Just a Wee Bit Nippy

Just add boy . . .

Kids raised on a ranch grow into their jobs.

Quite literally.

For example, first, their job is to feed the chickens and gather the eggs.

Then, when a little older, they start cleaning the coop.

At the great age of seven, when his next older brother Bryce moved up into the milk cowman job, Dad graduated from the first to the second.

A heavy job for a seven-year-old.

Tiring.

But it did have its perks.

Or maybe 'jerk's.

Let me tell you the story . . .

Dad was taking care of his new Saturday chore. Cleaning the coop.

He had finally finished hauling out the old and dirty straw.

And had moved on to bringing in the new, clean and sweet-smelling.

As he was raking it into the coop, a litter of young pigs discovered him.

And his bounty of new, clean and sweet-smelling (see above).

Ahhh! Perfect for a group of small, pink-hided brothers and sisters in search of someplace nap-worthy.

They snuggled down and were instantly asleep.

Dad stared down at them.

They looked so comfortable.

And he had been working so hard.

Happily, the small boy snuggled in with the small pigs.

When he turned, they turned.

And when they turned . . . you get the point.

All was well.

Then, the decisive move.

Either he turned out of turn, or they did.

One of them was out of sync.

Because the little piggy next to him—his new ‘brother-in-straw’—took offence and bit him. 

On the ear.

With a gasp and a hand held to the offended member, Dad jumped up and glared at the offender.

Then rousted the whole crew out of his straw and finished his job.

I guess nothing says ‘get back to work’ quite like a sharp nip on the ear.

I’m going to remember that with my kids . . .

The High Cost of Freedom

Daddy. Fettered.

To the small boy from the ranching family, they were a sign of oppression.

And their absence?

Freedom.

Maybe I should explain . . .

During the 1930s, in Glenwood, Alberta, there were many families who did without.

Oh, they had food to eat and a roof over their heads, but there were things they simply did not have.

Things like shoes.

Their absence was a sure sign of the family’s poverty.

But to six-year old Mark (my Dad) those boys who got to come to school shoeless were free.

He dreamed of enjoying the same freedom.

Daily, he begged his mother to let him walk to school unhampered by his sturdy, leather shoes and hand-knitted socks. 

And daily, she told him he would be wearing said shoes and socks.

And Moms always win.

One warm, spring day, he got a brilliant idea. He would circumvent his local law enforcement.

A block from home, he sat down and pulled off the hated footwear with accompanying woolen socks.

And left them in a heap beside a post.

While he was at it, he decided to lose the equally oppressive jacket and cap.

Hanging the latter on the same post.

Happily, he skipped off barefoot and unfettered to school.

Later, after a day spent luxuriating in his freedom, he returned to the post.

Only to find it bare and rather shoeless.

Frantic, he looked around.

Nary a jacket, cap, shoe or sock in sight.

In a panic, he ran home, creating scenarios in his head to explain their absence.

But when he stepped inside the front door he discovered, to his relief, that all of his accoutrements were there. Shoes and socks neatly sitting where they should be and jacket and cap on their hook by the door.

All had been returned earlier by a helpful neighbour who had seen and recognized.

Relieved, he turned.

To see his mother, arms folded, standing beside him.

Uh-oh.

Dad learned that freedom comes at a cost.

Breaking the Bunnies

Dishes and I have a history.

Okay, yes, I use them at meals.

But we regard each other with deep suspicion.

I’ve recounted one experience here.

But the one I’m about to describe is the first I can remember . . .

On the Stringam ranch, mealtimes were an exciting gustatory trip down the trail to deliciousness.

When the meal ended, the work began.

Well, for the rest of us. Mom had obviously already been at . . . never mind.

I was five.

The work, for me, consisted of transporting non-breakables from the table to the sink.

Yep. The spoons, butter knives and forks were my special friends.

Occasionally, I also branched out and dealt with such things as: napkins. Salt and pepper. Toothpicks.

My work load was exhausting.

Leftovers were carefully covered and stored in the ‘fridge.

Anything left on the plates was scraped into one container and taken out to the dogs, who then thought they had been sent to doggie heaven.

It was 1960. Doggie nutrition and diet hadn’t been invented yet.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, the scraps had been placed in my little brother’s ‘bunny’ bowl.

A cute little china bowl with a bunny scene in the bottom and bunnies running all around the outside.

The favourite choice of the under-five group.

Which, at that time, consisted of my brother.

Moving on . . .

Everyone was busy.

I had finished my all-important silverware shuffle and was at a loose end.

Then I saw it. The bowl of dog scraps. Just sitting there, waiting for some grown-up person to transport it.

Me!

“Mom! I’m gonna take out the scraps!” I said, in my most authoritative voice.

“Mmm,” Mom said.

You have to understand that she was busy: effecting the organization of three other children, keeping a watch on the baby and talking to Dad.

“Yeah. I’m big enough!”

“Yes, dear.”

She said yes!

I grabbed the bowl and headed for the door.

"Diane!"

I turned.

"Don't drop the bowl. It'll break!"

"I won't!" 

Feeding the dogs on the ranch consisted of carrying the scraps across the cement driveway to the far copse of trees beside the old garage and tipping said scraps into the large, metal hubcap waiting there.

Sound easy?

Now picture several dogs (who had appeared as soon as the door opened) leaping and jumping around like idiots.

I suddenly realized why the job of taking out the scraps usually fell to a . . . bigger person.

I didn’t even make it across the driveway.

Blair’s little bunny bowl was knocked from my hand, breaking in half on impact.

The dogs happily started in on the scraps (glass fragments hadn’t been invented, either) and I collected the two pieces and returned, in tears of defeat, to my Mom.

It would be some years before I was again trusted with anything breakable. (See above.) Our little bunny bowl was gone forever.

But the worst? Mom was right.

Sigh.

P.S. There is a happy ending to this story.

During a recent trip to Costco with my son, I saw something that . . . . well, I‘ll just let you see for yourself.

Deja Vu. 

Deja Casse.

Dousing the Fire(man)

See? Easy.

Our third son, Duff, worked with Special Needs adults.

An exhausting, trying, patience-testing, infinitely rewarding sort of job.

Which entailed certain daily routines in and around the home and community.

As well as occasional forays into uncharted waters . . .

As part of their ongoing safety training, Duff and his clients were at a local fire station, receiving instruction in the dousing of a fire.

The obliging firemen had a controlled, but fair-sized fire going.

And each of the observers were given the . . . opportunity . . . to take one of a selection of fire extinguishers and actually use it to put out the fire.

All had gone well.

Even Duff’s clients had taken a hand at pointing, shooting and dousing.

It was finally Duff’s turn. The very last of the spectators.

He listened to the instructor’s careful instructions, nodded, gripped the handle of the extinguisher, and squeezed.

There was a slight ‘snap’ as the triggering mechanism broke, turning the stream of fire-retardant powder on full.

They were standing in the rain, it being Vancouver Island, and the nozzle was rain-slick.

The unexpected pressure caused it to slip from Duff’s hand.

The hose flipped around like something gone mad, spraying, first him, then his instructor with thick, white powder.

Duff got off easy. He was white from his mouth down.

But his instructor took the blast full in the face.

Full. In. The. Face.

It was like a scene out of a Laurel and Hardy film. (Google it . . .)

The man's fellow firemen, while trying to suppress their snickers, asked if he was all right.

“Yeah,” he said. “I managed to close my eyes.” He turned slowly and, blindly, made his way to the eye-washing station.

Duff, meanwhile, managed to recapture the errant hose and gradually force the valve shut.

The stream of white powder slowed. Then stopped.

Everyone surveyed the mess.

The entire area was heavily coated in white powder.

The fire?

Still burning cheerfully.

I don’t want you to think that anyone Duff worked with was in any danger.

This experience proved that he could certainly handle any emergency that arose.

And also supply the entertainment.

Grandfathering

I think he did just fine!

Many men take a very active role in child-rearing in this modern day.

There are baby-change-stations in public men's rooms.

And I've even seen a ‘Father’s Room’, complete with rocking chairs, for feeding and caring for babies and children.

It’s a good thing.

When I was growing up, it was not so.

Men were not only not encouraged to take part in the care of children.

At times, they were actually discouraged.

My dad started child-raising in the 40s. I don’t think he changed a diaper in his whole life.

Husby started fatherhood in the late 70s. He changed plenty of them.

And my sons rearing children in the present day? Even more.

But it’s not really the diaper-changing that I'm talking about. It’s what it represents.

A chance to take a more active role, and be closer to, their children.

My dad had observed this shift in the parenting paradigm.

With regret.

Let me tell you about it . . .

In the earlier days of our marriage, Husby and I lived in a small home that he had built. A very small home. 306 square feet.

Cozy.

In that tiny space, we still managed all of the amenities. I had my washer and drier. And even my dishwasher.

There was a minuscule front room, carpeted with tacked-down rug samples from our local carpet store.

Luxury.

One day, my dad stopped by for a chat.

I happily sat down with him in the front room.

There, between us on an otherwise tidy floor, lay a broom.

Two things stand out in the aforementioned (Oooh, good word!) statement.

One, that the room was tidy.

Weird.

And two . . . hmmm . . .

Okay, just one.

Dad noticed the broom. “Um, Diane,” he said. “Why do you have a broom in the middle of your carpeted front room floor?”

I looked at it. “Oh.” Then, “Erik!”

My two-year-old bounced into the room.

“Your steed!” I said.

Erik grinned and, picking up the broom, he straddled it and ‘rode’ it out of the room.

Then I turned back to Dad.

He was shaking his head and had tears in his eyes.

“Dad! What’s wrong?”

“I never enjoyed you kids when you were little,” he said. “Never spent enough time with you. I should have.”

Dad was a product of his time. A time when men weren't expected to take that more proactive role.

It’s a great pity.

P.S. Dad made up for his perceived lack of involvement with his own kids by being very proactive in his grandkids. 

It was a beautiful thing.

Done Duty

We, all of us, have duties that we like to take to heart,

Some take lots of brains, a certain modicum of ‘smart’,

While others need some passion and a sprinkling of skill,

And a third group, well, let’s face it—everything is just downhill…

Now Harold was a good ol’ boy. A friend to everyone,

And pitched right in if there’s a job that needed to be done,

He answered everybody’s call, was first to volunteer,

That’s how he was right there to help to unload Bob’s new steer.

Now Bob was driving. Harold’s job was shouting ‘BACK!’ or ‘WOAH!’

So Harold took his place, then raised his hands and hollered, “Go!”

And Bob, he backed the trailer up, as neat as neat could be,

With Harold acting bravely as Bob’s ‘Back-Up’ appointee.

“Now back and back and back some more!” old Harold shouted, clear,

His words were heard quite easily by folks both far and near,

“Back and back.” And then a CRuNCh! And then a “WOAH!” was heard,

Then Bob, he sighed, and yes, he may have said a nasty word.

Confronting Harold, he inquired just what it was he knew,

And did he know to holler ‘WOAH!’ before the CruNCh! came through?

Then Harold nodded eagerly. For sure he’d get it right.

And they’d unload the steer this time sans incident or blight.

Then “Back and back and back some more!” the helpful fellow cried,

Then, CruNCh! Then “WOAH!” (Not helpful, no. What would you decide?)

And Bob hopped from his pickup, gave his friend a nasty look,

Said, “Harold you’re an imbecile in anybody’s book!”

“You’re going to wreck my trailer, maybe cripple my new steer!

“Not to mention, this unload is taking half-a-year!”

So Harold reassured his friend, said, “This time I’ll be true,

“Just give me one more chance and you will see what I can do!”

So once again he took his place and Bob slid ‘neath the wheel,

Bob put the truck into reverse, his friend began his spiel,

“Back and back! And back some more!” Yep. Harold’d learned a bunch,

Cause this time it was after “WOAH!” that Bob would hear the CruNCh!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see!

And now you’ve seen what we have wrought...

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny
Charlotte
Mimi
Merry Mae

Next week, we’re going to have a time,
With ‘Water’ in the subject line!

The Bubbles of World Peace

I spent part of my Sunday helping in the Nursery at our church.

It was an experience.

Twenty little kids, ages 1 ½ to 3 years.

What do you call a group of toddlers?

A Tantrum of Toddlers?

A Teeter?

Tumble?

Toddle?

It would be worth exploring.

I know what you call a group of parents/grandparents who have spent two hours with the little cretins. A Tired.

But I digress . . .

This little group of boys and girls had been playing happily.

Reading books. (I use this term lightly.)

Running.

Playing with puzzles. (Again used lightly.)

Running.

Throwing balls and other toys at each other.

Running.

‘Cooking’ such gourmet specialties as . . . trucks. Shoes. At least one book. And two of the puzzle pieces we had been hunting for for over twenty minutes.

Playing with dollies.

Fighting/tug-o-warring with said dollies.

Crying when dollies were put away in a safe place and other toys introduced.

Running.

Falling off the slide.

Devouring snacks.

Devouring their neighbour’s snacks.

Running.

Before you think any of them were in any real danger, let me disabuse you.

No one was in any real danger.

There were few tears (mostly at losing their tug-o-war prop) and no injuries.

But I discovered something.

See?

When a group of toddlers is running madly and the room is started to resemble the streets of Edmonton after the Stanley Cup, all one has to do is turn on the bubble machine.

It’s true. I watched it happen.

The bubbles instantly attracted (and held) the entire group of toddlers.

They (the bubbles, I mean) floated gently into the air and every child in the room stopped what they were doing and exclaimed, as one, “Oooooh!” Then they ran to the blanket/blotter beside the machine and jumped and hopped, trying to catch the little, dripping, glistening balls of wonder and amazement.

It was incredible. Magical.

Quiet.

I’m getting a machine like that!

P.S. I wonder if this would work on the mobs that form after sporting events or political rallies? It's worth thinking about . . . 

Who's with me?!

The Why of Buying

She was pregnant.

Newly so, and more than a bit excited by the prospect. 

Necessity had driven her to the mall. 

Preparations to begin.

New clothes to buy.

She visited shop after shop but nothing drew her.

Tried on shirts and smocks and pants and dresses.

All were cute and appealing.

But none appealed.

The only thing that caught her eye in the entire, rather wasted experience, was a little stuffed puppy.

She held it and looked at it and snorted softly.

Well, maybe this new baby she was carrying would like it.

In about a year.

She bought it and stuffed it into her bag and forgot about it.

A few days later, a worried husband brought her to the hospital. Violently ill for the past couple of days, he ignored her protests that ‘it was just the pregnancy’ or ‘just a touch of the flu’ and hustled her into the waiting car and off to seek medical attention.

Seated a short time later in the facetiously-named ‘waiting’ room of the above-mentioned hospital, she tried to relax and await her name being called by a clipboard-toting official.

She looked around at her fellow awaitees.

A small boy across the room caught her attention.

With no obvious parental companions, he was being cared for by the nurses on the shift.

And not very happy about it.

The boy. Not the nurses.

She got up and moved closer.

Apparently this little guy had been, with his parents, involved in a car accident.

He had checked out.

And was now waiting for them to do so as well. (They were both fine, as it turned out. But it took a while to determine that.)

In the meantime, a small boy needed distracting.

She suddenly remembered the little puppy tucked away in her bag.

She produced it.

And was rewarded by the instant light in the child’s eyes.

He clutched it and smiled.

The games the nurses were playing took on new interest as they included his new toy.

Puppy could hide in the most fun spots.

Including the vacuum tube that normally transported documents between floors.

Puppy could go in. And up with a ‘thoomp’.

And come back down again with a ‘boof’.

Oh, the giggles.

He was still happily engaged when her name was finally called.

And he and his family had left when she reappeared.

But she realized why she had needed to buy the little puppy.

It was not for her child.

It was for someone else’s

Let Them Eat Ice Cream

Our family believes in good nutrition.

We do.

It just doesn’t always sound like it . . .

My son and DIL were entertaining.

Dinner was winding down and dessert was being distributed.

Yummy dessert.

With ice cream.

Now, I should probably mention here that their kids are known vegetable/fruit eaters.

Oh, they like other things. It’s just that, if given the choice, they have been known to go for the ‘healthy’ alternative.

But I digress . . .

Their mother had made buttered, dill carrots as one of the vegetable dishes with dinner. A noted family favourite.

Eight-year-old Daughter Number Two, hereinafter known as D2, was agitating for a third helping.

A third helping. 

"Please, please, please?"

“No,” her mother said. “Your sister hasn’t had seconds yet. I’m not giving you thirds until she has had a chance.”

Still D2 continued. "Mo-om!"

“No!” her mother said. “Not until everyone has had seconds.”

More coaxing. "Please, Mom?"

“No! Stop asking!”

D2 is nothing, if not persistent. “Pleeease?”

“Argh!” (real word) “You’re not having more Carrots!”

“But Mom . . .!”

“NO MORE CARROTS! EAT YOUR ICE CREAM!”

Hmm . . . okay . . . not something you hear every day . . .

Sooo . . . which would you choose?

I know what MY choice would be...

Whistle You to Work

Father-In Law was an amazingly patient man.

Kind. Loving.

He was always so.

These qualities were especially apparent during one experience shortly after he and Mother-in-Law were married. . .

The two of them had settled in a former granary on FIL’s Mother’s farm.

Now Great-Grandma was an ‘in-charge’ sort of person.

And she happily took charge of this new little family.

Very early every morning, she would appear at the side door of her house, walking in the direction of her son’s little home.

Did she softly call to make sure the young couple was ‘up-and-at-em’?

Nope.

She blew a whistle.

A loud whistle.

Now I’ve heard of some annoying alarm clocks in my time.

Certainly I’ve chucked a few because they were too . . . erm . . . efficient.

But how do you stop a mother/mother-in-law? Okay, yes, there are probably times when you wouldn’t mind a more forceful resolution, but let’s be practical.

People would notice a M/MIL (see above) if they’d been set out with the trash for pick-up.

Am I right?

So back to the whistle . . .

FIL found a unique solution.

He swiped that whistle in an unguarded moment.

And tossed it into the flour bin.

The one that was full of flour.

That flour bin.

For weeks, Great Grandma searched for that whistle.

But came up whistle-less. So to speak.

Then one morning, fairly early, the shrill single tone was again heard.

“Oops,” FIL said. “Looks like Mother needs her flour bin filled.”

Yeah. That probably wouldn’t have been my reaction.

Winter Get-Away

Holidaying always looks great. Relaxing and perfect. When one is anticipating. Let’s just say it’s not always so good when one is experiencing.

Always remember to pack essentials in your little carry-on. You never know where your luggage will vacation. Often it’s not where you are.

When renting a car, make sure it’s not to a company who’s waiting to pick you up on Martinique. When you’re on Guadeloupe.

B&B photos aren’t always accurate. Ditto for reviews. And if it looks like a ‘renovation’ instead of a ‘vacation’, head for the hills.

When your Landlady promises every day for twenty days that you will have wifi ... tomorrow, it’s really okay to not believe her.

You don’t have to stay home from your day at the beach to let workmen in. They aren’t going to show up anyway.

Actually that’s not true. They will show up. Right at suppertime. And stay till midnight. The noisier the tools—the later they stay.

One working toilet for eight people in the corner of one of the bedrooms can suffice. It just takes a lot of cooperation.

A brand new bathroom (and toilet) following a week of noise and confusion and workmen at all times is definitely worth it. Almost. 

One other important thing, though, is a door on that new bathroom. People get skittish when whatever they are doing is public knowledge.

Just because supposedly competent workmen have been properly engaged, it doesn’t follow that said workmen will install new windows in the right holes.

One can do without hot water in the kitchen. As long as there is plenty of it in the working bathroom. True story.

You can think of a million and one dishes you want to make in the oven—when you don’t have one that works.

Remember to watch out for the exposed wires that are supposed to make said (non-operational) oven work. They can really pack a wallop.

Bright and shiny. Like something out of a modern kitchen. Just because a toaster is top-of-the-line, it doesn’t follow that it will actually…toast.

Always keep a thick, absorbent mat on the floor in front of all the sinks. So the water will have someplace to go.

The Landlady’s idea of a beautiful swimming pool, and yours, are probably poles apart. Nine feet of mud isn’t nine feet of water.

Back-hoes in your front yard, adding to the mountain of dirt that is NOT your swimming pool, do not make for relaxing days.

Buying tools and effecting repairs yourself is totally acceptable. And may save your precious sanity. Just don’t expect a reduction in the rent.

When a foreman says he will come back and build you a front step, believe him. A pallet can be a front step.

Sometimes desperate tourists are the popular fathers of invention. Walkways made out of pilfered shipping crates will be appreciated by the whole neighbourhood!

It’s quite all right for your washer to discharge down the outer house wall. It’s also fine to use it as a shower.

Just because a baguette is warm, it doesn’t follow that it’s fresh. OR ant-free. Please be careful when choosing your boulangerie!

Don’t worry. We’re fine. Enjoying the sun, fun and  beaches in beautiful Guadeloupe. At least they work!

Word Counters is another of Karen’s word challenges. Each of us participants is given a number submitted by one of our fellows. It is this number we use to craft . . . whatever we want.

It’s totally fun!

My number this month was 23 and given to me by Mimi of Messymimi. Thank you, my friend. This was so much fun!

And fairly therapeutic…

You’ve read mine. Now go and see what the others have created!

Baking In A Tornado          

Spatulas on Parade

MessyMimi

MedicatedMusings

Connected

It starts when first we come to earth,

A tiny human, at our birth,

That first connection to our Mom,

Then add our Dad, we’ll love him some,

And on to siblings, if they’re there,

Who for (of course) we sometimes care,

Then grandparents, yes, one or two,

And uncles, aunts and cousins, too,

At church, our brothers, sisters, friends,

Wow! These connections never end!

Our circle in our neighbourhood,

Who could be either bad or good,

Our teachers and our chums at school,

As we all learn the Golden Rule,

The roommates when we all ‘move out’,

(When dates are all we  talk about),

Then, college done, and off to work,

Where some are nice and some are jerks,

Those who share our daily grind,

Some kept and others left behind,

Then our own families that we start,

The spouses, kids who take our hearts,

And pets and Mother Earth, you bet,

Then Holy Smoke! the internet,

Countless connections bad or fun . . .

To think it started with just one.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With Poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts, perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Mimi

Mother Owl

Merry Mae

Next week, it’s Jenny’s turn to say

What our topic is that day.

Stay tuned. For sure it will be fun,

Not just for us. . . For everyone!

Nosedive

The house had been quiet.

Too quiet.

I’ve always wanted to say that.

But, of course . . . Sally.

Sally was off making another movie. And, because she was still only 16, Mom had gone with her as her chaperone to ensure things like . . . School.

Sleep.

Proper diet.

Lack of criminal charges.

You know, the things that mother’s normally do at home.

Well, at least mothers of daughters named Sally.

I was keeping the home fires burning. So to speak . . .

When our biggest ‘supposedly problem-free’ printer suffered chills and fever at work, the boss had sent everyone home early, so to celebrate, I picked up a frozen pizza to heat at home while I binge-watched the rest of Good Omens.

That David Tennant, who's with me?

Pretty quiet, mundane night, right?

Dinner. Movie.

No house falling about one’s ears.

No flashing lights and sirens.

Heaven.

I popped the pizza in the oven and sat down to catch the evening news while it heated.

And you have to know whose face was on the screen the moment it flashed into being.

Yep. Sally’s.

I closed my eyes for moment, then opened them.

Just to be sure. I do see her face a lot in my imagination . . .

Nope. It was still Sally.

Sigh.

I pointed the remote and hit the volume button.

“I’ve seen the video three times myself and still can’t quite process what I’m seeing!” an announcer was saying excitedly. “If you’ve just tuned in, there was trouble on what should have been a normal day of shooting for hot, young director, Jamie Lassiter’s newest film, Nosedive. Let us show it for you again . . .”

The scene switched to a clear view of a helicopter rising up from a rather rocky beach.

An Andean-blue lake was in the background and a clear, red sun just rising over the green canopy.

When the helicopter was a hundred feet or so in the air, a person appeared, slipping out of one of the open side doors. A small person. Child-sized. In a heartbeat, they were dangling from one of the struts of the undercarriage.

Something you see a lot.

On a James Bond film.

Even as I watched, they lost their grip on the strut and started to fall. I instinctively measured the distance between them and the rocks below. 

It wasn’t good.

At that moment, another person appeared, making a forward dive from the same doorway.

I knew in an instant who that second person was. But wasn’t Sally filming a story about a school teacher in the jungle somewhere?

What the heck?!

The second figure tucked in arms and legs and shot like a bullet toward the first, catching them and continuing along the same trajectory toward the nearby lake.

Just before they hit, It looked as though the larger figure managed to actually lift up and skim the tops of the waves for a bit. Super hero style.

Then they made a mighty splash.

As boats and men poured out from the beach, two heads could be seen, bobbing in the blue water.

One waved and I was sure I could see white teeth as Sally gave a trademark ‘Sally’ smile.

The announcer returned. “Have you ever seen anything like it?! Following what should have been a catastrophic safety-harness malfunction, stunt double, Sally Hart managed to pluck nine-year-old co-star, Virginia Noble out of the sky and carry both of them to safely.

Little Miss Noble, whom you may remember from her Oscar-nominated turn as Charly from the movie, Charly-Girl, has been sent by ambulance to a near-by hospital. For observation.

But the heroine, after being pulled from the lake, merely saluted the medical staff and headed for the showers. And a hearty meal.”

A final shot of Sally, nose deep in a plate of spaghetti, shovelling up the food like it was her last meal on earth.

I shut the TV off and simply sat there, all thought of David Tennant gone right out of my head.

Sally a hero?

Sally world famous?

How would we all survive?

Each month, Karen at Baking in a Tornado, or KarentheAwesome as we prefer to call her, issues a challenge. 

And words.

Each of us uses these words to craft something . . . crafty.

My words this month came to me, via Karen from my wonderful friend, Minette at Southern Belle Charm.

Thank you so much, Minette!

I have several other friends who take the challenge!

Go for a visit.

You’ll be glad you did!

Here are links to all the other Use Your Words posts

Wandering Web Designer 
Spatulas on Parade 
Follow Me Home 
Sarah Nolan 
Southern Belle Charm 
Climaxed 
Part-time Working Hockey Mom