Swimming Hole

I like to swim.

It’s the one exercise during which nothing hurts.

And at my age, that’s an enormous plus.

I don’t go as often as I used to, but still try to make it three times a week.

And work hard while I’m there.

It’s a matter of efficiency . . .

I also have a rather distinctive swimming suit. Made it myself.

It’s . . . modest. Something really, really necessary as I age and my body slowly succumbs to gravity and certain parts need more and more control to keep them . . . controlled.

A few days ago, I was working my hardest. Plowing through the water like a determined hippo. (And those things can move! Just FYI.)

I noticed the lifeguard, occasionally. Guarding life.

When I finished and showered, and was donning footwear and packing up in the front foyer, I noticed said lifeguard coming toward me at flank speed.

He obviously had something to say.

To me.

Immediately, my mind leaped to different scenarios: He wanted to hire me to teach swimming. He was so amazed at my prowess that he wanted to sign me up for the upcoming swim meet – senior’s class. He wanted me to take the job as coach and trainer for the local swim team. He . . .

“Um, Ma’am? Are you the one who was wearing the blue-striped swimsuit?”

He wanted me to make him one of my special, discloses nothing, swimsuits! I smiled. “Yes?”

“You have a big hole in the backside of your suit.”
Oh.

Giving Thanks

It's Thanksgiving for our brothers and sisters across the border.
What am I thankful for?
This will start you out. It started me out . . .

My hometown!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.
Crime hadn't been invented yet.
It was, literally, a different world.
Our doors were never, ever locked.
Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each other's yards and homes and refrigerators.
Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning and doing other 'Mom' stuff.
She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.
Canned soup was something new and wonderful. Always served with yummy homemade bread sandwiches.
At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.
Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.
The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.
At ten cents each.
Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the center of the store.
Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hovan's desk was full of them.
We had our own cobbler, Mr. Szabo, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion great hunks of leather into real shoes with his little hammer.
A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera that magically developed its own pictures while you waited.
Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.
With five cents left over.
Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.
But happy.
The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row. Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.
All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.
Most of it was made on this continent.
Our clothes were mostly cotton.
Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.
Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.
And absolutely everyone attended church.
Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family but any and all extended family members and shoe-horn the entire mob into any available space.
At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the center of the intersection of Main and First streets.
The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season.
The arrival of Santa in Mr. Madge's special North Pole plane, a much-anticipated event.
And, once again, everyone went to church.
Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.
We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.
One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.
Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').
There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.
In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in Cubs, Scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.
Mom always made treats.
Yummy ones.
We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.
And all of them were wonderful people and terrific cooks.
Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .
Sports events were exactly that.
Events.
Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.
Basketball was huge.
The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.
Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.
The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.
'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.
The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.
Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.
And everyone knew everyone else.
Their address, phone number (Jody's phone number was 6), family members.
Even pets.
It was a wonderful way to grow up.
Like an enormous, caring family . . .
I loved growing up in Milk River.
It was a perfect life.
But that 'small-town' life has largely vanished everywhere now.
Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.
Friendly neighbourhoods.
Caring neighbours.
So now it's your turn. What are you thankful for?

Under the Influence

It will always be ‘That Night’.

The night my friends and I learned first-hand that drinking and driving don’t go together.

It could have been so much worse . . .

Lethbridge, Alberta is a city of about 50,000. Forty-nine miles north of Milk River.

For the kids of my hometown, it was the ‘big city’.

The place for movies and fun on the evenings when two-movie-a-week Milk River had rolled up its sidewalks.

In the hands of a steady, careful driver, it took a good part of an hour to get there.

And some planning ahead if one wanted to get to a particular movie on time.

Me and a group of my friends had stuffed ourselves into a car belonging to a friend of a friend.

And I do mean ‘stuffed’.

I’m not sure how many people were in there.

Let’s just say that, if we’d had seatbelts, there would not have been a sufficient number.

Moving on . . .

We made the trip and arrived at our movie with plenty of time to spare.

Happily, we got in line for tickets.

It was then that our driver/car-owner announced he wasn’t interested in seeing, to quote him, “Some stupid movie”.

Instead, he would wait until we were finished.

In the bar across the street.

We watched him go.

Not really worried. Thinking he would be responsible and ensure he was in a condition to take us all safely back to Milk River on that long, dark highway home.

We enjoyed the movie and emerged into the cool evening air some two hours later.

One of the boys went into the bar and emerged with our driver.

One of them was not walking very steadily.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you which one.

Our driver had spent his time trying to drink everyone else in the bar ‘under the table’.

Whatever that means.

I think he had won.

“Rrrready t’go?” he slurred at us.

I don’t know about the others, but my little teen-aged heart stopped right there.

My date put his arm around our driver. “Buddy,” he said soothingly, “I’d better drive.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?! I can drive!!! SSS’MY car!!!”

“Bud, you’re drunk. You can’t even see the steering wheel!”

“SSS’MY car!!! Ssstealin’ my car!!!”

“No, Bud, we’re not stealing your car. You can sit right next to me and we’ll all get home safely.”

“SSS’MY car!!!”

“Yes, it’s your car, and you can sit next to me . . .”

“No onesdrivin’ MY CAR!!!”

This went on for some time.

I hurried to a nearby phone booth (google it) and called home.

Getting my sleepy father out of bed.

“Daddy! Our driver’s drunk!” I wailed over the phone.

He was awake immediately. “Don’t let him drive!”

“We’re trying not to, but he’s so angry!”

“Don’t let him drive! Do you think you can convince him? Do I need to come and get you?”

I looked over at my friends, grouped around my date, who was still trying to talk to his friend. My date was saying something and the driver was shaking his head forcibly, nearly sending himself tumbling with the simple action.

“I don’t knooow!”

As I stood there, my date propped up his friend and stood back. The friend/driver nearly fell over – saved at the last moment when someone grabbed his arm.

Finally, to everyone’s relief, he nodded.

“I think they’ve convinced him,” I said. “We’re on our way.”

Happily, everyone piled into the car, with my date behind the steering wheel and our would-be driver beside him.

We left the brightly-lighted city and started out along the dark highway.

We didn’t get far.

“I ssshould be drivin’! SSSS’MY car!!!”

My date looked over at his friend. “You’re too drunk, Buddy,” he said. “I’ll get us all home safely.”

“SSS’MY CAR!!!”

He grabbed the wheel.

The car swerved sharply and my date took his foot off the accelerator and finally regained control as the boy sitting on the other side of the ‘owner’ wrestled him back into the middle of the seat.

“SSS’MY CAR! SSSSTEALIN’ MY CAR!!!”

“No, we’re not stealing anything!”

“I’m Drivin’!” Again the driver reached for the wheel.

My date pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine, pocketing the key. “Let’s walk this off,” he suggested. He slid out of the car and pulled the ‘driver’ out behind him. “C’mon Buddy, let’s walk this off.”

The two of them went around the car to the ditch and started walking up and down, my date talking quietly and the ‘driver’ shouting more and more incoherently.

Lights appeared behind us.

Grew brighter.

A pick-up truck.

One we all knew very well.

Another friend and his date pulled over in front of us.

“Trouble?” he asked.

I went over to them. “Our driver’s drunk,” I said.

“Do any of you want to come with us?” he asked.

Relief flooded over me. “Well, I do!” I said. I went back to the other car. My date was still walking up and down with his friend, talking softly and soothingly. “Does anyone want to catch a ride?” I asked.

One other person scrambled out of the car. “I do,” they said.

“I’m going with Dennis!” I called to my date.

He waved. “Do!” he said.

I climbed into the truck and made room for the other person.

For a few seconds, we watched my date continue to walk and talk, trying to convince our agitated car owner that he really was in no condition to drive.

Then we drove off, the car and my other friends disappearing into the darkness behind us.

I felt like I was abandoning them.

Half an hour later, I was walking through my front door.

My relieved parents met me as I came in.

“What happened?” Dad asked.

I told them.

They shook their heads. “Thank the Lord you had enough sense to keep him from driving,” Mom said.

“Well, they were still trying when I left,” I said. “I don’t know what happened after that.”

Later, one of my other friends called to say that they had all gotten home safely. My date had managed to calm the ‘owner’ enough to get him back into the car. And the rest of them were able to keep him from grabbing the wheel.

We learned two things that night:

1. If there’s any possibility you’re going to be the driver . . .

2. Don’t be stupid.

My Crutch(es)

Gramma and Grampa Berg

It was a magical time. 

Gramma Berg was staying over. 

For days and days. 

And she could always be counted on for a snuggle, or a story, or a song, or a treat.
In that order.
Gramma moved slowly. The result of having a shattered kneecap. I only knew that she couldn't get away from me.
Oh, and that she had crutches.
I loved those crutches. It didn't occur to my four-year-old intellect that they were a necessary part of Gramma’s mobility. I saw only that they were just right for me. 

I would put the little bar (intended as a handhold) under my arms and, with the top half of each crutch weaving far over my head, hop from one end of the house to the other. Then back. Then back again.
All day.
Sometimes I would mix it up a little and hold up the left leg instead of the right. Either was exciting. 

And daring.

Okay, I was four. My life to date hadn't been filled with momentous events. 

But I digress . . .
There was one problem with my fascination for Gramma’s crutches. She needed them. And I usually had them.

Somewhere else.
Something had to be done.
My Dad, always excited at the prospect of a new engineering task, saw an opportunity. He would make new crutches. My size. Happily, he spent many hours in the blacksmith shop, designing, measuring, cutting. Crafting. Finally, voila! Crutches. Perfect four-year-old size. 

Excited, he brought them to the house. 

Unfortunately, it was nap time and I was blotto on the couch.
Not one to let such a minor thing as a sleeping child thwart him, Dad stood me up and thrust the crutches under my arms.
I can picture it now. Small, skinny, white-haired child – literally - asleep on her feet. Head lolling to one side. Her dad holds her up with one hand while trying to brace the crutches under her arms with the other. For this story, a Dad with three hands would probably be advisable. She folds like cooked spaghetti. He tries again. Same result. Finally, defeated, he lays her back on the couch and braces the crutches against it for her to find when she is a bit more . . . conscious.
Which she does.
From then on, my crutches and I were inseparable. They were even tied behind when I went riding. I almost forgot how to walk. Strangers to the ranch would shake their heads sadly at the little, crippled child making her way across the barnyard. Then nod and acknowledge that she sure had learned how to move quickly, poor little mite. I felt guilty for the deception. 

Well, a little. 

A real little.
Okay, not at all.
I certainly learned to manoeuvre those little crutches. The only thing I never mastered was walking while lifting both feet at the same time. And, believe me, I tried.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Gramma was delighted to have her crutches back. She could get around once more. She could be portable, helpful, useful. All the qualities she found so satisfying. 

She could even challenge me to a race.

I won.

Me. Age four. With some friends.

Things We Build

Our Poetry Monday theme this week is "Things we Build"

Now I know I posted this only a year ago, but it is the best example I've seen!
Created by my son, Mark, to gift to his wife, Barb . . .

First, the poem:

The Builder

If you’ll ask any builder what

It takes to raise a wall –

They’ll say, “A firm foundation

Will help them to stand tall.

“Some days the effort seems in vain,

Stones crack, or break, or fall,

Some days it might seem there's been

No progress made at all.

“But nothing great was ever built

Within a single day,

Press on, endure, and what is built

Will never fade away.

“And bit by bit the building grows

From one stone to the next,

And many things might come about

That you did not expect.

“It takes so many years to build

A house of wood and stone,

The daily toil and strife and hurt

Seems worth it when it’s done.

“Though 50 years to build, and then

500 it may stand,

The building is a monument

To the builder’s blessed hand.”

Note: They're not finished yet,

But someday they'll be masterpieces!

Then, the pictures:

Architect: Barb Tolley
Structures: Megan: Erected 2003
Kyra: Erected 2005
Jarom: Erected 2009
Leah : Erected 2012
Emma: Erected 2017 (To be added)

See? How can I top that?!

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:

This day in 1922,

King Tut's room was brought to view!

For Those Who Sleep

My Dad was big on responsibility . . .

Like lots of dads.

And he tried to teach it to his kids . . .

Like lots of dads.

With more or less success . . .

Like lots of . . . you get the picture.

From my earliest memories, my Dad has been a finisher. Any task he was given or that he assigned himself was always completed with exactness.

It was a good example for us to follow.

Most of the time.

At one point, when I was little, Dad had been assigned to teach a class in our church congregation.

He took it very seriously.

Not only did it give him the opportunity to share his thoughts and beliefs with a group of young people, but it also provided a captive audience.

Something else he loved.

Moving on . . .

Every Sunday, one could find my Dad.

Perched on a too-small folding chair, expounding to his group of enthusiastic excited present youngsters.

He was always well-prepared and ready. Eager to share what he had learned.

But my Dad was also the county's only veterinarian.

At certain times of the year, he was the epitome (great word, right?) of busy.

Still, he would show up for his class on Sunday morning, ready to instruct . . .

It was spring.

Calving season.

Dad hadn't seen his bed for days.

Mom drove to church because he didn't trust his blurred vision and slow reflexes.

But he could still teach!

He collected his manual and scriptures and took his seat, facing his little congregation.

He began.

A few minutes later, he jumped.

And . . . woke himself up.

Not a good sign.

He peeked at his audience.

For the first time, ever, they were looking at him.

All of them.

And paying attention.

In fact, one could probably say they were riveted.

Dad felt his face grow hot.

He glanced down at his lesson.

What on earth had he been saying? He had no idea.

Dad taught us two things that day.

1. Neither wind, snow, sleet, or lack of sleep should keep anyone from carrying through with their responsibilities.
2. Lessons are much more interesting when the teacher is asleep.

Don't you dare fall asleep in my class! That's my job . . .

Left at the Fork

As is usual in our home, the day started out quite normally.

But those of you who know Sally, also know this can only mean ‘something’ is coming.

In Sally’s patented roundabout way.

Sigh.

Sally’s and my school was hosting a bake sale. Proceeds to be used to buy a pair of goats for a little village somewhere in Nigeria.

So Mom and I were baking up the proverbial storm. Cakes, cookies, squares. All in a charitable effort to provide . . . charity. Initially, Sally had been helping. Then we asked her to do something else.

Somewhere else.

Because . . . reasons. Also . . . Sally.

I’m assuming she retired to the front room because shortly after she left us, the TV began to blare at about 150 decibels. Clash of the Titans. I’d know it anywhere.

Frowning sharply, Mom had raised her sticky hands into the air and marched in there.

As the sound was almost instantly halved and Mom returned still with sticky hands but minus the frown, I assume she had successfully curbed Sally’s nine-or-nothing impulse to volume control.

Peace was restored and everyone was happy.

We went back to work.

Some 90 minutes later, Mom and I had managed to bake—and frost—some four cakes, 14 dozen cookies and three large sheets of squares.

I was in the process of wrapping up those things deemed cool enough to . . . erm . . . wrap up.

Mom was mixing yet another batch of brownies.

Then, from the front room, we heard the scrape of chair legs, followed almost immediately by thumping and the sounds of battle.

All right, yes, the sounds of men and hardware were purportedly coming from the television, but there were enough local reverberations to convince both Mom and me that the movie battle currently broadcasting wasn’t confined to the screen.

We looked at each other.

“Should I . . .” Mom started to say.

That was as far as she got.

From the front room came shout of, “A Titan against a Titan!”

And, also from the front room, a huge thump, then a moment of silence.

For those of us in the kitchen, it quickly became all too apparent what that tiny moment of silence actually meant, as something long and pointy flew into the kitchen in a great, graceful arch, neatly snagging one of the two ‘iffy’ legs on the laden table.

I probably don’t need to elucidate vis-à-vis said legs because those of you who know Sally, would also know why we have a lame table.

Moving on . . .

For a moment, the table teetered on two sound and two less-sound legs.

Instinctively, I dove for it, but misgauged my trajectory and managed—rather than to right it as had been my intention—to push it to its ultimate doom.

The weakened legs folded like wilted lettuce.

Packages of baking slid to the floor in an unhurried, sweet-smelling avalanche.

Mom and I stared at the heap. Then, as one, turned to stare at the architect of our doom.

A pitchfork, still with one of the table legs clutched in its tines, lay on the far side of the kitchen, its innocent, supine position belying its former destructive-ness.

Sally appeared in the doorway. “Oops.”

If looks could skewer, Sally would have been a goner. “A pitchfork?!” Mom shouted. “Where the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did you get a pitchfork?!”

Uh-oh. Mom almost swore. Mom never almost swears.

A journey someplace far away was indicated. Sally disappeared.

Mom was two steps behind her.

I started to pick up packages.

Yep. Just another day.

P.S. Most of the baking survived the ‘clash’.

I’m not so sure about Sally…

Each month, Karen's followers exchange words.

It's fun.

And entertaining.

This month, my words were: bake ~ everyone ~ roundabout ~ journey ~ titan 

And were given to me by my good friend, Jules at The Bergham Chronicles

Now hop over and see what the others have done with their words! 

Baking In A Tornado                            

The Bergham Chronicles                         

The Blogging 911                                      

Cognitive Script                                      

Part Time Working Hockey Mom              

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                         

Climaxed                                         

When Love Makes the Difference

Our family was watching ET. Again.

We love it.

And it brought back the memory of that first time. Back in 1982...

Okay, he's cute!

Our family was at the movies.

We had popcorn and treats.

Soft drinks.

And the quickest route to the bathroom mapped into our heads.

We were ready.

Erik was four and a little more than eager.

The theater darkened slowly.

Expectation grew.

They don't do this anymore, but in times past, every step to the opening of a movie served to heighten the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Slowly lowered lights.

Projector springing to life.

Train of white light beamed on the still-closed curtains.

Said curtains slowly drawing back.

Pictures suddenly appearing.

Sound.

It was inspired.

Everyone in the theater was transfixed.

Hands which only recently had been scrabbling (Grandpa's word) through the popcorn hung suspended, unmoving.

The audience waited, barely breathing, for the first signs of Movie.

And then it finally came, restoring breath and life to those watching.

And they were truly prepared to be entertained. Even bewitched.

Our movie that night was ET. The story about the little Extra Terrestrial.

It began . . .

Cute little kids and family interaction.

ET was introduced.

Erik crawled into my lap and announced in what he fondly believed was a whisper, “I don't like him. He's scary!”

Not scary enough that he wanted to leave, however.

He watched as the children in the movie befriended the helpless, stranded little alien.

Adopted him.

Loved him.

(Spoiler alert . . .)

He cried when ET 'died'.

And cried, again, when he came back to life.

At the end of the movie, he sighed happily and followed the rest of us out of the theater.

On the way home, as usual, we talked about the film and Erik posed the question, “Why was ET so much cuter at the end of the movie than at the beginning?”

I stared at him. “He was just the same, sweetie.”

“No. He was cuter at the end.”

We thought about it. How could something that really never changed in looks get 'better' looking?

And then it hit me. “Because, at the end, you loved him, sweetie.”

“Oh. Right.”

And it was true. The ugly little alien remained ugly until we got to know him.

Loved him.

And then we saw his beauty.

Truth comes best from a four-year-old.

Clean!

I know, to you, it prob’ly doesn’t seem a lot like cleaning,

But hear me out and I’ll explain the way that I am leaning,

I’m sure you will agree my method’s really quite efficient,

You cannot argue with results—spectacularly . . . sufficient.

Each day I open up the fridge and reach for something yummy,

Something pleasing to the taste and nourishing for my tummy,

But often times, I reach right past the ghosts of yesterdays,

Those things once fresh but whose appeal has long been passed away,

Now listen close, cause here’s the point that I was getting to,

That remarkable technique that you should really not eschew,

It’s amazingly efficient and effective, you will see,

And best of all it takes so little energy from me!

Once a year, I open up the ‘frigerator door,

And loudly contact all the food that wasn’t there before,

“All you with arms and legs and sense, I’m sorry to aggrieve,

But every one of you will have to pack their bags and leave!”

Each month all Karen's friends will gather, writing on a theme,

And sometimes genius burns and sometimes inspiration gleams,

At times we may be silly or find purpose when we're done,

But one thing that is certain is we all are having fun!

Hop over and see what the others have done with this month's theme: Cleaning Out the Fridge!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Clean Out Your Fridge Day

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Out With The Fuzzy

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Clean that Fridge

The Best of the Worst

See?

Let’s just say that ‘gambler’ wasn’t in the cards for him.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was game night at the Tolleys.

Something that happened . . . often.

The night’s game of choice? Spoons. A fairly uncomplicated game ideal for the large family.
Which we were.

One reduces the deck of cards to one set of four for each person playing. Thus, if eight of you are playing, the deck consists of eight sets of four cards. Or 32.

Oh, and there are spoons in the middle of the table (hence, the name) numbering one less than the persons playing. Why this is so will become clear.

Later.

The cards are shuffled and dealt. Four to a player. The idea is to then pass them one at a time (and in unison) to whoever is seated to your left, keeping only those cards you wish to ‘collect’.

The goal is to be the first to get all four cards the same.

And to then grab one of the spoons placed temptingly in the center of the table.

As soon as that first player grabs a spoon, everyone else at the table then does likewise, trying to not be the one who misses out.

A-ha! Now the reason for the one less spoon become apparent.

Because the person who doesn't manage to grab a spoon receives a letter.

In our family, the letters received eventually spelled out ‘horse’.

And woe be unto anyone who collected all five.

Because you were then ‘out’.

Whatever that meant.

No one in our household ever achieved that landmark.

And now on to my story. You must have realized that all this was leading somewhere . . .

Sooo . . . game night.

And Spoons.

Middle son, Duffy, was getting into the game. He had already collected a couple of letters and was trying his best to not further his losing streak.

Someone snatched a spoon.

Everyone followed madly behind.

And a letter was ‘rewarded’.

There was some laughter and the spoons were replaced and the cards re-shuffled.

Then eldest daughter suddenly pointed to the center of the table. “There’s one spoon missing!” she said.

True enough. There were only six when there should have been seven.

A short search was initiated.

Duffy pointed across the table. “You should probably lo . . .” That was as far as he got.

Because the missing spoon slid out of his sleeve to land with an incriminating little ‘click’ on the polished tabletop.

“Erm . . .”

Remember that part where I predicted he’d never become a gambler?

Now you know why.

Someplace Warm

The winds were blowing awful fierce,

Forecast predicting something worse,

The snow was falling thickly down,

And ice encased our little town.

We were feeling cold’s effects

And hunkered down like freezing wrecks,

All bemoaned our precious health,

Cause it was just September twelfth!

I scurried past the travel place,

Its sunny posters in the case,

They were not meant as an insult,

Though that is how they really felt!

I tried to peer across the street,

And felt as though I had been beat-

en. Standing in the cold and storm,

I imagined someplace warm.

I found my car and cleaned it off,

Then took a breath, began to cough,

Cheated as I could ever get,

We hadn’t finished summer yet!

I eased my car into the night,

Of honking horns and dulled headlights,

Then driving slowly through the storm,

I imagined someplace warm.

It took a while to find my street,

Trust me, by then I was beat!

With windows iced and brakes all locked,

Felt that I drove a curling rock.

I parked the car, forced back the door,

I tell you, it was quite a chore.

Then up the sidewalk, slip and slide,

I hurried just to get ‘inside’!

My fingers and my nose were blue!

I turned the lock and darted through,

Then stopped and blinked—well, once or twice,

I’d just walked into paradise!

A fire, warm, burned in the grate,

And supper waited, there aplate,

I felt protected from all harm,

I’d finally found my ‘someplace warm’!

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, we three will use our skills,

To talk about the things we build!

Looking Younger

Children of newly-weds.

I have a theory.

Holidays make you younger.

Let me explain . . .

My Husby and I were married early.

I was 20. He was 21.

We had our first baby just before our first anniversary.

Our second followed eighteen months later.

And our third two years after our second.

We were . . . busy.

It wasn't until our third son was eleven months old that we were able to take our first vacation.

Okay, it wasn't a real vacation.

It was a conference. But it was in beautiful Halifax. One of the jewels of Canada's East coast.

And my Husby's ticket was paid for.

All we had to cover were my expenses.

That was as close to a vacation as we were going to get.

For three days, while Husby was at his various meetings, my baby and I spent our time in the comfortable hotel room.

Exploring the many sites of old Halifax.

Or eating.

On the final day of the conference, a gala banquet and ball had been planned.

The hotel supplied us with a babysitter.

And I was free to join my Husby for wonderful food and a table full of scintillating (Oooh! Good word!) company.

We ate and talked and laughed.

Partway through the evening, my Husby leaned close and said something to me.

I giggled and kissed his nose.

Then one of the women at the table sighed and said, “I just love newlyweds!”

I smiled at her.

And thought of my almost-one-year-old upstairs with the babysitter.

And my four and three-year-olds at home with gramma.

I had been married five years.

And spent much of that time either pregnant or nursing.

I felt ancient.

And this woman thought I was a newly-wed.

I could draw only one conclusion.

It was because I was on holiday.

It must have been.

Who needs surgery and/or creams to erase the years?

I know of something infinitely more fun.

Here's to holidays!

P.S. Red Skelton (Google it) agrees with me. He once said, when asked his age, "I'm 67 years old. I would be 68 but I lived for a year on Maui!"

All Hail Summer!

The day had begun like any other that summer.

Cloudless blue skies.

Soaring temperatures.

Plans to spend a few hours near or in the river.

Dad had taken my brothers, Jerry and George out to the field, haying.

Chris and I were helping Mom do 'Mom' things in the kitchen.

Well, Chris helped.

I tasted . . .

Hey, it's an important job!

Shortly after lunch, Chris and I got decked out in our fancy swimwear, ready to head to the river.

Mom walked with us as far as the lawn. She glanced up at the sky.

"Oh, my!"

I tilted my head back.

Much of my blue sky was no longer blue.

Instead, it was rapidly being obscured by really ominous-looking clouds.

Black clouds.

A storm!

I loved storms.

And we certainly hadn't seen enough of them in Milk River in the early 60's.

Our trip to the river was forgotten as Chris and I followed Mom back into the house and took up positions in the living room.

One window each.

Then we waited.

The clouds boiled up, obscuring the sun. The remainder of the sky.

The lightning started.

Flash.

Crash.

I should point out here that I had learned to count by timing the interval between the flash and crash of lightning.

One. Two. Three.

With each flash, there was a shorter and shorter interval.

The excitement level increased. 

Well, my excitement level increased.

Mom was darting back and forth from one window to another, anxiously watching for her husband and sons return from the hay field.

I was little. I lived in a 'never worried, always happy' world.

Occasionally, I glanced at my worried mother curiously.

But that was the extent of my sympathy.

Moving on . . .

Finally, we heard a weird sound from outside.

A rising wind howling across the chimney.

And then we saw the wall of . . . something . . . coming towards us across the yard.

Some really white-looking rain.

I moved to the couch beside my sister.

Her window had a better view.

Mom scurried into her bedroom and emerged with several pillows. "Here, girls," she instructed, "hold these up against the windows!"

I stared at her. But if I held the pillow up against the window, I wouldn't be able to see the storm!

We all heard the shattering of glass from the kitchen.

Instantly, Chris pressed her pillow against the window.

Sighing, I copied her example.

I don't know how long the storm lasted.

Too long, according to my mother.

Not long enough, according to me.

After it passed, we stepped outside to see the damage/amazing-ness. It all depended on your point of view. 

The yard was four inches deep in snow.

Snow?

Not bad for the middle of July.

I stepped out into it.

It was funny snow. Crunchy. More like pebbles than soft, white fluffiness.

I stomped around in it. Gathered a handful. Carried it back to my Mom.

She was standing where I had left her, just staring.

"Look, Mom. This snow is weird!" I tried to hand it to her.

"It's not snow, darling," she said. "It's hail."

"Huh." Yep. I was always on top of things.

As we were standing there, Dad's truck pulled into the yard and skidded to a stop on the slippery road.

He and my two older brothers got out.

At least I think it was Dad and my brothers.

Certainly, they had the right size and shape.

But there, all resemblance ended.

They were caked with mud. Straws of hay and grass sprouted all over them.

They really looked like . . . monsters.

I was prepared to run.

Before I could react, however, Mom moved forward and wrapped her arms around the taller one, mud and all. Then she moved on to the shorter pair.

Okay. Not monsters.

We all moved back into the house.

While Mom swept up the glass from a broken window in the kitchen, she and Dad told their stories.

His was far more exciting.

He and my brothers had been baling hay, with Dad and Jerry on the stooker behind George driving tractor.

When Dad had seen the clouds, he had tried to signal George to stop.

But George couldn't hear him over the noise of the tractor.

Finally, in his best Superman style, Dad leaped off the stooker, ran forward, scaled the tractor and turned off the key. Then he grabbed George, made another heroic leap, and shoved him and Jerry under the tractor.

Okay, it's always so much better in my imagination . . .

The three of them had gotten a very close up and personal view of the storm from beneath this rather sketchy shelter.

Fortunately, though the hail had splashed them with mud and debris, it hadn't caused them any permanent damage.

Not so the rest of the ranch.

Chickens and other birds, not quick enough to get under shelter lay in small heaps in the barnyard.

Fences had been smashed to the ground and the entire garden lay in ruins.

Appendages had been hammered off vehicles and other machines standing unprotected in the barnyard and many windows were broken.

And the grand new house being constructed behind the old ranch house where we currently lived was especially hard hit.

Besides other damage, the newly-installed siding had been hammered to bits.

Pockmarks had been knocked clean through the painted boards.

Ruined.

And we hadn't even moved in yet.

There were two hail storms that summer.

The second just as nasty as the first.

Mom finally gave up all hope of getting any peas out of her garden.

Or much else, either.

The hay crop had been ruined.

And there was a lot of repairing and clean up.

Most of which I . . . umm . . . supervised.

But we survived.

To tell the stories.