I (Don't) Spy

Ray Tolley, my father-in-law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a man of integrity. Honest, forthright and industrious, he worked the land on his farm near Fort Macleod, Alberta with skill and patience, gleaning a good crop from the dry land every year but one until his death at the age of seventy.

FIL was a man of faith. Of deep thinking and wisdom.

He was also a man with a wicked sense of humour. Because, let’s face it, how could one have endured the hours he did sitting on a tractor, without one?

From using a ruler to measure ability (which was inevitably ‘nigh onto nothing’), to posing the conundrum, ‘which would you rather be – dumber than you look or look dumber than you are?’ to which the forgone conclusion was always, ‘How could you?’ (Yeah. Try to get out of that one . . .), FIL personified the image of weather-beaten farmer, tanned of face, hard of muscle and clever of tongue.

He had many sayings, most gleaned from family, neighbours and reading, but my personal favourite was when he’d come home and dramatically exclaim to his grandkids that, “I almost saw a coyote today!”

Inevitably, one or more of the younger kids who hadn’t heard this one before would get caught up in the conversation. “Really, Grandpa?” Then the reality of the statement would sink in. “Ummm . . . how do you almost see a coyote?”

The slow grin. The uh-oh look. The sure sign that someone had taken the bait and was about to be ‘had’.

Then, the punch line.

“If he’d been there, I’d have seen him!”

FIL left us nearly 40 years ago and, if he were still alive would be well past 100. But when one of his sayings crops up in a conversation, we know he’ll never truly be gone.

There it is!

Salloween

Have I ever mentioned that living with Sally is like permanently cozying up with Charon in a small corner of Hell?
Well, it is. And it is.
I wasn’t sure if I should share this story. After all, neighbourhood children (and one mayor) were terrorized in the unfolding of this tale.
At least one of them is considering opening a Special Victims’ Unit for Sally alone.
Moving on…
Sally, Mort and their new sidekick, Scary Gary (my title) had been whispering and giving each other significant looks for a week.

Now, this alone should be cause for alarm.

And being that Halloween is approaching, doubly so.
We were right to fear.
And I have the film footage to prove it…
We have a gazebo in our back yard.
Large.
Open.

Perfect for a carefully-controlled Halloween celebration, right?

Sally is involved.

Yeah, I can see your perspective shift.

Anyway, this morning, Sally and Mort informed Mom and me they were having a small, socially-responsible get-together tonight in said gazebo and we were invited. 7:00. Costumed. And masked.

Mom and I looked at each other. I could see ‘I’ll-be-under-the-bed’ written all over her face.

We nodded at Sally.

They turned happily and disappeared.

Later, a large truck backed into our driveway and unloaded some tables and other paraphernalia, a boatload of pies, and two people in masks to set everything up.

A few minutes before seven, I peeked into the backyard to see it transformed into a Halloween postcard.

Tables had been set up in the gazebo and loaded with pies and snacks of every kind, with a huge, steaming tureen at the end of the nearer one.

Various figures with glowing eyes stood sentinel around the perimeter of the gazebo, emitting puffs of smoke and alternately shivering or moaning. A chair was positioned in front of each.

The rest of the yard was wreathed in swathes of fog.

The two masked attendants stood on one side of the far table, serving utensils in hand, obviously prepared to…you know…serve.

Sally was dressed as a griffin because, as she had painstaking told me, she wanted angel wings (but really didn’t want to be an angel).

Personally, I had my own opinion about the whole ‘angel’ bit. Some costumes are simply too unbelievable. Who’s with me?

Ahem…

She was holding what looked like a large cherry pie and chatting with the servers from across the table.

I adjusted the skirt of my pirate wench costume, touched the gold hoops dangling from my ears and wished, not for the first time, that Mom was beside me.

She had—probably wisely—opted for her usual spot under her bed.

As I stepped into the yard, the rest of the guests arrived en masse: the kids from the neighbourhood. Seven of them at any rate.

With Scary Gary, dressed rather appropriately as a zombie, in the lead.

At first, the others hovered uncertainly near the gate. Then as Gary, in his best ‘zombie’ fashion, dragged himself across the yard, a witch, a warlock, and a ghost or two quickly followed.

Soon everyone was happily shouting to each other, taking plates of food, finding a chair, and/or chowing down.

Sally, still clutching the pie for whatever reason had stepped back to give them all room.

Her back was to the house.

It was at that moment Mort emerged.

At least I’m assuming it was Mort. But there aren’t many who could pull off the ‘skeleton’ look quite like Sally’s tall, gangly boyfriend.

I remember watching an old movie from Mom’s bygone days about a party that ends in complete and total disaster. Someone at the end asks how on earth it all started and no one knew.

Not so here.

I think I could totally pick the point where disaster first reared its masked and ugly head.

Mort crept up behind Sally and… “Sally!”

She gasped and threw up her hands protectively. Hands that, until very recently, had been holding the pie.

Said pie went straight up.

And stuck to the ceiling of the gazebo.

Stuck.

Did you know pies could do that?

I didn’t.

For just a moment, both Sally and Mort looked up at the pie expectantly. I mean what goes up must come down, right?

It didn’t.

Sally shrugged and turning, punched Mort in the shoulder.

For some reason, I decided I needed to start filming that pie. I took out my phone, pointed, and pressed ‘record’.

A car pulled up just outside the garden gate and four people got out and approached Sally.

“Miss Hart?”

Sally turned to a short, rather squat man dressed in a beautiful tuxedo with matching black mask. She waved. “Hello, Mr. Mayor!”

Did I mention that the city’s mayor lives in our neighbourhood?

Probably not.

Well, he does.

“I’ve brought my kids. Thank you for inviting them!” He turned to the angel and devil beside him. “Taylor? Tyson? Make sure you keep your masks on!”

The boys nodded and headed eagerly toward the far table.

“I must run,” the mayor said. “I’m hosting an international press conference in a few minutes!”

He turned.

And that’s when the pie stopped defying gravity.

Right onto the mayor’s balding head.

Have you seen the damage a very large cherry pie can do to a pristine tuxedo?

I doubt it.

But I probably don’t need to describe.

The mayor was in midstride when it hit and, thrown violently off balance landed heavily on one end of the closest table.

The legs under him collapsed, catapulting the large, smoking tureen at the other end into the air, along with anything else that had been on the table.

Pies began dropping like bombs all over the yard and screaming neighbourhood children boiled about like angry bees.

The great tureen shot with uncanny accuracy right through the garden gate.
Landing with the rather sickening crackle of breaking glass on the front windshield of the mayor’s car.

Where it upended and poured whatever it had contained all over the interior of the formerly spotless vehicle.

I pressed ‘end’ on my video. I mean, who could top that?

Sally turned to the mayor. “Well, you don’t want to be late for your press conference…”

Each month, Karen's Klub joins together to exchange words. Well, actually, we supply the words and Karen shuffles and distributes.
It's totally fun.
And none of us knows who is going to get our words and what they will do with them.

My words this month: witch ~ warlock ~ ghost ~ hell ~ hello, came from the maestro herself, Karen at https://Bakinginatornado.com 

Thank you, dear friend! GREAT words!

Now see what the others in the group have created!

BakingIn ATornado
WanderingWebDesigner
TheCrazy MamaLlama
Climaxed  
Part-timeWorking Hockey Mom

So Now We Know...

The children’s organization in our church begins when the children are three.
Watching those little ones come into the room for the first time to join the older kids is quite a treat.
They look so tiny.
In an effort to get to know each of the children, a survey is distributed at the beginning of the year.
These are the answers my three-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter called GD3) supplied.
Enough background . . .

Primary Spotlight 2015
I came down to__[earth]__ from my Father above.
My home has __[five]__ people and __[1]__ animals to love.
I like to __[go on doughnut dates]__ with my family.
If you see someone with __[hazel]__ eyes and __[curly brown]__ hair, it could be me.
I like learning about __[the alphabet]__ when I go to school.
When I grow up, I want to be __[four years old]__ (I think that would be cool)
In my spare time, I think __[watching movies with mom]__ is fun.
And I like to eat __[cucumbers and marshmallows]__ when the day is done.
I like the color __[pink, purple and green]__ when I am making art.
On Sunday __[Sunbeams]__ is the class I go to
Singing __[Popcorn Popping]__ is one of my favorite things to do
On __[October 11]__ you can say “Happy Birthday” to me
Thanks for getting to know me!
Each week, one child is selected and the answers are read out one by one.
Then the other children in the room try to guess who the ‘spotlight’ is.
When GD3’s was read, things went something like this:
Teacher: I came down to earth from my Father above.
GD3 (loudly): Hey! I came down to earth too!
Teacher: My home has five people and one animal to love.
GD3 (more loudly): Hey! That’s the same as me!
Teacher: I like to go on doughnut dates with my family.
GD3 (louder yet): Hey! Doughnut dates! That’s what we do!
Teacher: If you see someone with hazel eyes and curly brown hair, it could be me.
GD3: Wow! I have hazel eyes! Look!
I think you can see where this is heading . . .
For every answer read, GD3 was deafeningly ecstatic that someone else liked/did/had the same things she did.
By the time the survey was done, every other person in the room had their hand up.
The first time, ever, that had happened.
Primary. The most entertaining part of Sunday Church attendance.
P.S. I can see a future in theatre, but I do hope GD3 never tries to go into politics.

Ludd and Me

 

In days of Yore, 

'Mongst rich or poor,

Were those who toiled, and did the chores.

Oft spending years, 

Mid sweat and tears,

To learn their craft, with all their peers.

A 'weaving' flood 

Was in their blood,

Professed to follow Young Ned Ludd.

Like Robin Hood, 

He may have stood,

‘Tween dread machines and livelihood.

These weavers saw, 

In this hoopla,

A loss of work. With sheer chutzpah

Attacked machines 

And owners dreams,

And any mech’nized thing, it seems.

The years have passed, 

Machines amassed,

We’ve mechanized, both thick and fast.

They’re mostly good, 

Machines that would

Produce things faster than we could.

And these machines, 

Provide the means

Of making things from jars to jeans.

But what’s been tossed, 

And what the cost,

Have all our finer skills been lost?

That brings me to, 

My point to you,

And what I have been trying to do.

Cause now, ‘lectrics, 

With nasty clicks,

Have taken over, just for kicks.

I watch in awe, 

My toddlers paw,

And make things work without a flaw.

It makes me mean, 

Those glowing screens,

I picture buying some benzene.

And with a touch, 

(Though not too much),

Remove my source of rage and such.

And with much glee, 

I will be free,

A modern Luddite will I be!

Each month, some poetry, you'll see

There's some from Karen,

Some from me,

I hope that you enjoyed what we,

Have crafted just 

For you to see!

Nine Years Old

I’m cheating a little for this Poetry Monday.
The theme this week is ‘Someone You’ve met’.
And yes, I can remember the very first time I met her. A newborn in her mama’s arms.

Our second daughter’s first daughter.

The ‘cheating’ part is where I admit this poem is not new.

I wrote it for my eldest son when he turned nine.

I have to admit that was a very long time ago.

This time around, it’s for my 1stDof2ndD (see above).

Happy birthday, Sweetie!

Eldest son, Nine Years Old

Newest Nine Year Old

Well, now I'm nine and you can see

The changes time has wrought in me.

I've grown three feet since I was born,

I’m tall and slim as a stalk of corn.

I've learned about so many things,

I know of bikes and kites and strings.

I can cook and clean and comb my hair,

And help my sis with family prayer.

I can haul in wood, or hammer nails,

Or water trees with heavy pails.

I can hold the baby, shine my shoes,

Or sit with you and discuss the news.

I’ve learned to knit quite perfectly,

I can beat you at Monopoly.

I can take out garbage, weed and hoe,

Then eat the carrots, row by row.

In fact I've grown so big and tall,

With doing chores and playing ball,

That maybe you can't really see

How young and weak I still can be.

How I take a ‘friend’ to bed at night,

And ask you to leave on the light.

How I still like my whole face kissed

And like to make a 'Christmas List'.

And even though I numb your knee,

I like to be held tenderly.

I like to know that you are proud

And have you tell me right out loud.

Please understand, with all my size,

With knowing looks in big brown eyes,

That I am not as old, you see

As my outside appears to be.

Ignore my size and adult airs,

Forget that I've climbed lots of stairs.

Just hug and kiss and try to see

That little child inside of me.

And now a LITTLE treat:

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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me,

Have crafted poems for you to see,

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

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week we'll denigrate or praise,

The interesting Diet Craze!

The Candy Cupboard

Does this look delicious to you? Yeah, me either . . .

My Mom had a magic cupboard in her bathroom.
It was full of wonderful little bottles.
Intriguing little bottles with funny shapes and beautiful colours.
And with all sorts of interesting contents.
Most of them defied my little three-year-old fingers.
But one twisted off easily.
Disclosing little, white pills.
Mmmm.
Okay they didn't taste very good, but they were little.
And melted on my tongue in a fun way.
I had another.
And another.
This was fun!
Mom came in just as I was finishing the bottle.
For some reason, she got quite upset.
She grabbed me and ran to the phone.
For a few seconds, she chattered excitedly.
Then she carried me to the kitchen and set me on the cupboard and hugged me tight.
I didn’t know what I had done that had gotten her so excited, but this was living!
Or not . . .
A few minutes later, a man came into the house carrying a black bag.
He put a tube down my throat.
And Mom let him!
Weird.
And traumatic.
I cried.
For several minutes, the two of them fought to keep the tube where they wanted it.
With minimal/non-existent results.
Finally, Mom stuck her fingers down my throat and made me gag.
And I lost all of my wonderful little pills.
Um. Ick.
The doctor packed away his horrible tube and left.
I wasn't sad to see him go.
Mom cuddled me for most of the afternoon.
Sigh.
Nice.
A few days later, I was again exploring Mom's treasure cupboard.
Well, look at that.
A new bottle of my little pills.
I wonder if they will taste any better.
Mom came in a bit earlier this time, but I had still ingested over half of the bottle.
She didn't bother calling the doctor, just used her patented new method to make me bring the pills back up.
This time, I got a scolding.
Moms can be so inconsistent.

The Bouncer in the Rye

If you are ever in Denver . . .

Somewhere in or near Denver, Colorado, is my wonderful, stupendous, long-awaited, much-anticipated, beloved, toy of the century.

The one that was mine too briefly.

Sigh.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was growing up, my rancher father often took his family on holiday.

Said holidays usually included some form of cattle show.

Or cattle ranch visit.

Or driving down the highway slowly because someone’s herd was there.

In the field.

I know you’re wondering what this has to do with my toy.

It’s coming . . .

This particular family trip had been planned with the National Western Stock Show - annually held in Denver - in mind.

And that was okay with me.

Because said stock show also included horse classes.

And I had a new toy.

Now it comes out . . .

The Wham-o company had just released the most amazing gadget.

A solid rubber ball that would bounce higher and do more tricks than anything that had ever been invented.

Aptly named the ‘Superball’, it was a thing of beauty.

An amazing little ball of rubber that promised hours and hours of entertainment.

I had wanted one forever.

Well, since I had first seen an ad a couple of months before.

Dad had stopped at a store before heading over to the stock show.

They had them! A whole display!

I was at a store that actually had the magical little balls for sale.

And my Dad was there.

With his wallet.

The planets had aligned. The day was mine!

And so, incidentally, was my little, dark blue miracle.

I pried open the package and, for the first time, felt the cool, smooth surface of the greatest high-bouncing ball of all time.

I sat there in the truck and held it.

Staring at it.

Smelling it.

I couldn’t wait to give it a good bounce.

Dad pulled into the stock section of the fair grounds and we all got out and went into the nearest pavilion.

I found myself standing in the lane of a long, concrete-floored, stall-lined, barn of a building.

Perfect.

I lifted the hand holding the ball . . .

And smashed it down onto the pavement as hard as I could.

Wow.

All of the ads never really paid it full justice.

That little ball hit that hard surface and shot like a missile toward the ceiling.

I stared at it; eyes wide and mouth open in a foolish grin of pleasure.

Then my magical toy came down.

Down.

Finally landing somewhere in the endless mounds of straw that filled the building.

Okay, that, I never anticipated.

I searched for that ball for hours.

I’d be searching still if my Dad hadn’t dragged me away for some frivolous ‘have-to-eat-and-sleep-and-for-heaven’s-sake-it’s-only-a-ball’ reason.

My one and only Superball.

You know, the ads claimed that it would keep on bouncing, almost forever. 

The ads were wrong.

Old Danny Boy

Oh, please! Not that song again!

I grew up on a large old Southern Alberta ranch.
Among cattle, horses and hired men.
I loved it.
I spent many happy hours riding (or sleeping) on the horses.
Chasing the barn cats.
Catching mice.
Wandering through the corrals and feed lots.
Or my favourite, watching the hired men.
It was while doing the last, that I received both my nickname and my signature song.
Let me tell you about it . . .
The Stringam Ranch generally employed six or more hired men.
They worked hard.
Wrangling cattle.
Breaking horses.
Fencing.
Doing one of the myriad tasks that were ranching.
But, inevitably, each job included one extra chore.
Watching over Diane.
I don't want to say that I was always under foot but . . .
Okay. I was always under foot.
When they were in the corral with the horses, I was perched on the fence.
When they were milking the cows, I was sitting on one of the empty stools nearby.
When they were hauling hay, I was in the cab of the truck, nose pressed against the back window.
Yep. If anything was happening, you can bet Diane was in the middle of it.
I should point out, here, that these men were good men.
Hard working.
Dependable.
A bit rough around the edges.
But that I never heard one curse word from any of them.
Ever.
Looking back, I'm sure they knew these words.
They just never used them around me.
Believe me, I would have repeated anything I heard.
Back to my story . . .
It must have been a trifle . . . inconvenient . . . having the boss' four-year-old daughter always under foot.
They never complained.
In fact, they even had a nickname for me.
Danny.
Which I loved.
And gave me my very own song, “Danny Boy”.
Which I didn't.
I'm not sure who was the first to discover this song.
Or my aversion to it.
But the word quickly spread.
Soon, whenever I would appear, someone would begin singing, “Oh, Danny boy . . .”
Whereupon (good word) I would cover both of my ears and scream, “Noooooo!”
Then run away.
It was magical.
Not one word need be said.
And they could continue their work in peace.
Genius.
Moving forward thirty years . . .
When my youngest son Tristan was born, he was our 'Little Warty Boy'.
I'm not sure who came up with this.
Or why.
He didn't have warts or anything.
It just seemed to fit.
He even got a song. (Sung to the tune of 'Surfer Girl')
“Little tiny warty boy,
Fills my heart with so much joy.
Do you love me,
Little Warty Boy?”
We sang this for years.
Until he was about four and abruptly developed an aversion to it.
Suddenly, he began covering his ears and screaming, “Noooooo!” whenever someone started singing.
I felt his pain.

Finally Mine!

A gift, it was, to Mom, from Dad,

To celebrate the life they had,

A painting from one ‘Viski J’

Of horses. Running fast away…

Divinely done, from hooves to jaws,
For me, t’was love when first I saw,

I stared at it for hours on end,

Those gorgeous beasts became my friends.

Sometimes, I joined them in my mind,

Ran to catch up from behind,

And then, with them, we’d run enmasse,

And race each other cross the grass.

Those two in front, sweethearts they were,

Fleeing from both boot and spur,

Their heads together as they ran,

As they stayed far from cruel man.

To say it was my fav-o-rite,

Would not exaggerate one bit.

Told Dad this daughter (not his sons)…

She wanted it when he was done.

And when he moved from large to small,

He had no room for it at all,

And so a gift, from him to me,

As treasured as a gift could be.

And now it hangs upon my wall,

The best horse painting of them all,

Just looking at it makes me glad,

It makes me think of Mom. And Dad.

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?

To Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we'll all have fun, I bet...

We'll talk about someone we've met!

Riding Lessons

See? Blue.

When my husband married me, he got more than he expected.
I came with baggage.
More correctly.
Horses.
One was blue in colour.
Aptly and creatively named, 'Bluey'.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Bluey was . . . not a pretty horse.
She was an appaloosa-cross mare. About ten years old.
Like many of her breed, she had no mane. And an embarrassment for a tail.
But she was gentle and quiet. Patient and un-stampedable.
Perfect for farm kids.
But Bluey had one fault.
She was tall.
Too tall for the average child to climb on unassisted.
And that's where my story starts . . .
Mark and Erik, our two oldest boys, were in Bluey's field.
Playing.
Mark, 4, especially loved to ride.
But neither he nor his younger brother could climb up on their gentle friend.
Even though she was perfectly willing to stand quietly while they tried.
First, it was Erik helping his brother.
But they quickly discovered that three-year-old Erik's muscles simply weren't up to the task.
Finally, Mark had an idea.
He could help his little brother get up on Bluey.
At least one of them could have fun.
I have often imagined the conversation . . .
Mark: “Here, Erik, I'll boost your up.”
Erik (eyeing the mare suspiciously): “I want to go home.”
Mark: “In a minute. First, you get to have a little ride.”
Erik: “Don't want to ride.”
Mark: “Yes you do. It's fun.”
Erik: “Pretty sure I don't.”
Mark: “You're little. What do you know? C'mon.”
Erik: “Sigh.”
He submitted.
Once he was safely installed, Mark stepped back.
And gave the mare a slap. 'To get her going'.
She went.
Right out from under Erik.
Not a good thing.
A short time later, two boys came to the house.
One in tears.
They had both learned an important lesson.
The hardest thing about learning to ride is the ground.

Clothed

When we arrive (with great fanfare—

Before we are at all aware),

We’re, one and all, completely bare,

And I don’t mean in disrepair,

Or simply lacking underwear,

But naked to the open air,

No wonder that our tempers flare,

And with our cries we fill the air,

I’m sure we say, “Put me back there!”

(Perhaps a baby curse or swear),

Demands for something warm to wear,

A dress or pants or soft footwear?

And so it starts, most everywhere,

For baby’s needs, we must prepare…

So to the store we will repair,

To clothe that little, wriggling heir!

But…

I think it’s such a strange affair

In later life, when we declare

“I haven’t got a stitch to wear”,

‘Tis only true our first day there!

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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we’ll keep it short and sweet,
Our favourite pictures. What a treat!

Holiday Monsters

Lake Okanagan. It only LOOKS peaceful and serene...

Husby and I are heading out to visit our son on Vancouver Island.

But to reach it—and him—we have to first travel through British Columbia.

And the mountains.

Gorgeous scenery.

But one of our stops will be Lake Okanagan.

And that brings back a memory . . .

The Ogopogo was going to get me!

Ahem . . .

I have a vivid imagination.

I admit it.

It’s carried me to places near and far.

Most of which simply don’t exist.

But that doesn’t stop me from visiting them.

The problem with a vivid imagination is that it can cause you a lot of needless worry and some amazing heart gymnastics.

On with my story . . .

My family was visiting Penticton on the south shore of Lake Okanagan in the beautiful interior of British Columbia.

We had been having a marvelous time.

Picking fruit.

Eating fruit.

And stopping at any and all tourist sites.

Heaven.

We were camped just feet away from the shore of the lake.

A beautiful, peaceful body of water approximately 80 miles long and with an average depth of about 250 feet.

Now, I should mention here that I loved swimming.

I had learned in the muddy waters of the Milk River that flowed past our ranch.

We spent our entire summer in that river.

So, murky-ness didn’t scare me.

Nope.

What scared me were the tales of the great Ogopogo that supposedly inhabited that serene-looking body of water. The Ogopogo with its horse-shaped head and great undulating, serpent-like body that had been known to swallow native canoeists whole.

I stood on the beach and stared long and hard at the water, looking for anything that might betray the presence of the beast. Because I knew that, if I slid even one foot into that water, the monster would immediately sense the presence of a ten-year-old, gleamingly white-skinned, skinny, tow-headed girl and think, “Oooh! My favourite meal!”

And pop to the top.

I knew it.

I would rather have watched my feet break through the scummy surface of some smelly municipal sewer than to disappear beneath the clean water of Lake Okanagan.

Except that sewers have been known to harbour their own monsters.

Sigh.

Finally, with much cajoling and some really pointed teasing, I waded in.

And I do mean waded – the water never reached my knees.

Even then, I wasn’t happy about it.

Every splash made me jump.

And I had a nagging, persistent feeling that great, piercing, bloodshot eyes were watching my every move, deciding where would be the tastiest place to sink sharp, ragged teeth.

I spent the entire ‘swim’ continually glancing behind me, certain I’d see a line of ripples leading in my direction. Or worse, a great, hulking form rising up out of the water, slavering jaws wide open and  . . . eww . . . dripping.

And where would my holiday be then?

Finally, I parked my little self on the beach.

Safely back from the monster-filled water.

Under a lovely, toasty sun.

I watched my brothers and sisters and scores of others as they tempted fate.

Silly, foolish people.

Tourist view in Kelowna.

'Actual' photo of the Ogopogo. You decide . . .

War and Chocolates

How do you relax after dinner?

Okay, I admit it: Our family is weird.

We like theatrics.

And things medieval.

And, believe it or no, that takes bravery.

Case in point:

My husband has a collection of catapults.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Catapults.

He loves them.

Oh, they're not large enough to cause havoc.

And certainly not of a size to terrorize the neighbourhood.

Although I wouldn't mention that to him. It might give him ideas.

Moving on . . .

No. His catapults are small.

Suitable for launching little, foil-wrapped chocolates.

Which he does.

Usually after family meals.

Our family is large.

And we have two tables in our dining room.

One round table, built by my Husby and seen here.

And one smaller table, also built by my Husby, which seats all of the grandchildren.

It is to this smaller table that he retreats after the meal is done.

With his grandkids, his catapults and his stockpile of chocolate balls.

Which he and his little army then proceed to fire at anyone left sitting at the main table.

Remember when I mentioned 'weird'?

That would apply here.

I should point out that the balls of chocolate don't hurt.

The little catapults barely throw them with sufficient force to get them to the other table.

Back to my story . . .

The usual targets of the invading hoards are their wife and/or mothers and/or grandmother.

Who have all learned to duck when needed.

I should also mention that perhaps, fortunately, their aim isn't great.

One day, we had just finished one of Grandpa's sumptuous feasts and he and assorted grandchildren had set up a siege at the kid's table.

Several of the moms were still sitting at the main table.

Visiting.

One of our granddaughters, five-year-old Kyra, came to tell her mother something.

Her timing was . . . unfortunate.

She had placed herself right in the line of fire.

So to speak.

A chocolate ball whizzed towards her.

With unusual, but deadly precision.

Thock!

Right in the center of her forehead.

She gasped and clapped one hand over the spot.

Everyone burst out laughing.

She wavered between laughter and tears for a few seconds.

Then her mother told her that she got to eat the offending chocolate ball.

And any thought of tears was forgotten.

She hunted for and happily ate, the treat.

Then disappeared.

A few minutes later, she was back.

“Mom, can I have another chocolate ball?”

Her mother looked at her. “You have to let Grampa shoot one at you first.”

“Oh.”

She thought about that for a moment.

Then she put both hands, palms out, over her forehead and stood up tall. “Okay, Grampa! I'm ready!”

Bravery.

It comes in all shapes, sizes and ages.

But never more noticeable than in a weird family.

After dinner.