Personal Chef

He's a little taller now...

I had a project.

Or more appropriately a PROJECT.

And a household to run.

And three little boys, aged six months to four years.

I needed help.

Let me explain . . .

My Husby was the director of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police Museum.

And he had asked me to create a display for it.

A secret display.

Does that make sense?

Moving on . . .

I was to create, in latch-hook, the RCMP crest. 

No small feat.

I had a pattern.

I bought the materials.

I started in.

Now, I should point out, here, that my pattern had originally been designed to create the picture for a 'petit-point' medium.

250 stitches wide by 250 stitches long.

And should end up about four inches in size.

It could also be used for cross-stitch.

Which would make it about twelve inches.

I was doing latch hook.

Six feet square.

Enough said.

A project of that size and scope naturally was going to take time.

But the board of the museum was awaiting my 'surprise'.

Anxiously.

I had to speed things along.

How to do that with three little boys.

Hmmmmm.

Some of my usual duties were going to have to be shared.

Someone was gong to have to take over the cooking.

And the most likely candidate was my oldest boy, Markie.

Have I mentioned that he was four?

He was.

But, for six weeks, my four-year-old did all of the cooking in our house.

We ate fruit.

And anything he could manage to cook in the microwave.

We had hot dogs.

Fish sticks.

Soup.

Lots of hot chocolate.

Oatmeal.

Cream of wheat.

Bowls of steamed vegetables.

Our menu was rather unvaried, but at least we ate.

And at the end of six weeks, fitted with an old barn wood frame created by my Husby, my RCMP crest was unveiled to the world.

The world liked it.

And I was able to smile and go back to being a Mom.

And relieve Markie of his cooking duties.

Everyone was happy.

There is a codicil . . .

To this day, Mark loves to cook.

His menu has grown vastly from hot dogs and anything 'microwavable'.

But when he's puttering in the kitchen, I still see that little boy.

The one who had to climb up on the cupboard to reach the microwave.

My little chef.

Picture it six feet square.
On a red Background.

Bitten by the Clean Bug

Don't let the outside fool you . . .

Mom was a 'clean machine'.
She loved swept floors, made beds and clean surfaces.
And spent her days with a dust rag in her apron pocket and a broom in her hands.
She often requested assistance.
But her six kids and assorted hired men didn't always comply.
She never gave up.
She was nothing if not persistent.
"Pick that up!" was a favourite saying.
Followed closely by, "Make sure you put that away when you're done!"
Which went with, "If you had put it where it belonged, you'd be able to find it now!"
And there was always the ever popular, "Be sure you leave a place cleaner than when you found it!"
Yep. My Mom.
She tried hard.
But her offspring and assorted other residents were slow to take up the slack.
My brother, George, 'got it' first.
Dad had built a new shop, to my two older, mechanically-minded brothers' specific specifications.
It was a beautiful shop.
Brightly lit.
Containing all of the newest and best of equipment.
And organized to the 'nth' degree by George.
He spent a lot of time there.
Organizing. Mechanic-ing.
One day, Mom needed something.
Her quest took her into the hallowed halls--and remember, this is a place wherein cars and the occasional motorbike are diagnosed, dosed and periodically disemboweled.
She opened the shop door and stepped inside.
George looked up.
"Wipe your feet," he said.
Mom's legacy truly lives on.
The apple definitely stayed in the near vicinity of that tree.

When Rudest Wins

Pre (and hopefully post) Covid, our family loves taking holidays.

And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.
We have had wonderful experiences.
Sunsets over the Mediterranean.
Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.
Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.
A wild bus ride through the streets of London.
The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.
The bustle on the streets in Paris.
But, sometimes, like everyone who travels, we have . . . 'adventures'.
Let me explain . . .
We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.
And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.
We wandered into a very popular tourist site.
And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.
These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.
At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.
They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.
And I do mean 'knot'.
Pretty.
Then stand back and loudly demand money.
Great scam.
We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.
“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.
“Don't let them grab you!”
I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.
And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.
The tourist's best friend.
If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.
This didn't work here.
If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.
One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.
There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.
You would be forced to pay.
We managed better than most.
You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.
But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.
An outspoken girl of 21.
She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.
Firmly.
Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.
Politeness and patience were wearing thin.
And not working in the slightest.
The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.
She shifted back and forth, eluding them.
We started towards her, intent on rescue.
We weren't needed.
Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”
Did I mention outspoken?
All heads in the square turned.
Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.
The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.
Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”
They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.
There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.
Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?
I was proud of my daughter.
She had tried to be polite.
She had tried to be firm.
But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.
And won the day.
This was an isolated incident.
Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.
But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .
Good old 'country spunk' will.
Travelling?
Take a farm girl.

"I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

Blessed Mother

My Mom.
She of the wicked pen . . .
and wonderful cooking.

I wish I'd found this for Mother's day a few weeks ago. But it's wonderful no matter when I share it!
This is 'verse' written by my mother so many, many years ago.

Blessed art thou, woman.
For thou shalt be called 'Mother'.
Yea, and thy tasks and thy chores shall follow thee all the days of thy life.
And thou shalt eat the bread of thine own baking.
And thou shalt dwell forever in a dirty house, if thou dost not choose to clean it thyself.
Thou shalt arise before the cock croweth.
And thou shalt say unto thyself, "Where are the offspring which were given me? Yea, the sun has risen high in the sky and the hour grows late, wherefore I have been long at my labours."
And thou shalt go and find thine offspring prostrate in their cot.
And thou shalt say unto them, "Haste, arise and shine, for I have many labours for thee to perform; wherefore I have been many hours preparing the way."
And thine offspring linger in sleep and shall say unto thee, "Thou didst not watch the late, late, late show as I did last night and mine eyes are heavy and mine bones acheth."
And thou shalt say unto thy offspring, "Get thee up from thy cot; ere I lay a hand upon thee, and go ye hither and scrub a sparkling tub, for thou hast left black rings upon its sides."
And thy offspring shalt say unto thee, "I will go and do thy bidding - in a minute."
And thy rage shall know no end.
And thou shalt weep and wail and gnash thy teeth mightily.
Never-the-less, thou shalt scrub a sparkling tub thyself and glory shall be added unto thee, for thou didst not strike the lazy beast.
Thou are blessed above all others and thy descendants shall call thee 'Blessed', for thou preparest a table before them. Thou cookest meat and all manner of tasty vittles and they shall sit at thy table with thee and partake with thee.
And they shall add glory unto thy crown for they shall let thee also wash the dishes, if thou wilt.
And when the night falleth thou shalt be deflated, and thy offspring shall say unto thee, "She is an old woman, wherefore she neither goes dancing, nor does she watch the late, late, late show."
Thy art and thy craft shall make thee called upon and thou shalt labour at many tasks in thy kingdom for whosoever asketh.
Thou doest his bidding.
Thy back shall acheth with arthritis; thy cane and thy husband shall be thy support.
Thy veins shall be varicose in thine aching legs, but thou shalt do thy duty with a smile; neither shalt thou complain.
Thou are blessed with a crown every second Sunday in May.
Wherefore, thou art blessed above all others for thou are 'Mother' and thou shalt find joy in thy offspring forever.
If thou endureth to the end!

Thanks, Mom.

Memorial

 

The peace and freedoms we enjoy come to us at great cost,

Paid by precious few who did not shirk when lives were lost.

But the sacrifice wasn’t solely given by those who went and fought,

But also by those left behind, who by the heart were caught.

Now Bernard was my Dad’s best friend, the brains behind the pranks,

That boy that other boys all love, but parents don’t give thanks,

An independent sort of boy; his father didn’t ‘get’,

They quarreled over something and the boy left home upset,

Though just 16, he went to the recruitment place downtown,

Put two years upon his age, swore not to let them down,

His dad, when he discovered it, went to bring him home,

The boy was underage, he’d tell him, ‘Never will you roam!’

But on the way, he thought about the wild boy, his young son.

And that the army surely’d do what Dad could not get done,

And so he turned around and left his boy there at the camp,

Thinking army life would make a man out of his scamp.

Bernard went through basic; he was in his element,

Mixed well with the men and did the work that he was sent,

Finally, Dad’s friend was shipped right to the battlefront,

Prepared to face the enemy with all the other ‘grunts’,

Lacking heed, he charged in like he’d always done so far,

But this was not the schoolyard, no. This was different: WAR!

Bernard had served for just three days when he paid the final price,

Dying in a soggy field of vegetables and rice.

His father never did recover, mourned from that day on,

Thinking, if he’d just gone on, he could have saved his son,

He blamed himself for failing to retrieve his teenage boy,

The tragedy went both ways, ever robbing all of joy.

On this Memorial Day, let’s honour all who blow the horn,

But let us not forget their loved ones, who forever mourn.

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?

I hope this week quite soon will end,

Cause next week's all about Best Friends!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Memorial Day (May 31) Today!

Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)

Monkey Around Day (June 14)

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Craze-metics

 My eldest sister, sweet and kind,

So talented in deed and mind,

Has skills that never seem to end,

And some I cannot comprehend!

With all she does she still looks nice,

(I’ve noticed maybe once or twice.)

Cosmetics are her special gift,

To give her skin that crucial lift.

Morning routines, evening, too,

She knows how to apply the goo,

And look resplendent, glowing, young,

Till praises from our lips are sprung.

Those crèmes and gels to lave her face,

Her regimen requires space,

And one time when we two did roam,

Two bags she parked in our new 'home'.

A tiny one, with clothes and such,

This trip would not require much,

The other, larger, she did lug,

“Cosmetics.” She did happ’ly shrug.

I know her methods seem to work,

Her skin is glowing, hair so pert,

Make-up to show her features best,

With elegance, she clothes the rest.

I wouldn’t know which crème went where,

I’m lost with things for face and hair,

The one advantage I can see,

(Though I may resemble a banshee!)

But happily, when travel bound,

I’ve not so much to haul around!

Each month from Karen, we accept,

A challenge to our gifts adept,

A theme she gives, a poem we craft,

Write draft on draft on draft on draft.

(Please, I’m just kidding, one’s enough

To prove that we’ve all got The Stuff.)

So now we will present to you

What we have made for your review!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

A Honey of a Job

The workin' man.
P.S He hates this picture. But I'm the one with the blog!

It was my husband's first job following our marriage.
Foreman of a house-building company.
He was . . . excited.
It sounded prestigious.
And would be.
Once they got the plant built.
His new boss had a plan that would cut down on initial costs significantly. They would remodel said boss' pig barn.
It was the right size.
It was in fantastic shape.
Perfect.
It just needed a few touches.
First, and most important, the present residents.
Then, and nearly as important, the cleaning of the sewer system, still full of sewer . . . stuff.
For those who don't know, a pig barn has little ditches running through it. Ditches that are covered by grates and which catch all of the 'icky' stuff.
When the system gets too full, a truck is brought in.
A special truck, with a large tank and hose.
This hose is inserted at the proper place and all sewage is quickly and cleanly removed.
The truck drives away and discharges its load onto the nearest farmer's field, providing nutrition to growing plants.
Not a pleasant job.
But a necessary one.
And it needed to be done before the building of the house plant could continue.
Grant's boss brought in the truck.
The two of them made quick work of draining the sewers.
Then, the next step.
The discharge.
Normally, this would be the easiest part.
You would simply reverse the switch.
And stay upwind.
Things started out well.
Sewage was being discharged at a normal rate.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Oh the motor was still running strongly.
It's just that nothing was coming out.
I should probably mention here that the discharge engine is quite powerful on these trucks. It needs to push a lot of stuff a long way.
Back to my story . . .
Cautiously, the two of them removed the hose and leaned over to peek into the discharge valve.
"Ah!" Grant's boss said. "I see the problem. Look. It's plugged right there." He pointed. He straightened and began to walk around, kicking at the dirt.
Finally, he spotted a large stick and brought it back to where Grant was still waiting.
"I can fix it," he said, cheerfully. He poked the stick into the valve.
"No, wait . . ." Grant started.
He got no further.
Kaaaablooooie! Or words to that effect.
Let me put it this way . . . neither of them had time to get out of the way.
I'm sure I don't need to describe the scene.
There is an addendum . . .
It was nearly time for Grant to get home from work.
I was just checking on our evening meal when his truck pulled into the yard and ground to a halt.
Ah! Early. Good. We could have a visit before we sat down to eat.
I glanced through the window.
Just in time to see my young husband, in his underwear, leap from the truck and scamper towards the house.
I admit it. My first thought was, 'Wow! Eager!'
He whipped open the door, tossed me a brief, 'Hi!' and headed directly for the bathroom.
There was the sound of the shower, then a loud, "Ahhhh!"
Now there's something that didn't happen every day.
I walked into the bathroom. "Hard day, Honey?"
"I'll tell you about it!" he said over the sound of the water.
And he did.
I thought it was hilarious.
He didn't.
Extra note: Grant's hastily shed clothes remained in the box of the truck until weeks of weather made it possible for them to be removed to the trash.
But the memories remained.
Some things you just can't wash out.

Where Babies Come From

Have you ever heard the term 'catch colt'?
I'm sure you can figure out that it has something to do with horses.
And you'd be right.
Allow me to explain. And to do so, I'll have to tell you a story.
But first a little lesson in land surveying . . .
On the Stringam ranch, at its heyday, there was a lot of land.
A. Lot. Of. Land.
Two and a half townships.
Pastures were measured off in sections. 640 acres.
Sections were grouped into townships. 36 sections to a township.
With me so far?
Well, the ranch covered two and a half of those.
Townships.
Not the largest ranch in Southern Alberta, but up there somewhere.
You've probably heard the term 'wide open spaces'?
That would apply here.
An animal let loose in one of those pastures had a lot of ground to cover.
And an endless selection of things to get into. Good. Or more frequently, bad.
It wasn't unusual for a cowboy out checking the terrain to come across animals in dire need of assistance. Animals that had been attacked by cougars or wolves. Cut by barbed wire. Foundered in a mud pit. Even lamed by an altercation with something as innocuous as a gopher hole.
In fact, with all the room out there for anything to happen, it's a wonder more 'anythings' didn't.
Happen, that is.
Also. When animals are out on the range, hijinks occur.
And that leads nicely into my story . . .
Our little herd of working mares and geldings (male horses with their 'male' bits removed) had been turned out to pasture.
They lost no time in heading for the nearest far-away place.
And you know just how far-away that could be. (See above.)
A few days later, those same horses were brought back into the ranch for their next work shift.
They came in as they went out.
No more. No less.
Or so we thought.
In fact for several months, we so thought.
Then one of the mares began to show signs of grass-belly.
I mean that girl could eat.
Ten months later, she surprised us by proving her belly wasn't full of grass.
Okay, I'm pretty sure that my dad, he of the veterinarian doctorate, figured it out long before I did.
But for me, it was a grand surprise to see, next to our newly-lean mare, a fine little roan foal.
A little girl whose parentage was very much in question. We didn't own a stallion. (Male horse with 'male' bits intact.) None of our neighbours ( I use this term distantly) owned a stallion.
No wandering stallion had been reported in the district.
Where did this little girl come from?
Her attentive mother hid her secrets behind quiet dark eyes and a far-away look.
I think it went something like this: Tall, dark stranger wanders into the campsite. Wows the ladies with stories of far-away lands and grand exploits. Invites the quiet one out for a stroll and enticing dip in the cool waters of the Milk River.
And . . .
Now you know where 'catch colts' come from.
You're welcome.

Unwelcome Visitor

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was night. That time when dinner hour is long past and the denizens of the house are contemplating leaving their comfy chairs for even more comfy beds.

And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.

Something she did a lot. At night.

We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.

It was annoying.

Finally, I got up to see what could be bothering her.

Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby.

A cow bawling.

Water running in the canal.

Crickets.

Dumb dog.

I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport.

It had two walls, one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.

The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip.

It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.

Something I usually did.

Tonight I . . . didn't.

I don't know why.

I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.

There is nothing quite so dark as a night on the prairies, with no moon.

And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.

My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.

Still barking.

Stupid dog.

I sighed and pushed the screen door open.

I hesitated.

Then did something I had never done before.

I turned and, keeping roof between me and sky, made my way, carefully, to the carport.

Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.

I paused at the edge of the carport.

Cheetah was just feet away, facing me, and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased.

I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.

And I do mean shattered.

It was the scream of a cougar.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.

It's . . . scary.

This scream was five feet away.

Above me.

At the very edge of the carport roof.

See? Shattered.

I froze instantly.

Then started to back up, one step at a time.

Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to continue keeping roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.

I called my dog and she came running.

Still barking.

The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and peered through the window.

Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”

I continued to stare out the window.

Cheetah was now standing behind me.

She continued to bark.

“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.

“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”

“Are you sure?”

I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”

“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.

I stayed by the window but could see nothing in the blackness.

My dad appeared. Calm as always.

“Where?”

“Well, it was on the carport a few minutes ago.”

“It'll leave.”

I stared at him.

“You're not going to go out after it?”

“Not while it's on the roof.”

Good point.

Dad got a flashlight and pointed it out the window towards the carport roof.

Empty.

I cautiously opened the door.

Cheetah shot through the opening and into the night.

Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and towards the foothills.

Our visitor was obviously headed home.

The first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.

Or being offered a warm meal.

I guess that's a good thing.

And Cheetah? Good dog.

Breakfast of Champion

 

Our ‘Favourite Breakfast’ theme this week,

Conjures something warm and meek,

But years ago, meant other things,

That made us kids (me!) feel like kings,

My mama cooked, you know it’s true,

Made things delicious, roast to stew,

Her breakfasts? Easily the best,

Made common tenants feel like guests,

But Saturdays, occasionally,

Were gifts to (age eight), sleepy me!

I’d miss the crowd at breakfast time,

Then make my own—Oh! How sublime!

My chocolate milk, with Mom, you know,

Two spoons of mix, then stir and go,

When on my own, the colour was,

My one condition, no faux pas,

More dark was better, sweeter, too,

Five teaspoons plus would get me through.

Then flakes of bran, that glorious food,

With creamy milk, then sweet imbued,

A generous layer—bottom, top,

I’d want to eat and never stop.

Yes, sugar was my main ingred…

A good deal more than e’er I’d need!

It’s fortunate those Saturdays,

Didn’t often come my way,

Yep. Mom’s good food did help me thrive,

The likely the reason I’m alive!

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, come join us while we find...

Memorial Day is on our mind!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Favorite breakfast (May 24) Today!

Memorial Day (May 31)

Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)

Monkey Around Day (June 14)

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Down Under

It was a hot summer day.
The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.
One girl came without a swimsuit.
“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”
She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.
The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressed in a modest blue two-piece.
Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.
And struck a pose.
“What do you think?”
Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.
The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.
All eyes were on her.
“F-from your drawer, like you said.”
“The top drawer?”
“Y-yes.”
“That's my underwear drawer!”
“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.
She had been covered.
In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.
But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.
I thought this story was hilarious.
Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.
Well . . . something similar, anyways . . .

Our family was getting ready for church.
My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.
I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started chattering.
Something I did a lot.
A lot.
But I digress . . .
My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.
I kept talking.
But for some reason, my boyfriend wouldn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.
I kept talking.
He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.
Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”
I did.
As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.
At first, I saw nothing wrong.
She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.
Skirt. Stockings.
Oh. Wait. Something was missing.
Her blouse.
Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.
He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.
Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.
Okay, so observant, I'm not.
Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.
Which was funny.
She had been completely covered.
Modestly, even.
In at least three layers of cloth.
But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.
As I would have been.
As anyone . . . you get the point.
Aren't we weird?

Soothing the Savage Teacher

Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!

I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one. 

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Ugh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"
Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. A trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly. 

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.

I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.