Fizzled Sizzle

  

“Our life needs more ‘sizzle’,”

Said Husby. To me.

And I wondered just what in the world could he mean?

So I went to the lexicon,

Searched the word there.

I admit that the things that I found made me stare.

It said ‘sizzle’s a hissing sound,

Water—hot steel.

Which happens whenever I’m making a meal.

It also suggested

To burn up or sear.

Sounds to me like a branding iron on a calf’s rear.

Or the hissing sound made

When burning or frying.

That happened last night. He thought something was dying.

And lastly, to seethe

With deep anger: resent.

Now I’m really unsure just what my Husby meant.

So to my dear friends,

Use a whisper. (Don’t shout.)

Can you tell me what life with more ‘sizzle’s’ about?

Daddy/Daughter Dating

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped into my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. I think . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader, so I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line by whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation. “Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas. “Go on."

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much. “Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant. The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music playing. Quiet talk and laughter around us. Gentle chime of silverware on china. Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, buttered, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu. “Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match. Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life. In the best of ways.

A Short Trip

Ready for town . . .

We lived 70 miles from the nearest city. Thus, a 'trip to town' was more of an event.
Inevitably, I got car sick. Not a pleasant thing for anyone stuck in the vehicle with me.
And, being four, I sometimes confused being excited with being sick.
Let me explain . . .
On the ranch, the most exciting thing our Dad could say was, “Everyone get in the car, we've got to go to the town!”
It was equivalent to being told we were going to Disneyland.
All right, I admit it, sophisticated world travelers, we weren't.
We would then pile into the car (And I do mean 'pile'. Seatbelts hadn't been invented yet.) and head up the gravel road towards the great white lights of Lethbridge. The trip took an hour and a half. Or more, when Diane was one of the passengers.
Invariably, at some point between the ranch and the first town, Milk River, a small voice would pipe up from the back seat, “I'm sick!”
The car would slide quickly to the side of the road. Mom's door would fly open. Diane would pop magically to the top of the heap of humanity in the back seat and . . .
I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
Every trip.
Every time.
But then . . . something changed.
The little voice would speak up sooner.
And sooner.
Until the car wouldn't even have made it out of the driveway before the fateful words were heard.
Mom and Dad tried to puzzle it out. Why was Diane getting sick so quickly after getting into the car?
They must have figured something because they certainly came up with an effective solution.
On that fateful day, Dad announced that he had to make a trip into town.
With much talk and laughter, we kids piled (that word again) into the car.
Dad got in. His door closed.
A pause while he found the key and jammed it into the starter.
He turned the key.
The motor roared to life.
He reached for the gear shift.
“I'm sick!”
His hand hovered there for a split second. Then dropped down and shut off the key.
“Then, you'd better stay at home with your Mom.”
What?! No! I stared at him, horrified.
“Go on. Get out.”
The tears started.
I should mention here that my Dad is a real push-over for tears.
Any tears.
Except, obviously when his small daughter needs to be taught a lesson.
“Diane. Get out.”
“Daaaadddyyy!”
Suddenly, Mom was there, opening the car door.
“Nooooo!”
She carried me, by now crying bitterly into the house and set me down on a kitchen chair.
Over my sobs, I heard the car start up and pull out of the driveway.
They were really going to leave me! It was more than my little four-year-old heart could handle.
I lept off the chair, ran to my parent's room and crawled under the bed.
Now, I should point out here that, never before or since have I crawled under my parent's bed. Maybe because never before or since has anything been that traumatic. But I digress . . .
I lay under there, sobbing for hours. (Or more probably five minutes – it's all the same when you're four.)
Suddenly, a banana appeared at the side of the bed. A fresh banana, with the peel still on, but just slightly opened to reveal the yumminess underneath.
It stayed there, just temptingly out of reach.
I looked at it. I love bananas.
And it really looked good.
I slid towards it. Just a little.
It stayed there.
A little more.
I could almost reach it.
More.
There! I could touch it.
And I was out from under the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
I looked up. Mom was sitting there on the floor, holding the banana.
I nodded and crawled into her lap. She held the banana for me to take a bite, then handed the rest to me and snuggled me tightly.
I munched my way through the treat, still sniffing occasionally.
Mom waited until I was done.
“Was it good?”
Nod. Sniff.
“Would you like something else?”
Nod.
She stood up, taking me with her and carried me into the kitchen.
Where she fed me a cookie.
Then another.
Why does everything look better on a full tummy?
Then she sat down. “Diane, in the car, were you really sick?”
I stopped chewing and looked at my cookie. Then I stared at her, wide-eyed.
“I don't think you were, were you?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“So why did you say you were?”
I looked at the cookie again, my mind working frantically.
“Were you excited about going to town?”
I nodded.
“Okay, I want you to think about this . . .”
Great. Thinking. My forte. Not.
“When we go in the car, I don't want you to say that you're sick. Unless you really are sick.”
I turned that over in my mind. I nodded.
“Can you remember that?”
Another nod. I started chewing again.
Mom smiled and stood up. “Good.”
And, oddly enough, that was all it took.
Never again did I pipe up from the back seat for anything less than genuine illness.
Or the potty, which Mom kept under her car seat.
But that is a whole other story.

'Twenty' Winks

The real reason Rip slept for 20 years?

Tell me what you think of this…
A man, married to a distinctly unpleasant woman (His words—not sure what the full story is, but I don’t want to judge…) disappears for 20 years, then returns and gives an astonishing performance of…astonishment…when he finds his family gone and his house in ruins. He later meets up with his daughter, now grown, and goes home with her.

Said daughter, now the wife of a wealthy landowner and mother to two children, tells him everything that has occurred in his absence. Including the death of his wife and nearly all of his drinking buddies. The man—oh I forgot to introduce you, his name is Rip—then proceeds to tell his part of the story, which includes entering a cave and falling asleep for twenty years.

Now the genius part of this story is the fact that Rip had no proof. None whatsoever. Other than his newly-long-grown beard, similar outfit to the one he was wearing when last seen, and decaying rifle. Tales of a group of tiny people, happily bowling inside the mountain where he slept are, sadly, inconclusive. And unprovable. And why on earth did he include them in the first place? 

So here is a man who conveniently disappears, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves. Then, when enough years have elapsed for every possible problem to have resolved itself, he returns to reclaim his life with a plausible/not-so-plausible story. See? Genius. My question is this: Where did Rip actually spend those twenty years? And doing what? Sleeping? Really? A good story, Rip, but we’re watching you. 

And by the way...where is this cave?
Asking for a friend.

Today's post was brought to you by the number 68 and by the letter 'M'. For Mimi 

See what the other participants have created!

BakingIn ATornado
Messymimi’sMeanderings

Happy Word Counters Day!

'Die' With a 'T'

When I was young, my parents said

To clean my plate—from soups to bread,

I was a skinny chicken, then,

With every food that’s known to men.

 

As I grew older, diet changed,

From meat to chocolate, it ranged,

And, as a teen, it wasn’t odd

To lunch on Mars bars when abroad.

 

‘Twas then I started diet fads

To keep my weight from getting ‘bad’.

It started with my Nutri-shakes,

Nutrition, some. And flavour, fake.

 

From there, I moved to Watching Weight

With guides to track just what I ate,

It worked for years—I even taught

‘Bout only eating what I ought.

 

Now I’ve seen diets come and go,

‘Eat Only Meat!’ ‘Eat Only Roe!’

‘Away with dairy, eggs and cheese’,

OR ‘Breads are evil! Cause disease!’

 

I have tried Keto, I admit,

It was a satisfying hit,

And I’ve considered trying Noom,

(I learned about that one on Zoom!)

 

Will it, like others, come to naught?

(Though I lost the same 10 pounds a lot!)

Think I’ll return to being eight,

Eat everything. And clean my plate!

 

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, from Mimi, join us here

For ‘Favourite Potables’. Teas to Beer!

 

 

 

 

 

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.