Pole Dancing

The Behemoth

Things move.
Big things.
They move.
I have proof.
On the ranch, we had a large power/light pole.
Full-sized.
Firmly planted.
It had been there since the beginning of time.
So . . . for quite a while.
It stood in the very center of the turn-about.
People driving in would go around it, conduct their business and complete the turn as they drove out.
Simple.
Unless you lived there.
Then you would have to drive in and park.
Preferably somewhere out of the way so the next person would have a place to drive in and turn.
At times it got a little . . . tricky.
I lived there.
I had parked.
I needed to leave.
This entailed backing the van up, manoeuvring into the lane, then completing the turn to head out.
I should probably point out here that our van could quite easily have been described as a behemoth (good word!). It held 12 passengers.
Or two parents and six children, neatly spaced to avoid argument-age.
Well to try to avoid argument-age.
Well . . . never mind.
I loaded in the kids.
I sorted out the first argument.
I started the van.
I sorted out the second argument.
Good so far.
The third argument started.
I began to unknot that disagreement just as I stepped on the gas.
The van reversed, as it should.
Straight back.
All of us inside were concentrating on the ongoing conversation.
None of us (ie. me) noticed the pole directly behind the van.
Well, not until we (ie. me) smacked into it.
Oops.
I pulled ahead and got out to survey the damage.
The bumper had a lovely crease in it, bending it towards the van and forming a point that made it impossible to open the back door.
Double oops.
Later, when I showed my husband, he laughed, shook his head and simply sawed the top point off the dent. Just enough so the door would clear it.
But leaving the dent for all to see.
Sigh.
The conversation went like this . . .
Husby: "Honey, didn't you see the pole? The large one that has been standing in the center of the yard since forever?"
Me: "Ummm . . . I don't know how to answer that question."
Husby: "You did know about the pole, didn't you?"
Me: "Ummm . . . yes?"
Husby: "You did see it?"
Me: "Well, it was like this . . . I was backing out carefully . . ."
Husby: "Yes?"
Me: "And then . . . that nasty old pole just jumped behind me!"
Husby (with just the right amount of skepticism): "Jumped."
Me: "Yes."
Husby: "Right out of the ground."
Me (getting into my story): "Yes. It was the weirdest thing!"
Husby: "I'm going to go lie down."
True story.

P.S. Cuba, the country, has also been known to move. But that is another story.

Flushed with Excitement

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .

I told him not to laugh.

But he did.

I married him anyway . . .

It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.

But not just any Tuesday.

This was Tuesday, the 27^th of April, 1976.

You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind...?

You have a right to know.

It was exactly four days before my wedding.

Four frenzied days of frenetic functions beFore falling into fluffy, feathery fantasy.

(Hmmm...That was sorta fun...)

Four days that I needed to be--healthwise--at my very, very best.

Ahem.

The day started out well.

I climbed out of bed.

I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.

I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.

Grace was said.

And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.

Soon we were all chewing happily.

Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned...?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”

I looked at her.

She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”

I shrugged.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.

She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.

“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.

Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!

Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.

Sighed.

“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”

Whaaa...? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.

Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.

Measles.

I. Had. The. Measles.

Four days before I was going to be married.

My life was over.

Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.

German measles.

I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?

And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?

I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*

“Great! How are you doing?”

“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”

Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”

“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”

“Umm . . . okay . . .”

“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”

A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” (Sound of phone being dropped.) And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.

Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?

We did get married.

I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.

People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.

Now you know.

In With Pigs

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?

Okay, I wasn’t supposed to do it.

And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.

But that just made it all the more fun.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, behind the *shudder* chicken coop was the pigpen.

It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.

A destination in itself.

A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.

And boredom was threatening to set in.

Or one was feeling adventurous.

One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Pause there.

And pick out a victim co-conspirator.

I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.

When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.

And a taste.

And they love to be scratched.

Back to my story . . .

All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.

Scratch a couple.

And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.

The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.

And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.

Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly fleeting.

One’s raging father could – and usually did – appear.

How did he do that?

But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.

Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:

Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.

Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!

Yeah. Let’s just cross rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

Buddy

Just a word of warning: Treating your appliances like people maybe be hazardous to your health. And to your sleep patterns. And also: I think talking to my Roomba may have given him sentience.

I had just fallen asleep. You know, that deep, deep ‘first sleep’ wherein you are someplace warm and delicious and wish you could stay forever. Usually, the time when your kids wake you up…

Now my chicks are grown and we seldom have our chicklets here midnight skulking. So we’ve grown accustomed to uninterrupted sleep. (Well, barring the bathroom polka, which urge can hit at any time.) Ahem…

Suddenly, my intercom went off. The one on my phone that Husby and I use when neither of us wants to negotiate stairs and his office is down and mine is up. That intercom.

I came out of my delicious (see above) state with a gasp. Then grabbed the phone. “Hello?” Hello?” Crickets. Now you should know that using our handy-dandy intercom necessitates holding one of our handsets.

So someone had to be in the house. Holding said phone. And pressing the ‘intercom’ button. At 1:30 in the morning. Someone who was NOT Husby (who was still snoring away happily) or me.

Clutching the phone as a weapon, I opened our bedroom door and peered out into the hall. Silence. Well, near silence. I could hear Buddy (my Roomba) happily working away under cover of darkness.

A little side note: Recently, Buddy has taken to waking up at 12:40 AM to do his business. No amount of poking or programming will change his mind. Husby and I have just adjusted.

Turning on lights as I went, (Hey, I watch the movies—the bad things always happen because some doofus didn’t turn on the lights!) I moved toward the sound emanating from the front room.

And there I found Buddy. Trapped between the chair and the table and the wall. He had somehow managed to bump the phone onto the floor and was ramming it repeatedly into the wall.

Trapped and needing rescue, Buddy had dialed me! All was explained. Rolling my eyes, I punched his button. “Go to sleep!” He instantly obeyed. I put the phone away and headed back to bed.

Then lay there wide awake. Now that Buddy had figured out how to contact me, what else could I expect? Further demands for aid? Requests for midnight pizza? Dating advice? I’m a little worried.

Each month our intrepid little group accepts a challenge. Of numbers. This month our challenge came from Mimi of Messymimi’sMeanderings and the number was 34.

How did I do?

Now go and visit the others!

Karen
Mimi

Small But Mighty

If you could be an animal, what is it you would choose?

A lion with his heavy mane, a sloth who likes to snooze?

Perhaps a horse who runs so fast, a monkey in a tree?

How about a dolphin playing games of tag at sea?

Mayhap a shaggy bear? They eat most everything that’s seen--

Go sleep the cold months all away and wake up really lean!

Sometimes, I think a great gazelle, cause they run really fast,

Or perhaps a spotted cheetah, watch me as I blow right past!

An eagle flying overhead and looking down on all?

Would you choose an elephant? Or something rather small?

Now here’s the point that I would make: A bug’s not on the list,

At the bottom of the food chain, they’re the ones that just exist,

Look at all the ants, we humans see them as a pest,

And do the things we can to kill or tear apart their nests,

Getting squished or poisoned if they stray beyond their grounds,

Trying hard to live their lives where they cannot be found.

Is it any wonder that an ant I would not be?

I’m sure you see my point and likely with me you agree…

But here’s a thought I had not factored in the very least,

Thought the ant is very small, he is a hearty beast,

And every one can carry ‘most a hundred times their weight,

In food and lots of yummy stuff, to put upon their plate,

And then the thought struck me: In food, a HUNDRED TIMES MY WEIGHT?

I’ll be an ant. Stand back! I’m heading for the choc-o-late!

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

 Next week it's 'leaves' for those who care,

Good-bye for now, we'll see you there!

SallyBall

It was a normal day in the Hart household.

Let me qualify . . . In a house where there is a ‘new normal’ each and every day, it was a normal day in the Hart household.

Better.

At least it started out that way.

Don’t they all?

But I digress . . .

It was a beautiful day. Sunny. Warm.

Especially wonderful because it followed three days of pounding ‘stuck-in-the-house-with-Sally’ rain.

Sally and Mort decided they would go over to the park and play some one-on-one at one of the basketball courts.

After the surprise wore off (Who knew either of them had even heard of the game of basketball?), I decided to follow.

There were others playing when we got there, but enough courts to go around so that social distancing wasn’t a problem.

I took a seat on the tarmac beside their area and prepared to scoff/belittle/pretend to snore.

Hey, it’s an important job!

Their game of ‘horse’ began.

Now Sally, for all her faults, is surprisingly athletic. Even though I know for a fact she has never even held a basketball before, she did really well. It took about 3 seconds for her to figure out how to dribble and move. Quite effectively.

Even her shooting was pretty much amazing.

Huh. Who knew?

Now Mort, on the other hand, is all long arms and legs.

None of which is in communication with the others.

The only way he could even attempt to dribble was with both hands.

And forget moving while he did so.

After his third flat-on-his-face attempt, he gave up trying.

And simply dribbled. And shot.

From wherever he might happen to be.

There were numerous shots taken from in and around the key.

All dismal—though fairly spectacular—failures.

Surprisingly, shots taken from the ‘3-point’ area seemed to get closer. With one actually dropping through the basket.

Something that stopped play on all the courts around us.

Even engendered a smattering of applause.

Needless to say, Sally was the uncontested (and getting louder) winner of every game.

Now things had been going along for some time in this manner.

I was enjoying my task of cat-calling and verbal derision.

Sally was sailing about, looking more and more like . . . someone-famous-who-plays-basketball.

My ignorance is woeful…

Mort was dribbling. And/or shooting.

He had actually sunk a second shot and was standing there, grinning widely as Sally went for the ball.

And that’s when things . . . changed.

Sally stopped. Staring.

I turned to see what she was gazing at so intently.

A couple had sat down on a nearby bench. Totally absorbed in each other, they were oblivious to any of us in the vicinity.

Which is probably why what happened . . . happened.

It took me a moment to recognize what had only taken Sally a split-second.

The boy in the couple was our best friend Mary’s boyfriend, Troy.

The girl . . . wasn’t Mary.

Before I had barely taken in what was happening, Sally flipped that basketball at the speed of light.

With deadly aim.

It smacked Mr. Amorous on the side of the head just as he was moving in for a lip lock, knocking him right over that bench.

It may not have been just but it certainly was justice.

In a blink, Troy was sitting on the ground, looking around dazedly.

The girl in the duo came to her feet and spied Sally heading in her direction. Abruptly abandoning whatever may have been developing in her and Troy’s relationship, she lit out for the nearest far-away (Sally-less) place.

Needless to say, the kiss never happened.
Sally scooped up the ball, gave Troy a silent glare, and sauntered back to her game.

Still looking rather confused, Troy got to his feet and headed out of the park.

Sally and Mort went back to playing.

I left. I mean, how could you top that?

P.S. I should have stayed.

An hour or so later, Sally and Mort showed up at home.

They paused just inside the front door, breathing heavily.

Sally looked at us. “If anyone comes to ask you about the basketball pole that somehow got sort of . . . broken, plead ignorance, K, Mom?”

Each month, Karen from Baking in a Tornado and her followers play word games. It's our go-to for fun. Each of us uses words we've supplied which are then shuffled and re-distributed by our intrepid leader.

No one knows where our words have gone or what will be done with them.

See? Fun!

My words this month came from Karen herself.

just ~ justice ~ basketball ~ snore ~ louder

What could I do but write another 'Sally' episode?!  

See what my friends have done with their challenge!  

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer

The Crazy Mama Llama

Climaxed

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

SUPERMom

This many kids. One adult.

My good friend was in hospital for a couple of days for some minor surgery.
Her four kids (three girls and one boy) were staying with us.
And our (then) four kids. (Three boys and one girl)
The kids were perfectly matched.
Boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl and boy-girl.
And got along very well.
My house was quieter with eight (ranging in ages from 1 to 7) kids in it, than it was with just my own four.
They were all playing happily.
Then I suddenly realized that I needed to go to the store.
Sigh.
The status quo was about to change.
I buckled in what amounted to essentially four sets of twins and started off.
All went well.
We arrived and I immediately hunted up a cart.
No way I was going to try to herd this bunch without some modern conveniences.
The two babies were buckled into the baby compartment on the cart.
The two toddlers went into the basket.
The two kindergarteners hung onto the outside.
And the two seven year olds were allowed free range.
But with strict instructions to stay close.
We were off!
My errands were run in record time.
Surprisingly.
And, quite suddenly, it was snack time.
I looked into my wallet.
I should point out, here, that my husband had just graduated from post secondary and was working in his first real job.
We were poor.
Well, rich in children.
But poor in things that can actually . . . purchase things.
Moving on.
My wallet held the grand total of two dollars.
Which in itself was a miracle.
I was standing in the middle of the food court, contemplating my options.
They were . . . limited.
Finally, I approached a kiosk called, The Loaf, which specialized in sandwiches made from thick slices of 'freshly-baked-on-the-premises' bread.
"What would you charge for just a slice of fresh bread and butter?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
She scrunched up her face in thought.
Really.
Scrunched.
Then she said, "Twenty-five cents."
The magic words.
I ordered eight slices of fresh bread and butter and handed her my two dollars.
Then I passed out slices of thick, warm, fresh bread to each of my little hoard.
Who happily chowed down.
A cowboy term for tucking in.
Which is another cowboy term for . . . oh, never mind.
You get the picture.
They ate.
And enjoyed.
A couple walked past while my kids were busy . . . umm . . . enjoying.
"What a good idea for a snack!" the woman exclaimed. "I think you are the best mother I have ever seen!"
I smiled, rather self-consciously.
'Best mother' is obviously code for 'too-broke-to-buy-anything-else'.
We finished our snack and headed back to the Sears store for one last item.
My friend's eldest daughter, who had been following closely asked if she could dart over and peek at the girl's blouses.
I told her that it was fine. I would just walk slowly so she could catch up.
And continued down the aisle.
I passed one of the entrances to the store.
Two women had just come in.
They, a mother and her mother, were struggling to control a small boy of about two.
Who was red-faced and screaming.
Actually, now that I think of it, all of them were red-faced and . . .
Ahem.
Back to my story.
The grandmother looked up and noticed me walk past with my cart full to overflowing with children and said," Here the two of us can't control one child and that woman," she pointed, "has . . . five, six, seven!"
Just then, my friend's oldest daughter rejoined our group.
I smiled at the women and said, "Eight."
And walked on.
Okay, I know it wasn't strictly truthful.
But it was so much fun to say it!!!
And, just for a moment, I felt like one of those uber-organized, amazing women one sees who are always neat, tidy and . . . well . . . together.
Controlling hoards of children and still managing to look serene.
Yep. For a moment, I was SUPERMOM.
But, sadly, only for the moment.

When Freedom Isn't

The following is based on a real discussion with my—then—fifteen-year-old son, who didn’t believe in the rules his parents—or anyone ‘official’—were trying to enforce.

All he wanted was his ‘freedom’!

It turned out to be an interesting discussion.

And even more pertinent in 2020 than it was in 1995!

“Freedom’s what I want!” he said. “And what I really need!

“No one to tell me what to do, and none to intercede.

“Just let me live my life,” he said. “And I’ll let you live yours.

“I won’t be forced to follow rules or do things I abhor!”

“That’s ‘freedom’ in your point of view? Life’s just a big buffet?

“Just take the things you want?” I said. “And never have to pay?”

He puffed his fifteen-year-old chest and struck an ‘adult’ pose,

“One day you’ll see I’m right. Obeying rules really blows!”

“To do away with rules and laws? Well that sounds really swell!

“But remember while you’re doing this, th’other guy is as well!

“So guard your ‘stuff’ with all your might, and guard yourself as well,

“Cause just like you, your neighbour’s free to steal or raise some hell.”

“I know there’s lots of things you want to do when you’re fifteen,

“And rules might sound restrictive, dull, and, let’s just face it, mean,

“They hold you down and really seem as bonds that tie and chafe

“But let me tell you, Son,” I said. “These rules will keep you safe!”

Once a month, our Karen challenges each of us to rhyme,

And we try to fulfill this challenge each and every time,

This month, because of all that's going on both far and near,

We felt that Freedom was the topic 'bout which we should hear.

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Short and Clear
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Cost of Freedom

A Rose By Any Other Name...

My beloved friend Donna Tagliaferri of My Life From the Bleachers is expecting twin grandsons in the near future.

Choosing names has become a priority.

Donna has happily supplied several. (Romulus and Remus being her most recent contributions.)

None has been considered.

Donna, Husby feels your pain . . .

We have a tradition in our family.

I know what you’re going to say . . .

Another tradition?!

Hear me out . . .

When we were expecting our babies, and fighting arguing over considering possible names, my ever-helpful Husby gave me a list from which to choose.

My Husby has doctorates in History and Anthropology. Did I mention that?

It’s significant.

Moving on . . .

The list was seven pages long.

And included such classics as: Trophimus. Trogillium. Vafthrusdinal. Gundohar and Gundobad (If we should ever be blessed with twins.)

I see your face.

Mine sported a similar expression.

And I named our babies. Mark. Erik. Duff. Caitlin. Tiana. Tristan.

Now, I'm sure you’re wondering about the aforementioned tradition.

That comes here . . .

Because I was rude ignorant smart enough to ignore his helpful advice, my uber-determined Husby started in on the next generation.

With one significant change.

Our children weren’t given a choice.

Nope. They were given a name.

One name per grandchild.

Oh, they chose their own names, too. The names that would appear on birth certificates and numerous and sundry other legal places throughout the child’s life.

But each of them has a Grandpa Name (hereinafter known as GN) as well.

Unofficial, but just as important.

Let me enlighten you. These are the names as they now stand:

Megan Sarah. GN: Cruchenperk

Kyra Danielle. GN: Ataxerxes

Odin Erik. GN: Dashley-Odensis

Thorin James. GN: Ragnowinthe

Erini Tiana. GN: Salmanezer

Jarom Elliott. GN: Abindaraz

Bronwyn Bell. GN: Pintiquinestra

Linnea Viktoria. GN: Adrevalde

Hazel Jane. GN: Bardowick

Willow Victoria. GN: Cantabrie

Leah Brooke Rachelle. GN: Ettelwulf

Aksel Grant. GN: Burthred

William Duff. GN: Hieronymus

Emma Charlotte. GN: Boadicea

Elizabeth Rose. GN: Clytemnestra

Quincy Rue. GN: Mehitabel

Nora Isabel. GN: Goleuddydd

And are those kids proud of their Grandpa Names?

A resounding: Yes!

But still their parents, in true 'parent' fashion use the names they chose.

So there’s the usual (and well-remembered) angst. The ‘Why don’t they use my good names?’ question.

Maybe you can answer that . . .

Teacher Mine

Miss Woronoski, for a start...
I'm the little monster second row, far right who refused to wear something 'nice'.

Through my life, there’s things I’ve learned,

And knowledge gained and kudos earned,

All of which just would not be,

But for the teachers sent to me.

There’s Miss Woronoski, for a start,

In Grade One, took me to her heart,

So kindly, she began to lead,

From her, I learned to love to read!

Then Mrs. Hainsworth in Grade Six,

Her massive class was quite the mix,

Convinced me not to scratch and bite,

Instead she taught me how to write!

Now Junior High was a surprise,

Ms. Wollersheim with gimlet eyes,

From the day that we arrived,

She’d do anything to help us thrive.

And Grade Nine brought me my first crush,

That Mr. Bauer turned me to mush!

We girls were stricken, every one.

And who knew Science could be fun?

So many more that got me through

To university. It’s true,

To Mrs. Fooks the very last,

Of ‘official’ teachers from my past.

Their names: McMillan, Herbst and Ford,

Some I feared and most adored,

And Mueller, Jeffers, Chipman, Read,

Taught me lots of stuff I’d need.

Hendrickson, the music fan,

And Bob, who parked like Iron Man!

And Laqua, Thomas, Seltzer, too,

From them I learned what I should do.

Each has a place there in my past,

And in my heart where mem’ries last,

I’m glad they could, my teachers, be,

T’was each of them who made me, ME!

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

Next week's poems might turn to rants,
Our topic will be wretched 'ANTS'!

Thanking the Doctor

Our last Granddaughter but one (or LBO, for short) has lived a large portion of her young life during the pandemic.

Normal, to her, is having both parents at home, walking, or playing or eating with her during every waking hour. And many of the sleeping ones.
24/7.

Huh. When you look at it like that, it sounds rather idyllic.

Moving on . . .

In the last few weeks, her world has enlarged by one Gramma (and occasionally one Grampa), who appears at the nearest corner for ‘walkies’.

Usually, Gramma is accompanied by one four-footed, rather fuzzy companion.

Both are greeted by eager waving and “Bwa-Bwa!”

We haven’t quite figured out which she is most enthusiastic about, the two-footed, or the four-footed.

And which one is really ‘Bwa-Bwa’.

But I digress . . .

At the completion of every walk, her mama says, “All done walkies, Sweetheart! Say bye-bye to Gramma!”

Followed by many, many blown kisses with sound effects: “Bwa-Bwa! Mwaaaaa! Bwa-Bwa! Mwaaaaa!”

Which continue until Gramma (and companion—see above) are well and truly out of sight.

Now LBO is a very active little girl. Happily busy and curious.

Much like her mother before her.

You know the old adage: a toddler is someone two feet high with an arm reach of eight feet?

Written for her.

Nothing is truly out of her reach.

Including Sister’s Playmobile.

Which contains numerous microscopic pieces.

Some of which fit perfectly into one’s nose.

I’m quite sure you’ve put it together.

Certainly, she did.

Resulting in a late-afternoon visit to the local ER.

And a subsequent request to appear at the Stollery (the world-class children’s medical center in Edmonton) at 9:00 AM the next morning.

Which, in due course, happened.

Poking and prodding with lights and/or cameras were a matter of course.

But to actually facilitate said poking and prodding, restraint was, sadly, necessary.

Resulting in the expected shrieking.

And tears.

Finally, when no little Playmobile piece was discovered (turns out she had sneezed it out unbeknownst to her mama), and the restraints were removed, a very sad little girl prepared to leave.

“All done, Sweetheart!” her mama said. “Say bye-bye to the nice doctor!”

And she did. Between hiccups and sobbing breaths came “Mwaaaaa!” with accompanying blown kisses.
Gracious to the last.

And sometimes, being a doctor does have its rewards.

Mom Song

Mom's favourite picture.

There is a line from a Joe Diffie (yes, I’m a country music fan) song that goes:

Home was a back porch swing where I would sit, 

And mom would sing Amazing Grace, while she hung out the clothes.

That line reminds me of my own Mom.

Mom was always singing. The first thing she did when she entered the kitchen in the morning was switch on the radio.

And hum along with the current favourites while she stirred up breakfast.

Later, radio off; I can picture her with her hands in hot, soapy water, belting out ‘Darling Clementine’.

Or hoeing in the garden to ‘Till We Meet Again’.

It’s amazing how ‘Amazing Grace’ or any number of other songs go along with milking the cows. The rhythm just works.

Folding clothes? That will always remind me of ‘You Are My Sunshine’. When she could convince one of us to join her, sung in two-part harmony.

‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’ was waltzed with the broom across the kitchen floor.

And what would pea-shelling and bean-snapping be without ‘My Easter Bonnet’?

And early morning without ‘Good Morning, Mary Sunshine’?

Or bedtime without ‘Irish Lullaby’?

Riding out to the cows inevitably brought a rendition of ‘The Old Grey Mare’.

And evenings with the family - at least one chorus of ‘Whispering Hope’, again in harmony.

There are dozens more. I can’t picture Mom without a song in her heart and on her lips.

And her kids all do it, too.

Sing, I mean. While working.

More than once, I got smacked on the back of the head for bursting into song at inappropriate times during school.

Oops.

It’s been too many years since I heard my Mom sing.

But in my memory, she’s singing still.

The last lines from that same Diffie song are totally appropriate for me: My footsteps carry me away. But in my mind, I’m always going home.

G of the G

Sometimes, things said shouldn’t have been.

Because sometimes little ears are hearing.

And shouldn’t be.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom had invited some of her friends over for tea and a visit.

The house had been scrubbed inside and out.

The kids, ditto.

Furniture had been arranged.

Re-arranged.

Sighed over.

Okay, admittedly, what was said at this juncture was directed to no one and almost under Mom’s breath.

Just not enough under her breath: “I sure hope Mrs. (name-withheld-because-we-don’t-want-this-to-happen-again-EVER. Or NWBWDWTTHAE, for short) doesn’t choose to sit here. This antique chair of mother’s is pretty delicate and she is so heavy.”

FYI. Just because kids don’t appear to be listening, it doesn’t follow that they aren’t.

Moving on . . .

Little sister was well within hearing.

And understanding.

And . . . eeep . . . recording.

A short time later, the ladies started arriving. Including the aforementioned NWBWDWTTHAE.

The woman hovered uncertainly near the previously-discussed chair.

And that’s when little sister took it upon herself to save the day. Swooping in quickly, she smiled at the woman. “You can’t sit here,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “Because you’re too fat.”

I know you’ve had those occasions when you spoke without thinking. Or when something you said was repeated to the wrong person.

When the embarrassment is so thick and deep you want to just sink through the floor.

Take comfort in knowing that it’s happened to all of us.

To some of us, more than once.

We call ourselves the Girls of the Gaffe.

Welcome

Smacking the Stop Sign

Ready to Run!

Sometimes, prayers are answered.

Let me tell you about it . . .

For years, I enjoyed my early-morning run.

Solo.

My family was very supportive encouraging tolerant unconscious of it.

Let’s face it, to fit it in before time to get everyone ready for school, I started before most of them were even awake.

And/or cognizant.

But one of them was watching.

Youngest daughter had just entered the eighth grade. Strong-willed and a little rebellious, she was my chief worry out of six kids.

And, incidentally, one reason for my frequent prayers.

One morning as I was preparing to leave, she appeared.

Running shoes donned.

“Mom? Can I run with you?”

All the reasons why she shouldn’t raced through my mind.

She’d slow me down.

She wouldn’t be able to finish.

She’d get injured.

All of which, I’m happy to say, I ignored.

I nodded. “Sure.”

And we went running.

On the—then—outskirts of our small town, there was a four-kilometer Ring Road. Our house was situated just one house away from this ‘made-for-running’ track. If one followed the road, one inevitably returned to that spot from whence one came.

Perfect.

A few steps and we were off.

Of course we didn’t make it all the way around that first day.

Or the next.

Or any of the days afterward.

In fact, in the four years we ran together (till she graduated high school and went off to college) I think we only made it all the way around once.

But that didn’t matter.

Because what we did do was talk.

And talk.

And talk some more.

And become best friends.

Now, pushing a stroller and with her older daughter bouncing along beside us, we still walk.

No longer do we make a pretense of ‘running’.

Nope.

Walking is just fine.

And we talk.

And talk.

And talk some more.

It took a while, but I realized finally that the Lord had answered my prayers.

P.S. I’m sure you’re wondering what the title has to do with this story . . .

On the far side of town, at the halfway mark on the Ring Road, is a stop sign, just at the top of the hill.

Every day, our goal would be to make it up said hill and smack said stop sign to signify our triumph.

Because that’s what we had.

In more ways than one.

Truth, Forgiveness...and Chocolate

For those of you following Sally’s stories with me . . .

The story you are about to read is true.

Somewhat.

The days, weeks and months of Kindergarten were peaceful. Understandably so because . . . Sally.

And it was really nothing she did . . . well, other than knock a would-be bully onto his can the first day in class. I’m not sure, but I like to think she changed the whole course of his life. And everyone else who witnessed and/or heard.

Who’s with me?

Anyway, the peaceful days continued through the fall and winter and into the spring.

Continued until what is written in the annals of Briercombe Elementary School as ‘The Day of the Doll’.

Here we go . . .

A new girl moved into the area.

A very pretty girl with long, flowing, dark hair by the name of Rachel.

Whose name became . . . Betty.

It shall all be understood . . .

It was soon very clear to the rest of us at ol’ BES that Betty was determined to vie for the position of ‘Top Girl’.

A position held—to date—by no one.

Because it’s elementary school. Geeze.

Before long, Betty (see above) was terrorizing the smaller children. Taking their toys and roughing them up.

Sally and I, engaged with our friends in a cut-throat game of Jacks, heard the scuffles. And indignant outcries.

And the tears.

Sally’s radar went off.

And so did she.

Apparently (because few of us actually saw it from start to finish) Betty had snatched little Miriam’s precious Ava—her doll/constant companion/don’t-anyone-touch-her-or-I-may-faint-and-quite-possibly-die.

With predictable results.

Sweet, golden-haired Ava held high over her head, Betty was dancing around the playground, taunting the much smaller, now copiously-weeping Miriam who was in arm-outstretched pursuit.

Suddenly, the rest of the playground fell silent and parted for the newly-arrived-on-the-scene Sally.

Betty stopped and stared at the red-faced little demon headed rapidly in her direction.

I think she managed to figure out that the tide had turned.

And it wasn’t in her favour.

Clutching the now-forgotten doll, Betty spun about and made a bee-line for the school.

And the principal’s office.

An interesting side note: It was the first (and only) time in the history of BES that a student ran ‘to’ the principal’s office.

But I digress . . .

Sally was right behind her.

With the still-weeping little Miriam, a faint and distant third.

I watched as Betty skidded around the last corner and disappeared into the school.

Now I didn’t actually witness what happened thereafter.

But there were enough reports from students who did that I’ve been able to stitch together a fairly accurate account.

Betty wasted no time asking for directions (it was a small school—finding the principal’s office was really a no-brainer), but simply charged up the hall until she happened upon her feverishly-sought goal.

She dashed in.

And took cover behind the principal’s desk.

And the principal.

Sally simply marched in and stood there, hands on her hips.

The principal looked from one girl to the other. “Erm . . . can I help you girls?”

She was a very polite principal.

Sally just raised an eyebrow in Betty’s direction.

Betty silently held out the doll.

By this time, Miriam had arrived. Still crying.

Sally snatched Ava from Betty and restored her to her rightful owner, who, clutching the doll to her small self, turned and disappeared.

Then Sally turned once more and glared at Betty.

Remember, Sally at this point was still only in kindergarten. So . . . on the shady side of five.

Betty hovered somewhere around the ‘twice-Sally’s-size’ grade three level.

One of them was obviously in charge.

And it wasn’t Betty.

For a moment, the two of them regarded each other. Then, as large tears started welling up in the bigger girl's eyes, Sally grabbed Betty’s hand and pulled her back into the hall. “Hi, Betty. I’m Sally!” she said brightly.

Betty looked at her. “Umm . . . my name’s not . . .”

“Welcome to our school, Betty. You’ll like it here! Have some chocolate.”

I have it on good authority that the principal merely shrugged and went back to what she had been doing.

I expect you’re wondering what happened to Betty?

Well, maybe this will clarify . . .

Earlier this afternoon, a delivery arrived for Sally. A fairly large package that smells deliciously of chocolate.

In the upper ‘sender’s’ corner were the words ‘Rachel. Aka Betty’.

And the addressee?

“To My Very Best Friend EVER”.

Yep. Truth. Forgiveness. And chocolate.

In the same perfect package.

Tuesday, July 7th is Global Forgiveness Day, Tell the Truth Day AND World Chocolate Day. I'm celebrating all of them with my friend!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Truth, Forgiveness, and Chocolate
Jenn from Sparkly Poetic Weirdo: Truth, Forgiveness and Chocolate