ABC

Chris. Taste is everything . . .

1953 BD (Before Diane). 

My parents were traveling and had made a stop in a small town for lunch.
At a tiny hotel restaurant.
They perused (real word) the menu and made selections for themselves and their -then- three children.
They made their order.
And waited.
Suddenly, Mom noticed that my elder sister, Chris, age four or so was chewing happily on something.
She watched her, suspiciously, for a few moments.
Finally, "Chris, what are you chewing?"
My sister looked up at Mom and said, "Gum."
"Oh."
Mom thought about it for a moment.
"Wait a minute. You're chewing on gum?"
"Umm-hmm," Chris said, still chewing.
"I didn't give you any gum." Mom turned to Dad. "Did you give her some gum?"
He shook his head and pulled Jerry out of the sugar bowl. "Enough sugar, son."
"Well, where on earth did she get gum?"
"Why don't you ask her?" Dad said. "Jerry, leave the salt and pepper alone."
Mom turned to Chris. "Honey, where did you get the gum?"
Chris slid the wad in her mouth to one side and said, "Here, Mom!"
She pointed . . . under . . . the table.
"There's lots more! You want some?"

Well-Aged

Okay. This story is about urine specimens.

Ick.
Those who are faint of heart or easily queasy, stop now.
Stop.
I told you to stop.
You don't listen, do you?!
You asked for it  . . .
In today's world, when a doctor requires a urine specimen, he sends his patient to the 'lab'.

See. Handy and dandy.

And supplies said patient with a handy, dandy little container.
Complete with antiseptic wipes.
This wasn't always the case. 
Let me tell you about it . . .
My parents had been shopping.
I should probably mention, here, that in the 50s, no one ever locked their cars.This is important.
Moving on . . .
Dad was helping Mom into the car.
A short distance away, a woman was also getting into her car.
A very obviously pregnant woman.
She opened the door. Then gasped and leaned against her car.
Dad hurried over. “Are you all right?”
Then he realized that she was laughing. Really laughing.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
The woman straightened and wiped her eyes. Then she pointed at the car seat. “The . . . the bottle!” she gasped. Then went into another peal of laughter.
By this time, Mom had joined them.
She and Dad looked at each other and Dad shrugged.
Must be a pregnancy thing.
Finally, the woman calmed somewhat and again, wiped her eyes. She looked at my parents. “I'm on my way to my doctor,” she said.
Okay . . .
She looked back into her car and cleared her throat. “I was supposed to bring in a urine sample.” She pointed into her car. “I left it there.”
My parents glanced at the empty car seat.
The woman looked at them again. “The only empty bottle I could find was a whisky bottle,” she said.
Ah.“You left a urine sample in a whisky bottle on the front seat of your car?” 

Not a drink for the faint of heart.

Dad was catching on fast.
The woman nodded.
“And someone stole it?”
Again she nodded. “They must have.”
Dad started to laugh.
He ushered Mom back to their car and helped her in. Then he got into the car and sat back, still laughing.
“What's so funny?” Mom asked.
“Well, all I can think about is how the thief will discover his mistake!” Dad said. “What if it was some kids! Can't you see it? ”
“This is whisky? What on earth is all the fuss is about!”

Fed. And Organized

Mr. Organized

Dad was a veterinarian.
The only one for several counties.
Well . . . If you didn't count Dr. Brewster, the animal inspector at the Coutts border crossing.
Let me start again . . .
Dad was a veterinarian.

As well as a purebred Polled Hereford breeder.
And always had an office somewhere in our home.
There were the inevitable examination counters.
And a fridge holding such things as penicillin, bottles of 5-way or 8-way or black-leg or rabies vaccines.
And other stuff that I couldn't pronounce.
I should mention, here, that Dad knew what each bottle did.
Probably important for a veterinarian to know.
He also had several large filing cabinets standing about the room.
Full of . . . files.
Dad knew exactly where everything could be found in his office.
He was very organized.
One day, he was working on the registration forms for his new crop of calves.
A time-consuming task that only he could do.
I sauntered in.

Yes. Just like in the old west.
Sauntering on . . .
Daddy looked up from his desk.
“Diane, could you look in that file cabinet over there,” he pointed with his pen, “and get me the 'G' file?”
I turned to the indicated cabinet and pulled open the appropriate drawer. “This one?”
“Yes. Just the 'G' file, please.”
I started to work my way through the alphabet.
There was a large space partway through. I jumped to that.
'J' as it turned out.
“Daddy, did you know that you have a large bag of ju-jubes in your filing cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“Filed under 'J'?”
He looked at me. “Where else would they go?”
Where indeed.
I continued my search.
Huh. Chips under 'C'.
Also chocolate.
I finally found the 'G' file and, pulling it out, handed it to my father.
But then I turned back to the cabinet.
Way too interested to stop now.
“Dad, you have Oreo cookies under 'O'.”
Dad looked up. “Is that where they are?!” he said. “I kept looking for them under 'C'.”
Yep. Filing cabinets and organization.

And snack time.
They go together.

Pea-d

Who does that?

I mean, seriously, who?

Maybe I should explain…

Jared was a prince. A real, bonafide prince.

The ‘son of a real king and queen’ sort of prince.

I know it probably sounds awesome, and for many years, it was.

But recently, it had become, well, a pain.

Stay with me, children, I shall tell all.

Jared had ‘come of age’, which, in normal you-and-me speak means he was old enough to get serious about finding The One.

*cue romantic music…

Now if it was us, we’d probably design a heart-stopping page in the ‘Swinging Singles’ or, depending on our age, maybe the ‘Sagging Singles’.

Or get a cute puppy and appear at the park.

Jared didn’t have those options.

I mean, there really isn’t a dating site for the ‘Stately Singles’ or whatever it would be called.

Nope.

Jared was stuck with the girls his parents managed to find among their Rolodex of royal friends.

Most of whom he’d known since childhood.

Can we just say none appealed and leave it at that?

He searched.

Oh, my yes, he searched. Austria, Italy, France and the many and varied countries of continental Africa elicited no one who even remotely appealed.

He even put on his galoshes and winter coat and huffed and puffed his way across Canada.

And we all know just how attractive those Canadian girls can be!

Ahem . . .

But still no one seemed to strike that spark. Or if they did, they couldn’t prove they were ‘royal’.

Yep. Jared was in a pickle.

One evening, as he and his parents stood on one of the myriad balconies bedeck-ing their palace, enjoying the awesome lightning display accompanying a Hollywoodish rainstorm, there was a knock at their royal door.

Jared and his parents frowned.

“Maybe it’s a princess come to look for me for a change!” Jared said.

They all laughed.

Just then their Major Domo, Domo, came to the balcony entrance.

“A young lady has been caught in the storm,” he said. “She says she’s a princess and seeks shelter.”

“But of course!” the queen said quickly.

“Bring her in!” the king added as he ushered his family inside.

Domo disappeared.

“Wouldn’t it be something if she turned out to be amazing?” Jared asked.

“And a real bonafide princess,” his mother added.

“Yeah. That.”

Just then a young lady appeared in the doorway, with Domo behind her.

“Here she is, your majesties,” he said, bowing.

She was a rather sodden young lady, whose long, red hair hung in dripping hanks down what looked to be a formerly-pristine, decidedly expensive crystal-beaded dress.

She sank into a deep (and shivering) curtsey. “Your Majesties,” she said. Then she gave a massive sneeze. “Oh, excuse me!” She dabbed at her nose with the back of one dripping wrist.

“Oh, my dear, you must be frozen!” the queen declared, rushing forward. “Domo!” she waved a hand. “Prepare a bath in the Red Room and fetch some dry garments!”

The man bowed and left.

“Come, dear,” the queen went on. “Let us get you clean and warm!”

The girl stretched quivering, blue lips in a semblance of a smile.

“I am so sorry to come here alone and unannounced. But my carriage shed a wheel at the bottom of your drive and my driver sent me on to keep me warm and safe.” She looked down and smiled a little half-smile. “It wasn’t raining then.”

“Well, never you mind,” the queen said. “Let’s get you warm and comfy!”

She put her arm about the shivering girl and steered her toward the doorway.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” the queen said as they stepped out into the hall. “Domo was saying something about you being a . . .”

Their voices faded.

“…princess?” the king finished the queen’s sentence. He looked at his son a moment. Then grinned.

Jared was staring at the doorway where the girl (and his mother) had disappeared.

“Son?” his father said.

Jared blinked. “Is there really a silly rule that says I have to marry a princess?” he asked.

The king laughed. “I’m afraid so. Why else would you have been charging all over the globe these past few months?”

“Why, indeed.”

I don’t know about you, but I think I’m seeing a whole love-at-first-sight sort of . . . thing.

Who’s with me?

Meanwhile, down in the Red Room’s dressing room… The dressing room of the Red Room? The big room’s little room? Oh, never mind. …the girl was happily (and modestly) soaking in a tub of hot, soapy water.

At the same time, the queen was directing a vast army of servants in the placement of 40 mattresses atop the Red Room’s bed. The bed in the Red Room? Belonging to the Red Room?

Why am I having so much trouble with this?

Did Twain have this kind of distress? Or Dr. Seuss? I think not.

Moving on...

Unbeknownst (Oooh! Good word!) to the pile-ers, the queen had first placed a small, ordinary pea under the bottom mattress before the ‘pile-ing’ began. A pea that was now covered by, not 1, but 41 mattresses!

I know. Weird, right.

I guess she had her reasons.

Maybe she wanted to pre-pea the bed? *snort*

Sorry about that.

I digress…

When the girl emerged from her bath all warm, glowing and with her hair newly cleaned and arranged, the queen gasped.

Even in borrowed nightclothes, she truly was beautiful.

Some people are like that.

“Daphne, your bed is ready,” the queen said, patting the pile of mattresses.

Oh, right. I forgot. The girl had told the queen her name.

Daphne blinked, but obligingly climbed the ladder to the top, then snuggled down into the soft blankets.

“Have a good sleep, Dear,” the queen whispered.

But Daphne was already there.

The next morning, a smiling (and totally rested and happy) young face appeared at the breakfast table.

“Good morning, everyone!” Daphne sang out cheerfully.

People do that in stories.

The king, queen and Jared looked up and smiled. The king and Jared rose to their feet and Jared reached for her arm.

“Oh Daphne, my sweet girl, it’s so nice to see your bright smiling face at our breakfast table!” the queen said graciously. She patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Come and sit next to me!”

Jared led her over and released her arm.

Daphne sank into the proffered chair.

The queen smiled and pressed Daphne’s hand. “Now my dear, tell us how you slept. Every detail!”

Daphne smiled back. “Like a dream,” she said happily. “I can’t remember when I’ve slept so well.”

The queen blinked and frowned slightly. “Oh. Really? Well that is…wonderful.”

“Yes. I think I could happily sleep on a stack of mattresses for the rest of my life!” Daphne said.

“Oh. Well, I’m not quite sure . . .” began the queen.

“How we’ve missed meeting you all this time,” Jared broke in. He smiled warmly at the girl. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship!”

Okay, yes you’ve heard something like that before.

Go with me on this…

Well what did you think? That placing a pea under 40+ mattresses was going to make a bit of difference? I mean, I’ve slept like a baby (or like a teenager because we all know babies don’t sleep) with a tree root under my camping mattress.

Jared and Daphne were soon an ‘item’.

Then quickly moved from there to ‘affianced’.

The queen confided to Jared the whole '40 mattresses and a pea' story the evening before his wedding day.

When he asked her why she merely shrugged. “Mother always told me that a true princess should be as delicate—and bruise-able—as a rose petal.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Jared said. “How could she withstand the rigours of life?”

You’re probably wondering what rigours a princess/future queen would have to withstand?

All I have to say is: childbirth...

And you know what? It wasn’t important if she was a ‘real’ princess or not because to Jared, she was his princess.

And that’s all that mattered.

Word Counters is a word challenge.

Each of us happy participants donates a number.

Which is then distributed by our intrepid leader, Karen, to someone else.

My number this month was: 59

It was submitted by my good friend Mimi 

Thank you, my friend!

Now go and see what the others have created!

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Corn-EEEEE

My Mom could do it...

All my life, I’ve tried to grow it

And I never could.

E’en though it would have brought an increase

in our livelihood.

Conditions were too dry some years

The seeds just did not grow,

Though I set the sprinklers there

To splash both to and fro.

And some years were too wet, I guess

The results were still the same.

And though I weeded carefully,

Their non-growth brought me shame.

Then one year all was right, they grew

Right near to touch the sky,

And like ol’ Curly in the song

High as an el’phant’s eye!

But that year came the crickets, they made

Short work of my plants,

And what they didn’t eat were soon

Devoured by the ants.

At long last, I threw in the towel

Gave up the scheme as lost,

Decided that the whole thing came

With just too big a cost.

So now I’m happy. My new scheme goes

Just the way I plan,

Cause now the best way to grow corn

Is to get it from a can!

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 read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

A big, huge thanks to our new friend
SpikesBestMate, our love we send!
Next week (it's globally endemic),
From Baili and I it's The Pandemic!

Twice As Much

And into the next generation . . .

Husby is a book lover.

Always has been.

I am, too, but not to his extent.

I remember, in our lean student days, him walking in the door, happily carrying yet another treasured acquisition. I told him if he dared to bring one more book into the house, I was going to have to boil it for supper.

He just laughed. Completely unrepentant.

Moving forward . . .

We’ve raised readers.

All six of our children love it.

I thought it was because of the hours their father and I spent with this happy pastime.

And it might be.

But last night, I was reminded of something Husby used to say when the kids were small. Something I dubbed his First Rule of Acquisition.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I’ve never been a shopper. Traipsing up and down aisles, looking at ‘stuff’ never appealed.

I’d rather stay with the ‘old and familiar and comfortable’ then look for something ‘new and exciting’.

It’s just me.

But Husby loves to shop. And is gracious enough to haul all-and-sundry around with him.

Yep. Inevitably, when there was shopping to do, we went in a herd.

Mom. Dad.

Six kids. All of whom are very greedy acquisitive observant.

They would see brightly, attractively-packaged toys and immediately want them.

If we’d received a nickel for every time we heard, “Mom? Can I have . . .?” We’d never have had to pay for our shopping.

Ever.

And that’s when their father, genius he, would tell them, “You can choose one toy.”

Their faces would brighten.

“Or two books!”

The thought process reflected in those faces as they turned it over in their minds was almost comical.

And, surprisingly, much of the time, they went for the books.

I thought they were simply cannily maximizing their procurements. (Ooh! Good sentence!)

I didn’t realize that their father was actually training them for a life-long love.

But he was.

And, fortunately, he did.

A Lockdown Knockdown

Still here.

With Mom, Sally and Mort.

These months of lockdown have actually gone well.

No. I mean it.

The walls are still standing. The roof is on.

Even the plumbing and electricity are still working.

You have to know that, with Sally on the premises, any or all of these could be . . . iffy.

And, surprise bonus, Mort is a neat freak.

Seriously.

Who would have thought?

Now, more than ever, I think he and Sally are ‘MFEO’. Because, let’s face it, she needs a neat freak!

They are out on the back lawn even as I speak. Doing something (usually) mundane like playing croquet.

I’m hiding in here because . . . mallets . . . and Sally.

For some reason, I’m remembering Sally’s and my first day of kindergarten.

I think I told you Sally and I are ‘Irish Twins’. Both born at either end of the same year. Thus we went all the way through school together.

Sigh.

The school we first attended was a little one. Parked in the center of the housing development we called home.

For me, it was a confused time of new people, strange new routines, and lapping up driblets of wisdom.

For Sally, it was her graduation into a larger world of . . . possibilities.

And her introduction to food carried to school in a magical new thing called a ‘lunchbox’.

Sally had insisted that Mom buy her one with a mirrored lid.

It was probably the most aesthetically-pleasing of any on offer. Particularly when compared to the popular—but rather unimaginative—Little Ponies, Backyardigans and Babar.

Sally’s lunchbox plays a rather large part in my memories of our first day.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had deposited our belongings in individual cubicles creatively labelled with our name, and parked our small selves on a carpet at one side of the room.

Our newly-minted teacher, Miss Rona, was about to begin instructing.

And that was where we came to grief.

Because Sally categorically refused to let go of her shiny new lunchbox.

All the sweet-talking and every trick Miss Rona could invent went into the next few minutes of cajoling.

To no avail.

The most she was able to achieve was to have said lunchbox take up position immediately beside said Sally.

Moving on . . .
Miss Rona began to tell us a story.

It was very soon evident that Miss Rona excelled at story-telling.

And I don’t mind telling you that me and story-telling are really great friends.

The whole class, including Sally, was enthralled.

All except for one young man, (the tallest and broadest in the class) who shall remain nameless, but who initials are ‘Alex’.

Alex was hungry.

And his lunch box had been properly parked in his cubicle.

Waaaay on the other side of the classroom.

Whereas Sally’s was right here.

Immediately accessible.

Now there must have been some super-sneaky moves in Alex, because he somehow contrived to slide that lunchbox away from Sally without her becoming aware of it.

Her unaware-ness continued through his consuming of…not only her sandwich, but also all of what would be her morning and afternoon snack.

And her drink-box.

Miss Rona’s story ended.

And Sally’s awareness resumed.

There was a shriek which made all of us jump.

There may also have been a case or two of pants-wetting-ness.

Sally was on her feet, brandishing the now-empty lunchbox like a modern, rather squarish mace and chain.

Five-year-olds scattered like a flock of frightened hens.
Despite Miss Rona’s increasingly frantic attempts, Sally stalked across the room…Alex in her sights.

I know what you’re thinking, but Sally didn’t clock Alex in the side of the head with her lunchbox.

Perhaps it was the whole ‘seven years of bad luck’ idea if the mirror broke.

Perhaps she thought it just wouldn’t be ethical.

Pfff. . .  what am I saying?

Whatever her reason, Sally set the box down and looked up at the boy eyeing her carefully even as he towered over her. Then she clocked him in the side of the head with one little fist, knocking him right off his feet.

There was a shocked gasp from Miss Rona.

Sally shook her finger at Alex. “Not nice to steal! Didn’t’cha know that?”

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled, looking up at her and rubbing his head.

“Be nice!”

“K.”

Miss Rona finally succeeded in steering Sally away from the confrontation.

And into the principal’s office.
New rules were crafted that day for the entire school.

But the biggest one was never actually written.

Beware of Sally.

Are you with me?

Use Your Words is one of my favourite writing challenges each month.

All of Karen’s neophytes supply the words.

Karen then re-distributes.

The result is Use Your Words.

A little bit hilarious.

A little bit challenging.

And a whole lot fun.

My words this month are: confused ~ food ~ mirror ~ lapping ~ aesthetic ~ ethical

And came from Jenn! Thank you so much, my friend!                    

Let the fun continue!

Baking In A Tornado 

Spatulas on Parade

Wandering Web Designer

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo        

Climaxed   

Part-time Working Hockey Mom  

Follow Me Home

Tell-Tale Scars

Hands tell everything.

I was sitting in Church beside my dad and comparing my hand to his.

Mine were small, white and smooth.

Unmarked by life and softly innocent.

His were large, square, calloused.

Scarred by barbed wire and by life.

Hands that had wrestled cattle and the occasional bronc.

Hauled hay and grain.

Twisted wire or pounded nails.

Held books and rustled important papers.

Sewed up wounds and dispensed medications.

Smacked the occasional errant backside.

And tenderly held babies.

Hands that had accomplished something.

I measured my hand against his.

Would mine ever grow to be the same size?

I looked at my Mom's hands.

Long, tapered fingers with close-cropped nails.

Hands that scrubbed surfaces and small, wiggling bodies.

Punched bread and rolled out pie crust.

Cooked and stirred.

Gathered, sorted and folded.

Swept and cleaned.

Hands occasionally stained with ink from her writing.

And dirt from her gardening.

Scarred by her forays into the barnyard to help when help was needed.

Hands that soothed when others hurt and applied love and bandages in equal amounts.

And finally folded, blue-veined and fragile, over a still breast in peace.

Hands that had accomplished something.

Yesterday, my granddaughter was sitting next to me.

She placed her hand, soft, white and innocent, against mine.

"Will my hands ever grow as big as yours, Gramma?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"I like to look at your hands, Gramma." She pointed. "What is this scar here?"

"Barbed wire, sweetheart."

"Did it hurt?"

"Probably. But not for long."

"You have lots of scars, Gramma."

"Scars are life, written in your hands," I told her.

"Oh." She turned my hand over. "Lots of scars."

"From doing things," I said.

I thought of the 'things' that my hands have done.

Cooked. Cleaned.

Baked. Sewed.

Wrestled cattle and chickens and pigs and puppies.

And small children.

Turned pancakes and pages.

Built houses and fences.

Written.

So many things.

Wonderful things.

I smiled at my granddaughter. "Your hands will do things, too," I said. "Important things."

"Like yours?"

I nodded. "Like mine." 

Flagged

Throughout his life, he’d heard the game of baseball was the best,

And so the border, he would cross, and he’d judge with the rest,

So from his Tijuana, he crept softly through the night,

And fin’lly stood outside the Padres’ home in evening light.

He tried to buy a ticket, sadly none were to be had,

He stood a while outside the doors, feeling rather bad.

But then he saw a flagpole jutting o’er the field wall,

And so he shinnied up it—and from there could see it all!

Later, back at home, his family pestered him for facts,

What he thought and what he saw and how he did react,

Well that young man just smiled as he started in to tell,

Brim full of his adventure that he thought went very well!

He said, “I loved it, every bit. I am so glad I went.

“I can’t think of a better time I, in my life, have spent.

“You have to know right off,” he said, “The most amazing thing,

“Was when 50,000 voices made me feel just like a king!”

His family stared. “What could you mean? They all knew you were there?”

He nodded. “And before the game, they sang it out with flair!”

“Si, all the people sitting stood and faced me o’er that wall,

“And sang out, ‘Jose, Can you See?’ Concerned I watch it all!”

The theme for this month's challenge, well, it's Flags, I'm sure you know,
And now I hope you'll read the rest. Have fun! And off you go!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Flying High
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Flags, flags, and more flags

Not So Edible Etiquette

Edible Etiquette

Dad at College.

My Dad (hereinafter called 'Mark') attended college in Guelph, Ontario, training to be a veterinarian. Class of 1948.

His schooling there was fascinating.

His life in the off-school hours, even more so . . .

I should mention, here, that dad, the last child in a very large ranching family, had been raised with order.

And a degree of meticulousness.

Something he didn’t realize until he moved ‘out into the world’.

Back to my story . . .

Mark had secured a room at one of the local homes for the duration of his stay.

He and another Vet student happily carted in their belongings.

Met the family. Mom. Dad. Kids.

Settled in.

Appeared for their first breakfast.

And were immediately introduced to the differences in accepted family table practices.

At first, all went well.

Good food. Plenty of it.

Then, the son of the family grabbed a piece of toast and reached for the large jar of jam.

Taking the spoon that had been provided, he scooped out a large dollop and dropped it onto his toast.

Then licked off the spoon.

And shoved it back into the jar.

Others in the family proceeded to do the same.

Mark blinked.

And decided he’d have his toast without jam that morning.

Then that same young man poured himself a large glass of milk.

Drank some.

And poured the rest back into the jug.

Something that also turned out to be a common family practice as the boy's father cautioned him, "Pour it carefully, Son!"

Mark, wincing slightly, avoided the milk.

And anything else on the table that became ‘communal’.

I don’t want to say that Mark was fastidious but . . .

Okay, Mark was fastidious.

I think I would have been the same.

Two weeks in, he and his roommate decided they simply couldn’t take it any longer.

And said roommate decided that Mark should be the one to tell their landlady.

Sigh.

In what was one of the most uncomfortable moments of his life to that date, he gave notice to the thoroughly-dismayed woman.

“But the semester’s started!” she moaned. “I’ll never fill my rooms now!” She looked at Mark. “Why?!” she asked.

Ugh, the question he had most been dreading.

Haltingly, he explained.

She stared at him.

Then let him go.

Happily, Mark and his roommate settled into other housing.

The food wasn't as good, but it was a little less . . . shared.

And in case you’re wondering if that poor woman managed to secure new boarders, the answer is yes.

A few weeks later, Mark was talking to some fellow classmates and discovered that one of them was actually living in his old digs.

Mark asked--a trifle hesitantly--about the table manners there.

Fine. Perfect, even.

So either that young man was accustomed to the common trough, or the landlady had taken Dad’s concerns to heart.

The result was the same.

Everyone was happy.

And well-fed.

And that’s really all that counts.

Out-Burgled

Benny was a burglar and thought he was plenty smart,

Made breaking into houses look just like a work of art,

Though ‘danger’ was his business and his brav’ry you’d surmise,
When he robbed the Harveys, he was in for a surprise.

He got through their security. He laughed, t’was child’s play,

The kind that he could slip right through on any given day!

And when he saw the treasures there on shelves and tables stacked,

He licked his lips, got out his case and started in to pack.

He hadn’t packed a dozen things, when, from the darkness there,

A voice spoke very quietly and gave him quite a scare,

Unthinking, he said, “What?” and turned about to find out who,

The voice, it came again, it said, “Jesus is watching you.”

Ol’ Benny smiled and answered, “Well He’s watching all the time.

“And to this point, He hasn’t punished me for all my crimes!”

And he went back to packing. But the voice, it came again,

“Jesus is still watching you.” Ben said a word profane.

He flashed his light around the room and then a bird he saw,

Blinking in the light, it gripped a perch with tiny claws.

“Is your name Jesus? Yours the voice?” Ben asked it, narrow-eyed.

The bird just shivered, bird-il-y, and puffed its chest with pride.

“Well Jesus may be watching and will punish me someday,

“But, frankly, future reprimand 'don’t' fill me with dismay.

“So just you mind your business, bird, and I will mind mine, too,

“And maybe we’ll discuss this more when all my work is through!”

But still the bird repeated, “Jesus watches, He’s alarmed!”

Before too long, Ben felt like threat’ning him with fatal harm.

He chose some treasures, grabbed and stuffed and soon was near the end,

He sighed a little with relief, this bird was NOT a friend!

And then he heard a growl that made him shiver in his shoes,

And filled him with alarm and caused goosebumps on his tattoos!

A giant dog stepped from the shadows. Ben was stuck for words,

Then the featherhead spoke up, “Meet Jesus,” said the bird.

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 read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

This weeks’ topic came to us from SpikesBestMate. She’s new!

And we’re forever grateful for the topic she gave, too.

Next week, she has another one, t’will make us laugh. Or groan…

She gave us all: Delights/Disasters of "Grow-ing Your Own!

Headwind

Okay. Picture them a little more tousled and windblown . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my (then) four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our house.

I should point out, here, that our little home was newly-built and stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

And the 2000+ trees we had planted in rows about the house were years away from providing any actual . . . wind break-ish-ness.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He had just reached the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop there.

No, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm almost sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar . . .

I managed to catch my son when he snagged against the corner post of the garden fence.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

'Twas a Dark and Scary Night

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the famed moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale. 

So to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual "read-till-you're-heavy-eyed-and-won't-be-fit-for-anything-the-next-day activity.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed. (And you can believe me when I say that no one could scream quite like Debbie.)

And scurried out into the front room, frantically tugging on her jammie pants as she went.

Where she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Then I heard a thump. A decided body-hitting-the-hardwood thump.

I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

To find Debbie collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should mention here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was lying there helpless . . . with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling on said pjs.

And had glimpsed movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her!

Whereupon (good word) she screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a truly scary sight.