Awakening My OCD

 

The day I realized just how good I had it . . .

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.
I admit it.
Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.
And I cleaned my room/living quarters.
Again when my Mom told me.
Mom was a clean nut.
But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.
And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.
Really clean.
Let me explain . . .
We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.
It was exciting.
Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.
For purely logistical reasons.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Moving on . . .
We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.
We stepped into the entryway.
And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.
The house was filthy.
I mean filthy.
You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.
We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.
I stopped in the doorway.
Frozen.
Or stuck.
It was hard to tell the difference.
Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.
The stove was unrecognizable.
Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.
Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.
Perhaps that was a blessing.
One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.
And under the table.
My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.
"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.
Or garden.
Or feed lot.
Huh. Feed lots. And cleanliness . . .
But I digress . . .
"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.
Well in hand?!
I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.
"Diane, come and help us."
Mom had noticed my hesitation.
But had somehow missed the rising green colour.
"Sorry, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."
I remember her look.
Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm really not feeling very well."
She came over to me.
I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.
She put a hand on my forehead.
"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."
The mess went on?
I couldn't bear to venture further.
"No, I really think I'd better go outside."
I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.
"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.
My eyes widened. I could only imagine.
"Um, no. Just some fresh air."
I bolted towards the door.
And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.
Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.
Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.
With the family dog.
He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Happiest Trails

 

Mom

Usually, the first thing we kids in the Stringam home heard in the morning was the kitchen radio.

On a country channel.

This was followed almost immediately by the sound of pots and pans.

And . . . cooking.

We instantly knew that Mom was awake and had taken up her front-line position before the stove.

Good food was imminent.

Even now, fifty-some years later, the sound of a radio in the early morning means good food.

Though I may have to be the one making it.

But I digress . . .

Mom’s radio played throughout much of the day. If it got switched off, her country records would take up our air waves.

I loved it.

Have you ever noticed that much of the old-time country music has a certain . . . beat?

A slow, bomp-ba-dum-dum, bomp-ba-dum-dum beat?

Well it did.

And whenever it came on, I would pretend I was riding a horse.

Across the ‘lone prairie’ of the living room.

The beat was perfect.

I could keep this up for hours.

Or as long as the song lasted.

My favourite was Dale Evans’ song ‘Happy Trails’, sung by Roy Rogers.

I would ride my horse and sing at the top of my voice, “Happy trails to you! Until we meet again. Happy trails to you! Keep smiling until then.”

And, somehow, that song and my Mom became synonymous with each other.

Moving forward many, many years . . .

My Husby and I were in Jasper National Park here in Alberta.

He was attending a conference.

I was  . . . doing other stuff.

Part of my day included a long, lovely swim in the huge pool.

I know, life is tough.

I had finished my laps and was simply lying back in the water, looking up at the perfect eggshell-blue sky and smelling the scent of pine in the fresh air.

A group of men were doing some work on the roof of the great main building next to me.

The sound of saws and hammering quit for an instant.

And an exquisite (can I use that word here?) male voice floated down to me. “Happy Trails to you! Until we meet again.”

He was simply singing while he worked.

I wonder if he noticed the woman in the pool below him.

Crying.

Papa Preparation

 I’m working on a new book! My Mom’s memoirs: glimpses of a rancher’s wife—wife-ing and mother-ing on the vast Southern Alberta prairies. Told through her letters. Today’s is an excerpt. Enjoy!

[Please note: Blogger won't allow me to edit, so the 'letter' format doesn't work right. Just know this is supposed to be a letter!]

 November 29, 1953   Dearest Mark,   I don’t think a life of the care of children, or perhaps even the medical profession is for our Jerry. Oh, he definitely has the enthusiasm. 

He is very attentive to his new little brother. He’s always wanting to help me with the baby. Holding bottles. Or pins and diaper cream whenever I change the little diaper.

 And he seems to have a genius for diplomacy. I watched him a few days ago with Gerhard and Isa’s son, Ulrich, who tends to be quick-tempered. Ulie was really upset about something.

 Jerry simply stood back and waited for the storm to pass, then moved close again and quietly said, “Ulie, how about we do it this way.” Ulie went happily went along.

 

But there is one area in which he’s lacking. Yesterday, I laid the baby down on a blanket on the floor of the front room while I worked in the kitchen.

 

Jerry was nearby, playing quietly, but obviously keeping an unobtrusive eye on his little brother. Suddenly, quite breathless he came running into the kitchen. “Mom!” he shouted. “George . . .”

 

A pause as Jerry’s little stomach rebelled queasily and thoroughly over the floor, “. . . threw up!” See what I mean? Let’s agree to keep him far from bodily wastes.

 

At least until he can clean up his own messes. On a more positive note, I’ve pretty much decided I want to keep the refrigerator. The ice chest had its uses.

 

And, certainly, it was handy to have the ice so close to hand. But confess. Hauling it was a pain—especially trying to get it up out of the ice house.

 

Why is it that every strong male in the vicinity has somewhere far away to be when the women need some ice hauled? That is a critical question for the cosmos.

 

Anyways, I’m grateful for electricity. Even gladder that I have my ‘fridge.  Thank you!                Love, Enes                                                                                                                                                    P.S. The catalogue has amazing appliances that run on electricity. I’ll get back to you.

 

Today is a word challenge!

Once a month a number is declared and everyone scrambles to carve words adhering to that particular number into a document worthy of publication.

Okay, okay…Number chosen. Blogs written.

With me?

This month’s number was 31. And chosen by me!

(There is only one problem, my partner-in-crime posted yesterday. I am a day late—and most definitely a dollar short!)

Go now and see what the punctual member of our group posted!

Karen of Bakinginatornado

Mimi of Messymimismeanderings

 

The Right Music

Father and son.

My second son is a large man.
Large.
Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.
And he is a body builder.
He works as a cop in our fair city.
Let me put it this way . . .
No one argues with him.
They just nod politely and do as he asks.
His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.
Size is important.
But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.
And tons of fun.
Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.
And he drove a big truck.
These two points are important.
Moving on . . .
One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.
His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.
He looked every inch the soldier he was.
He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.
I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.
And sunglasses.
In a monster truck.
But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.
And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".
He stopped at a stoplight.
Still grooving.
Then he glanced to his left.
A small pickup was sitting beside him.
With three teenage boys in the seat.
All of whom were staring at him.
Up at him.
Their expressions were . . . interesting.
My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.
The light changed and he drove on.
But the small truck stayed where it was.
I think he frightened them.
Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?
Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Eat. Drink. Stink.

Cause Garlic is an awesome herb with benefits galore,

It’s nutritious, but adds flavour and detoxifies and more!

Improves bone health, low calories, while tasting oh, so grand,

May lower risk of heart disease, (I’ve learned this one firsthand!)

It combats ‘bugs’, dementia, may even help with sports!

Reduces pressure, lengthens life—according to reports.

And so, because it’s helpful and would n’er our health betray,

We’re joining here together: Giving GARLIC its own day…

 

My dog ate all my garlic; he thinks it tastes just right,

But now you have to understand, his bark’s worse than his bite!

 

Some garlic in a salad left poor ‘Drac’ without a pray-er,

Another victim of Buffet: the Vam-pire Slay-er.

 

There is a garlic diet, makes you smell from breath and skin,

You don’t lose much, but face it, from a distance, you look thin!

 

I do garlic magic! First I crush a clove or so,

Add basil, parmesan and oil and blend and shout, “Pesto!”

 

If you were raised by garlic, from your toes up to your head,

You’re justified in saying that: You are ‘garlic bred’.

 

At lunch, we two were in dispute, another friend stopped by,

He took all of our garlic bread. Wish he’d stop taking sides!

 

How’d the Hipster burn his mouth? (I’ll take you now to school…)

Well, he tried eating garlic bread…before it was cool.

 

Where do garlics go to drink? The sal-ad bar.

Why’s the garlic naked? No cloves left. I’ve gone too far…

 

A recipe for garlic toast: (I’ll stop, though I’ve had fun!)

Just raise a glass to everything that garlic’s done!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, 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 have to dream a bit

As on the beach we try to sit!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
National Garlic Day (April 19) Today!
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10)
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17)
Favorite breakfast (May 24)
Memorial Day (May 31)
Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)
Monkey Around Day (June 14)
Fathers (June 21)
Bubbles (June 28)

 

Socked

Okay, in hindsight, ‘going to the park’ was probably a good idea.

Being cooped up in lockdown with Sally AND Mort can sometimes resemble being in lockup with Psycho Sophia and her henchman Brainless Bobby.

That’s a lot of ups and downs.

Ahem…

I know for a fact that Mom had had enough.

It was her suggestion, after all, that the three of us could, in her words, ‘use some fresh air’.

Admittedly, she had a reason for her less-than-patient, overly clinical attitude.

Sally, in an effort to show Mort how to flip a pancake, had actually flipped the pan.

Right through the window over the kitchen sink.

Which would have been bad enough. But following the whole pillow-fight-until-someone-puts-a-foot-through-the-TV-screen debacle as it did.

And this preceded by…

Never mind. Let’s just say Mom was justified and leave it at that.

So we found ourselves at the park, tails humbly and firmly tucked. 

I'm Socially Distanced from anyone who counts (ie. everyone NOT Sally and Mort.) watching the pair of them play their version of soccer.

It was a bright, warm, glorious afternoon. Perfect for visiting the park.

That is if you’re a normal person.

Doing normal ‘park’ things…

Our visit had already resulted in profuse apologies to one family for mowing down their four-year-old when he managed to insinuate himself somewhere into the action. And an offer to pay another family for cleaning when Mort missed one of Sally’s field-clearing kicks and it ended with her rainbow-coloured soccer ball landing squarely (and with some force) in the center of their gi-normous bowl of potato salad.

I looked at my watch.

We’d been here a grand total of 17 minutes.

Sigh.

Off to my left, I saw Sally wind up for another of her ‘field goal’ kicks.

Mort was ready.

Which is to say he was standing some little ways away.

With a huge, red ‘X’ painted on his head.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. There was no actual X.

Just an imaginary one that seems real.

I covered my own head, just in case…

Sally belted the ball.

It flew, straight and perfect toward Mort.

For the first time, ever, Mort managed to get beneath it and bunt it with his enormous noggin.

I was so surprised that I forgot, for the moment, to keep my hands in their usual protective posture.

You have to know that Mort’s aim sadly lacks the…finesse…of Sally’s.

But what it loses in acuity, it makes up for in speed.

By the time I realized it was coming toward me, giving credible homage to the velocity of light, I could do little else but make a half-hearted and feeble gesture toward my soon-to-be belted cranium.

I told myself death was acceptable because I had fought the good fight and briefly (because that’s all the time I had) considered closing my eyes.

Hmmm…death visible or invisible…

And then, just as I took in the short sharp breath that would quite possibly be my last, a long, muscular arm shot out of nowhere and snatched the author of my demise before it could become.

And I was suddenly looking up into the warmest, most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen.

I admit it. I stared.

Below the eyes, a pair of firm, perfect, masculine lips curled into an equally gorgeous smile.

“Hello,” a smooth, deep voice said. “I’m Peter.”

 

 

Use Your Words is a challenge issued by the Great Karen from her lofty throne at Baking in a Tonado. And we, her loyal subjects hasten to comply...

Each month, we volunteer words, which Karen then shuffles and re-distributes. We don't know who will get our words. Or what they will do with them.

Until now!

My words this month? clinical ~ fought ~ insinuate ~ perfect ~ tail

There were supplied by my wonderful friend, Rena at: Wandering Web Designer 

Rena, I (and Sally and Gwen) thank you. You are amazing!

Here are the other participants. Read them, I guarantee it'll be a treat!

Baking In A Tornado                  

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Adapt. Adopt. Become Adept.

I'll get it. Just give me time.

Our children learn from what they see. And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not.
Sometimes, it's just plain fun.
My husby, Grant, had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
Mark's very favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then my husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphamism (real word).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged.
Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.
“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the eupham . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Ho-ney!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Ho-ney!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Ho-ney!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Ho-ney!”
His father emerged, drying his hands and still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“Mo' pancake, Ho-ney!”
We had created a monster.

On a Bicycle Built for Me

 

Bygone days . . .

My daughter and I were looking for new bicycles.

And the irony was just sickening.

Let me go waaay back and tell you why . . .

I was five and quite ready to move up from the tricycle that had served me well. I was ready to learn to ride a two-wheeler.

I could ride almost anything with four legs and, on the ranch, the choices there were nearly endless.

But when it came to bicycles, I had . . . less.

Choices, that is.

There was my oldest brother, Jerry's bike. But the bar made the fact that I was short and couldn't sit on the seat, impossible.

The one that was closest to my size was ‘Alfred’, my next older brother George’s bike.

It was a hand-me-over from Jerry and had already gone many, many miles.

Been refurbished and set to go many, many more.

Younger brother on 'Alfred'. Handed down again.

But it was out of bounds for me.

Because...George.

That left the biggest bike.

Mom’s.

A classic.

The old green one with the balloon tires.

The one that stood almost taller than my head.

There was no way I could remotely come near to sitting on the seat, but I discovered I could manage nicely if I just stood on the pedals.

The whole time I was riding.

The amazing thing is, for the behemoth it was, that bike was astonishingly easy to ride.

And a fantastic bike to learn on.

In no time, I was whizzing up and down the tree-lined drive, pumping madly as I tried to keep up with my fleeter, older brother.

I don’t remember actually riding it when I could reach the seat and the pedals at the same time, but for a while, that bike and I were good company.

My brother perched on my gold beauty
(sans tassels)

Until Dad brought home a solid gold beauty.

Just for me.

Complete with a banana seat and ape-hanger handlebars (with gold streamers) it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

We were instantly fast friends.

And I do mean fast.

And the novel ability to be able to sit while I pedaled was . . . novel.

And remarkable.

We spent many hours and miles together.

Until I outgrew it.

You’d think I would then have turned to the old, green reliable, now that feet and seat could actually work in conjunction with each other.

But I didn’t.

Nope.

After riding my gold beauty, I wouldn’t be caught dead on that old thing.

Moving ahead many, many years.

My daughters and daughters-in-law biked every morning. With assorted grandchildren as out-riders and three of us towing little trailers, we resembled a parade.

All we needed were the balloons.

And clowns.

Okay, just the balloons.

The little blue Canadian Tire $99 Special I had been riding had been sadly outclassed by my DIL’s vintage, pink Electra marvel.

I had ridden it.

It was delicious.

I wanted one.

So my daughter and I had determined to find bikes EXACTLY like it.

Now, for the ironic part.

These bikes were precisely like the bike I learned to ride on.

The old green reliable.

The one I wouldn’t be caught dead on all those years ago.

Balloon tires and all.

See? Irony. . . 

Today. See the pink beauty somewhere in the middle? Mmmmm.

Invented by Oopsies

 

I know I've published this before,

I thought that I would post once more,

Especially now, with Covid near,

To me, vaccines are 'specially dear!

For once, he’d listened to his wife,

How to ameliorate her life,

And he went without delay,

To take her on a holiday.

But as he hastened to comply,

In proving he was one sweet guy,

He left his glistening lab in less

Than pristine order, I confess.

While those two hurried who knows where,

One petri dish abandoned there,

A part of his criteria,

Was moistened with bacteria.

When they returned, that fateful dish,

Was not as clean as they could wish.

Bacteria, possession had,

And things were looking rather bad.

Except one place had not been ‘got’,

No icky growth upon that spot.

Instead, a little bit of mold

Had landed there and taken hold.

It battled with the icky stuff,

And proved that it had strength enough,

Its presence brought discovery,

And new ways for recovery.

I guess you’ve guessed by now that guy

Was christened Fleming from on high.

And penicillin started small

S’the best discovery of all!

After that, we note that he

Made no more great discoveries.

His wife, by his chaos dismayed,

Decided she would hire a maid.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, 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 all may stink a bit,

And Garlic'll be the cause of it!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12) Today!
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10)
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17)
Favorite breakfast (May 24)
Memorial Day (May 31)
Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)
Monkey Around Day (June 14)
Fathers (June 21)
Bubbles (June 28)

78’s

Today, I'm sitting in a warm blanket of nostalgia . . .

My dad had an extensive record collection. 78’s.
Instrumentals. Country. Easy listening. Nonsense.
Thick, heavy records that could easily double as frisbees.
If we had thought of it.
Which we didn't.
We kids would paw through those records in search of our favourites.
I had two.
I listened to them endlessly.
Endlessly.
Till I moved on to the Monkees, which is a whole other story.
Dad upgraded his collection and his stereo system. Replacing all of his 78 recordings with new LPs.

Well, almost all.
Somehow, he missed my favourites.
Sigh.
I've searched for them ever since in many, many antique stores. Thumbing through the 78s they have on offer for those two little songs. Or even one of them. I'd be satisfied with that.
But always, I've been disappointed.
I was telling my granddaughters about my favourite songs yesterday and describing the archaic 78 records that played them.
Yeah. They didn't believe me.
Then I went to my new friend, Google.
And guess what?!
They are there!
Both of them.
I offer them to you now, exactly as I used to listen to them.
When I was four.
And the world wasn't a scary place . . .

First: Horace the Horse

Then: Smokey the Bear

And, because we loved him too, my favourite Spike Jones:
New Years Resolution

Picture me, a little girl with white, candy-fluff hair, singing along.
My mom's in the kitchen making something grand.
Daddy's in his chair, work boots off and feet up, reading the newspaper and waiting for supper.
That's where I'm going to spend my day!

Learning

It started innocently enough. 

Me and newly-minted four-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter known as Please-Be-Patient-With-Me-I’m-Learning. Or PBPWMIL, for short) discussing the pros and cons (mostly cons) of taking something that doesn’t belong to you.

“But I wanted it,” she affirmed.

“I know, Sweetheart. But you can’t take something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I should probably mention here that I am speaking to a little girl with snapping dark eyes, shining dark hair, and smeared chocolate from nose to ears to chin. Not to mention the chocolate wrappers strewn about her small person.

Yep. Caught red-handed.

Or chocolate-chinned.

“How would you feel if little brother took something that was yours?”

“I would take it back!”

“Would you be sad that he had it?”

“Yeah. So I would take it back!”

“So should I take the chocolate back that you took from me?”

She frowned at that logic for a moment.

I presumed I was getting my point across.

A little note: Never assume anything when speaking to a recently graduate of Being Three.

She looked at me, wide eyes earnest and opened her little red bow of a mouth.

Here it comes, I thought. I finally got through to her!

“But I wanted it.”

Sigh. We’d come full circle.

“Okay, let’s start again,” I said. “Sweetheart how would you feel if someone took something that belonged to you?”

She stared at me. Then, “I can’t answer right now. My brain is empty.”

We’re considering encouraging her to run for political office.