awful things into it, though I did find some dog doo that I was tempted to add.

For flavour.

Jean stopped me. “Diane! If you put that in, no one could eat it!”

Important point.

Finally, we mixed our wondrous concoction and formed it carefully into little blobs on the wall of her mother’s flower garden. Right in the sunlight where our pies could cook and get nice and toasty.

Mmmm. They even smelled good.

I never got to taste our pies.

We were called in to dinner and my Mom picked me up just after that.

But I remember them. And how they would have tasted . . .

Our good friend, Shirley was over visiting.

She told us her ‘mud pie’ story.

How she and her sister found an old pail.

Added their ingredients.

Stirred well.

When it comes to the ‘cooking’ part, Shirley’s story takes a different turn from mine.

Her family had a chicken coop.

With a little wood stove inside to keep their feathered friends warm in the cooler months of the year.

Hmmm.

Why bother to set their mud concoction into the sun, where the actual ‘baking’ would be iffy, at best.

They would set their creation on the little wood stove.

And boil it.

Genius.

No sooner said than . . .

I probably don’t have to tell you that the flaws in their technique were almost immediately apparent.

In Shirley’s words . . . “It really stank!”

So, a note to all mud-pie enthusiasts out there.

Bake.

Don’t boil.

You heard it here first.

Folded

My Laundress.

It’s laundry day.

That sounds so odd, considering for a large part of my life, when all the kids were still at home, laundry day was every day. If at least two loads didn’t make it through the washing-drying-folding-parking cycle on a daily basis, the mountain would overtake the house.

Ahem . . .

This morning, I was snapping some pillowcases to get them to behave so they could be properly—and seamlessly—folded.

It brought back a memory . . .

For many years, I ran a day home. During that time, I was entrusted with the care of two adorable little blonde girls—ages three and five when they first appeared.

Their mother, single at the time, was doing her best to raise and train and love her girls, even while faced with the doubly momentous task of feeding them and providing shelter.

She had a good job which paid well.

And would have been totally justified in working full time and leaving her girls in my care during those days and weeks and months.

But instead, she worked as much as she needed to to pay the bills and keep the ‘wolf from the door’. The rest of the time, she spent as a mother. Going on field trips. Baking. Cooking. Loving.

And training.

I admired her greatly. (And still do.)

One day, I had descended into the basement to do laundry. Her three-year-old and my own followed.

The two of them immediately spun off into the playroom.

A short time later, I carried in a basket of clothes warm from the drier and proceeded to fold.

My daughter continued with her toys.

Hers came over to me and, to my surprise, grabbed a pillowcase, gave it an expert snap, then proceeded to fold.

Now, I should probably point out that this particular item was taller than she was.

It didn’t deter her. She finished with it and reached for something else, staying until the entire basket was sitting in a neatly-folded pile.

I think often of that single mother, struggling to provide a home—and training—to her two little daughters.

She succeeded.

P.S. Today, there are classes being offered to grown children who haven’t been taught basic life skills at home.

I know a three-year-old who could teach them.

Doors

Daddy's Favourite!
And who better to put the topic of DOORS to rhyme than Spike Jones and his City Slickers!
I can still hear Daddy singing along...



Also for your enjoyment: The best article about doors I've ever read!
Mumblings

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?

Though some of us have just signed up,

Next week's about The Grandma Club!

The Other Boy

Shiny Black (Waterproof) Magic

It started out well.

But magical doesn’t always remain magical.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When Dad was three, his Mom and Dad came home from their monthly Lethbridge shopping trip with something special.

A pair of rubber boots just his size.

Boots that came without any pesky laces.

Overjoyed at being able to don them himself, he quickly did so. Then marched triumphantly around the house.

“Those are for walking in water,” his mother pointed out. Then she pointed out. “Outside.”

Excited at the prospect of being able to step in water without worrying about spoiling precious shoes, Dad hurried to comply.

He stood in the yard for a moment, glancing quickly about, looking for a currently boy-less puddle of water.

In the garden where his mother had been running the sprinkler, he found exactly what he sought. A shiny pool of water just the right size.

Eagerly, he made a dash for it.

For a second, he paused at the edge, letting the anticipation of the moment . . . erm . . . wash over him. Then he stepped into the water.

Oooooo!

He moved further. The water came a little higher on his new rubber boots.

For a time, he kept his eyes on the magical, world-altering foot gear as he splashed around. Then he stopped and watched the ripples slowly still. The pool became calm.

And it was then he noticed that there was a small, blond-haired boy staring back at him out of the water.

He shrieked and spun around, intent on finding either his mother or the nearest far-away place as quickly as possible.

But toddler feet, new boots, mud and water in combination don’t make for graceful, gazelle-like moves.

Hopelessly tangled up, Dad landed backside-first in the puddle. Where his amazing, magical, life-changing boots promptly filled with water.

A few minutes later a nearly hysterical, decidedly soggy, mud and tear-streaked boy appeared at the back door of the house – boots sloshing with water.

I don’t know what his Mom said. I expect something soothing – over the chuckles – as her small son poured out his story.

And his boots.

Sundays are for ancestors.

Tell me about yours!

Getting 'Real'

It started as a normal day.

Okay, yes. You’re right. We don’t have those in our house.

Consider it satire.

Let me start again.

The day began . . .

Mom had made her usual breakfast of champions. My favourite: hotcakes, sausages, eggs . . . and onions. Okay, it’s a personal ‘haute cuisine’ thing.

Cause I’m such a classy person.

Ahem . . .

Sally had been mostly absent during the meal; staring into space. Not an unusual thing. For her.

I’m pretty sure she had a good reason today, though. Mom doesn’t allow electronics at the table and Sally had just gotten a new Roller Coaster game for her DS. I’m pretty sure she was playing it in her head.

Okay, let’s not talk about Sally’s head.

Moving on . . .

Mom and I were actually enjoying the peace and quiet. Sally had been razzing Mom all week because she wanted a ‘Playstation VR’, which was, to her, the greatest virtual-reality/life-changing system ever! But, to quote Mom, was: “So far out of the realm of possibility that it wasn’t even a faint blip on the Hubble Telescope.”

But you who know Sally, also know that she doesn’t take such a frivolous word as ‘no’ seriously. In fact, the introduction of that one tiny word had been known to morph into discussions that encompassed topics from the dawn of creation to the end of days.

Mom had finally relented so far as to buy Sally the aforementioned Roller Coaster game.

For a short time, she'd been appeased.

Breakfast ended. I’d drawn the short straw, so Mom and I started the clean-up.

Sally drifted off.

As I was wiping the table a few minutes later, I saw my sister head out the front door. She had her bike helmet on. And a roll of duct tape in one hand and her DS in the other.

I really didn’t think anything of it. It is Sally we’re talking about.

Silly me.

I was putting the last of the dishes away. Mom turned, our glass milk jug in her hands. “Honey, you’re taller than me. Could you put this up there?” She nodded her head toward the upper cupboard over the fridge. “Then I don’t have to get the stool.”

“Sure.”

Such normal, natural talk.

Sigh.

Just as Mom reached out to pass me the jug, something in the window caught her eye.

I spun around and our passing/reaching ended in the shattering of said jug on the linoleum.

Neither of us noticed because I had glimpsed what so distracted Mom.

A body falling past the window.

Large body.

Roughly ‘Sally’ sized.

We jumped over the shattered mess that had formerly been our sparkling-clean source of all things milky and headed for the door.

Mom is older than me, but her aged limbs . . . okay, she’s thirty-six . . . passed me like a shot.

By the time I’d cleared the door and joined her at the prostrate figure lying in our formerly pristine flower bed, Mom had already knelt down.

Of course, it was Sally. I mean, who else would it be?

Still wearing her bike helmet, but with something added to the front.

With the duct tape.

Mom reached out and grabbed the ‘something’ and pulled it off with one great jerk; handing it to me.

I looked down. Sally’s DS. With roller coaster game still running.

Sally’s blue eyes looked up at us. “You’ve got to try this!” she gasped out. She raised herself up on one elbow. “My own virtual reality! I think I’m on to something!”

Mom shook her head and she and I stood up. I dropped Sally’s DS beside her and the two of us headed for the door.

“Hey! Don’t you want to hear about it?! I mean, leaping from the rooftop in reality as well as in the . . .”

I closed the door. Hard.

And considered locking it.

“She’ll only find some other way in,” Mom said. 

This story is fiction, although I'm sure most of you have a for-real 'Sally' in your life!
Today is a word challenge.

Karen of Baking in a Tornado takes from the repository of words supplied by her slaves good friends, shuffles them, and then gives back to those same . . . erm . . . people.

To do with as they see fit.

The result is the Use Your Words challenge!

This month, my words, satire ~ breakfast of champions ~ morph ~ haute ~ tape ~ virtual reality, came from my friend, Jenniy of Climaxed. What fun! Thank you, Jenniy.

Now go and see what the others have done with the challenge!

Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles

The Blogging 911

Cognitive Script

Climaxed

The Phone Less Thrifty

Call me!

One of Dad’s elder brothers, Alonzo (hereinafter known as Uncle Lonnie), became a wealthy man by the simple practices of thrift, caution and wise investment.

Besides being brothers, he and Dad were good friends and often ranched together.

Which necessitated good communication.

Living fifty miles apart, this meant telephoning.

I should explain here that, in the late sixties, phone plans had not yet been invented.

To avoid the high costs of calling long distance, people resorted to many individual 'tricks'.

But, officially, you had only two options.

You dialed a number directly and paid.

Or, if you weren't certain the person you wanted was home, you dialed ‘person-to-person’ and had an operator facilitate the call. This was more expensive if your party turned out to be there, but cost you nothing if they weren't.

Understand?

Moving on . . .

Uncle Lonnie, he of the sound mind and thrifty practices, needed to talk to Dad.

But it was the middle of the day, a time when phone calls were at their most expensive. Uncertain if he would find Dad at home, he opted to have an operator place the call.

Dad answered the phone. The call went something like this . . .

Dad: “Hello?”

Operator: “I have a person-to-person call for Dr. Mark Stringam.”

Dad: “This is Dr. Stringam.”

Operator: “Go ahead, sir!”

Uncle Lonnie: “If I’d known you were actually there, I’d have dialed directly!”

Dad: “Well, I'm here!” And he hung up the phone.

Pumpkin Time

I love pumpkin. Quite a lot.

Love it cold. And love it hot.

Made in soups or cakes or pies,

I even like my pumpkin fries!

And so in honor of this treat,

I have some jokes that can’t be beat,

My grandkids found them, it is true,

And so I’ll share them, now, with you!

What waddles; is orange, white and black?
A penguin with a pumpkin pack.

How are you? What did pumpkin say?
‘I’m feeling very vine today.’

Why sits the gourd on the porch floor?
He has no hands to thump the door.

How do you fix a gourd that’s broke?
A pumpkin patch! (My favorite joke!)

What is the pumpkin’s favorite sport?
It’s squash! (They don’t play on a court…)

A pretty pumpkin. What’s it called?
It’s Gourdgeous. Please don’t be appalled…

What kind of gourd grows up in trees?
A plumkin. If you look, you’ll see.

Who helps the small gourds cross the street?
The crossing gourd. It’s quite a feat!

What’s a pumpkin that is fit?
A jock o’ lantern. They don’t quit.

An overweight-y pumpkin is?
A Plumpkin. Hey! I love this quiz!

How is a pumpkin’s family known?
They are his Pump-kin. E’en when grown.

Who is the leader of the gourds?
The Pumpking. They all call him ‘Lord’.

Best thing to put in pumpkin pie?
Your teeth. Come on now, don’t be shy.

Post-Thanksgiving, what’d gourd say?
Good-pie, All! Hope you had a nice day!

The Grands and I had lots of fun,

Just telling jokes till we were done,

D’you like them? Did we strike a cord?

I guess it’s back to the drawing board…

Each month our ‘boss’ finds something new,

And then we cogitate and stew,

Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes ‘ewww!’

The fun is sending it to you!

This month’s theme was PUMPKIN (time).

And we all got it down in rhyme!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Team Pumpkin

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Pumpkins

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: 4 Little Pumpkins