Overcoming

 

The hill...

The tiny girl stood looking up the hill that barred her way

From joining her two brothers as they played atop that day,

That hill was huge in her young eyes, and much too big to climb,

But if she didn’t join them, well, to her t’would be a crime!

 

So she began: foot followed foot. She slowly progress made,

And finally, she reached the top—her conquered land surveyed,

She reveled in the goal she’d seized with bravery and hustle,

And realized, in climbing there, she’d also gained some muscle!

 

That little girl is older now, but still the lesson lingers,

As ‘life’ has given obstacles (and just a few big zingers!),

And all those hills she’s had to climb, well, they were not a waste,

She’s gained ‘life’s muscles’ conquering the obstacles she faced!

Today's post was a challenge from the inimitable and totally awesome Karen at Baking in a Tornado. 

Visit her and see what she has done with the theme!

First Romance

Grade Twelve English 30.

My favourite class of all time.

What could possibly be better than reading books and stories and then talking about them?

Or of writing your own?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Our teacher was a veteran of many, many years. She had taught each of my three elder siblings and survived.

And now it was my turn.

Most of the time, I was fairly quiet in her class - choosing mostly to listen as the conversations went on around me. Keeping my opinions to myself, except when they could be submitted in a written format.

My grades were good.

We were working our way through a thick volume of short stories. Some exciting. Some bizarre. Some sweet and romantic.

It was during this last that I came to grief.

Let me explain . . .

We were reading a story about a man who saw a beautiful hand-made doll in the window of a local shop. The doll affected him greatly. It seemed to 'speak' to him.

He purchased it and tried to find out more about it and the person who had made it.

He discovered that the doll and others like it were made locally and that a woman usually brought them in to the shop a few at a time.

He tracked down the woman.

She was not the artist.

Instead, she kept the real doll-maker a virtual prisoner, and forced her to keep making dolls, which were then sold.

The imprisoned doll-maker was justifiably sad and put all of the love she would have given her unborn children into her dolls. Which was why they were so beautiful.

The man fell in love with the captive doll-maker, stole her away and married her.

And they lived happily ever after.

Okay, I admit it, when I read this story, I discovered that I'm a romantic.

I loved it.

Loved the 'happily ever after' ending.

I was excited for the discussion to start . . .

“How many of you liked this story?” the teacher asked.

My hand shot up.

Then slowly lowered as I realized that I was the only person in the class who had raised one.

“This story was drivel!” the teacher said. “Absolute tripe!” She stomped around the front of the class. “Stupid romantic nonsense! Waste of good print! Waste of time!”

She added several more derisive comments, then stopped and stared at me.

My hand was back on my desk.

“Well, I thought it was romantic!” One of the other girls tried to come to my aid.

The teacher snorted. “Hmph! Don't know why it was included in this book! Maybe as an example of lousy writing!”

The class was silent.

“Asinine garbage! Should be torn out of the book!” She glared around. “Any other thoughts?”

Let me put it this way . . . the discussion following this story didn't take up much time.

The story was given a brief technical reckoning, then dismissed.

And the class moved on to the next story.

I moved with them, reading and responding to my assignments.

Suspense.

Mystery.

Humour.

But I never forgot my first romantic story.

I read and re-read it.

Loving it more each time.

Mmmm.

Romance.

I still think I was right.

Choking It Down

Chokecherry syrup.
Delicious in so many ways.

The digging out of the 'berry pails' wasn't always a reason for celebration.

When Mom headed towards the saskatoon bushes, yes.
But when the car turned to the chokecherry patch.
Not so much.
Don't get me wrong, we loved the end product of both enterprises.
But the picking of saskatoons also involved interim rewards. ie. the eating of said berries.
Chokecherries?
Again, not so much.
Fresh from the bush, they were . . . how shall I say this genteel-ly . . .?
Icky.
In fact, before any of the bright red berries passed our lips, they had to be cooked and treated.
And added upon.
And poured into jars.
As jam.
Or even better, syrup.
You have to know that there was nothing quite like homemade chokecherry syrup on Mom's fluffy pancakes.
Mmmmm.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Syrup.
It was a great family favourite.
My Husby's mother made fabulous chokecherry syrup as well.
Every year.
She then dispensed bottles of it to eagerly awaiting offspring.
It went fast.
As soon as one bottle emptied, another took its place.
And therein (good word) lies a tale . . .
We had been using one bottle of syrup.
Then, as often happens in a household where ten people are sharing the fridge, our little bottle got pushed to the back and hidden behind a bottle of pickles.
I should explain, here, that we always purchased everything edible in gi-normous (made-up word denoting humongous-ness) sizes.
Because mealtime for our bunch strongly resembled the feeding of a threshing crew.
So the idea of a quart-sized bottle being hidden behind a monstrous jar shouldn't be too much of a surprise.
Moving on . . .
There our little jar remained.
While I opened another.
Which was subsequently used.
And replaced.
Some months later, when I finally reached the back of our fridge, I discovered our forgotten, woefully neglected little bottle of chokecherry syrup.
Dismayed at the thought of lost deliciousness, I opened the lid.
And sniffed.
Huh.
Weird.
Probably, I should mention that neither of us drinks alcohol.
What follows makes more sense if I do . . .
“Grant, what's wrong with this chokecherry syrup?” I asked. “It smells . . . funny.”
“Funny, how?”
“Well, funny.”
I handed him the jar.
He sniffed. “I think you've created chokecherry wine, honey,” he said, grinning at me.
“What? How did I do that?”
“Fruit. Sugar. Neglect.”
Huh. So that's how it's done . . . “So what do I do with it now?”
“Well, I know someone who would probably enjoy it!”
We took it to our friend, who looked at it.
Swirled it around in the jar.
Sniffed it.
Then finally tasted it.
He looked at us. “Best chokecherry wine I've ever had,” he said, grinning.
Trust the two teetotallers to do it up right.
From the chokecherry patch, through Mom's kitchen (and fridge), to a tavern near you.
Bottom's up!

Charged with Stupidity

Perhaps you’ve heard of the Darwin awards?

If not, allow me to educate you . . .

These rather spectacular awards do not involve any kind of prize because most, if not all, of the people who achieve top status don’t live to brag about it. ‘Darwin’ awards are for those who, through their own foolish actions, take themselves out of the gene pool.

Most are cringe-worthy. Some downright shocking.

Some, fairly laugh-able.

This is my favourite:

Larry decided he wanted to witness life from a few feet in the air. Say 30 or so.

With this in mind, he roped a folding, aluminum lawn chair to the ground then tied 45 weather balloons to it. He buckled himself in for ‘safety’ with a BB gun to shoot at the balloons when he was satisfied with defying gravity and wanted to come back to earth . . . and cut his anchor rope.

He definitely went up.

But not to the 30 feet he had been anticipating.

Nope. He zoomed up to 15,000 feet.

Justifiably terrified, Larry hesitated shooting out any of his balloons, not knowing how quickly such an action would bring him back to earth. Thus, shivering with cold in his lawn chair, and clutching his gun to himself out of fear and the fact that his cold hands simply wouldn’t let go, he drifted into LA airspace.

And was reported by passing aircraft intent on landing.

I can just picture the cockpit conversations: “Erm, base? We have an armed interloper floating through our airspace in a lawn chair. Response?

Helicopters were sent out to investigate/rescue the hapless man.

Sadly, they couldn’t seem to get close. Every time they approached, their whirring blades blew him away from them.

Finally, they decided to try coming down on him from above and managed to get a line to him and pull him in.

Back on the ground, he was immediately arrested.

What was his crime? Trespassing? Posing an armed threat? Unconventional use of weather balloons and/or lawn chairs?

Myself? I think he should have been charged with stupidity and leave it at that.

Today is National Stupid Guy Thing Day. Seriously.

What an untapped treasure trove!

Go and see what the other entrants have concocted!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

The Father Hood

 

The Originals

It starts out with a snuffle--a voice he's never heard before,

And suddenly, he's a Father. With a whole new world in store.

The time goes by, he's changed a thousand diapers, maybe more,

His hair's grown grey along the sides, his back is bent and sore,

Knows feeding, changing--s'expert on most 'baby' stuff that's sold,

Imagine how much more he'll know when his child is two days old . . .

The years fly past, his baby's reached the great old age of three,

That wondrous time when head and hands reach *ouch* above the knee,

The scars have healed from babe's first tooth, the child can even talk,

The tiny hard hat's put away--his little one can walk.

The child is toilet-trained, survived each illness, scratch and sore,

Dad knows it all. (Good thing because his wife just had two more.)

His babes grow tall--or he grows small--there's quite a shift in size,

He's not as smart as he once was, through his adolescent's eyes.

He's older now and he can see both sides of any fight,

But it matters not 'cause, like his child, he knows that he is right.

And as he watches, painfully, the sometimes good and bad,

There's one thing that will never change--the fact that he's their dad.

And so it goes, he does his best, survives on little rest,

He goes the round t'ween work and home and simply does his best.

There is little recognition for the work he does each day,

A baby hug, a chocolate kiss may be his only pay.

But he strangles his impatience as he watches tiny hands,

And he gently speaks when teenage heads just do not understand.

His prods and pushes--anger, too, he tempers, 'cause he cares,

His one reward, his children's love, he'll treasure through the years.

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's topic should be fun...

It's BUBBLES. Please tell everyone!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Fathers (June 21) Today

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2)

Cats (August 9)

Tell a Joke (August 16)

Wind (August 23)

Monsters (August 30)

Unexpected Lessons

 

Dads. There's no one quite like them.

An animated series aired several years ago, to great praise and equally great censure.

Because of the negative and very vocal comments, I chose not to watch.

For three years.

One evening, while working in my office, next to the TV room, I caught a few snatches of conversation coming from the program presently airing.

Two older children were asking their father why there were no pictures of their third and last sibling.

"Didn't you want her?" one of them asked.

It caught me because I am guilty of snapping thousands of pics of our eldest. Hundreds of our second, and then, progressively (or is it de-gressively?) less as each child made an appearance.

I made up for it with the last, when we were back into the thousands, but those in the middle . . . lost out.

The premise intrigued me.

I went to check it out.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that what was playing was an episode of 'that cartoon'.

But I was hooked by the subject matter.

I sat with my teenagers to watch.

The father reassured his children that he had, indeed, wanted their baby sister. Then he proceeded to tell the story.

He had left a terrible job in a nuclear plant and had been working at his dream job in a bowling alley. His work was appreciated and made him, for the first time in his life, happy.

Then his wife announced that baby number three was on the way.

He knew that what he earned at his dream job couldn't possibly support another child.

He would have to go and beg for his old job back.

Have I mentioned that it was horrible?

That he hated it?

Well, it was.

And he did.

Moving on . . .

When one faced the front entrance of the nuclear plant, they were presented with two doors.

One for new workers.

One for returning.

The 'returning' door was small. So small that anyone entering through it was forced to do so on their hands and knees.

Thus, on their knees, they could beg for employment.

It made quite an impression.

I kept watching.

Of course he was given his old job back.

And, of course, humiliated with every step.

Finally, seated once more in his old office, he was presented with a plaque which read: 'Don't Forget. You're Here Forever.'

This was fastened permanently to the wall directly in front of his console, where he wouldn't fail to see it.

Back to the two elder children and their conversation.

"So why are there no pictures?"

And his reply, "Oh there are pictures, kids. Lots and lots of pictures. They're where I need them!"

And then you get a view of his office as it looks now.

On every wall and, indeed, all available surfaces, are pictures of the little girl, in every stage of development.

And they cover much of the plaque.

Which now reads, 'Do It For Her'.

I cried.

It made me think about all of the fathers who go, every day, to a job they hate, just to feed and care for their families.

They are our unsung heroes.

We need to do more singing.

The Real Thumb Wars

Oh, sure. It looks harmless enough now . . .

Washing and scrubbing and blow-drying and trimming.

And brushing and brushing and brushing.

And clipping.

And trimming again.

And no, this isn't the local hairdressing salon on Prom day.

It's the local barn, as the local ranchers get their local cattle ready for show.

Oh, there are a few differences. The cattle have hair in more places, for one thing. They are a fair amount larger. They seldom cooperate.

And said grooming is sometimes dangerous.

Not things the average hairdresser worries about.

Moving on . . .

The first thing that must be accomplished before grooming can begin, is restraint.

Not us. Them.

Oddly enough, most cattle don't like the idea of getting wet.

And soapy.

And they like, even less, the sound of electrical gadgets in their vicinity.

They tend to head for the nearest far-away place.

With enthusiasm.

On the Stringam Ranch, restraint was accomplished by running them into a 'head-gate'.

A contraption designed to snap shut just behind the head and hold the animal, in an upright position, ready for grooming.

Picture a hairdresser, when she has tilted her patient back over the sink to wash . . .

Okay. Know what? Don't think of a hairdresser at all.

Because none of that applies here.

Back to my story . . .

With the animal thus confined, grooming can begin.

Simple.

But the fact is that when one gets up close and personal with something that outweighs one by 15 times, things can sometimes get . . . interesting.

Case in point:

We were grooming the two-year-old bulls.

For those who might not know, they are the male cattle.

Don't be mislead but their age.

Toddlers, they aren't.

Most of them weigh anywhere from 1500 to 2000 pounds.

Most of that muscle.

And bone.

With just a touch of aggression.

And a bit of stupidity.

I should explain, here, that a head gate works because the animal coming towards it can see daylight through it.

They lunge for what they see as freedom.

Now I'd like you to imagine the force 2000 pounds of solid muscle and bone can create when it is properly motivated.

Force which is brought to a crushing, bruising halt by the solid head gate as it snaps shut.

I know what you're thinking.

Probably best to keep one's hands and feet and appendages out of the way.

I didn't.

Remember the 'dangerous' part?

It comes in here.

Unthinkingly, I had rested my right hand on one of the uprights of the head gate.

And was watching as the next victim customer approached.

With alacrity. (Oooh. Good word!)

The bull hit the gate.

Then, realizing that he couldn't get out that way, immediately pulled back.

It was the pulling back that saved my hand.

Which had been caught between the upright and the metal plate that it snapped against.

Absorbing the entire force from 2000 pounds of mass.

On the run.

If the bull hadn't reacted as he had, my thumb would have been neatly and completely removed.

With surgical precision.

By the sharp, metal plate.

As he reared back, I gasped and jerked my hand away.

Then slumped against the fence as blackness threatened.

Dad looked at me curiously.

Everything had happened so fast that he hadn't seen it.

Wordlessly, I held out my hand.

The imprint of the plate could be plainly seen in the heavy, leather glove that I wore.

Which glove was also instrumental in saving my thumb.

Gently, Dad removed the glove.

As I gasped and swore breathed heavily.

The skin hadn't been broken, though there was a lively line of red where the plate had hit.

I was rushed to emergency, but subsequent x-rays showed that the bones hadn't even been broken.

A miracle.

When the pain and swelling subsided several weeks later, I was left with a numb thumb (something that continued for the next two years), and though the skin hadn't broken, a scar, which I carry to this day.

I learned some valuable things.

1. When a piece of equipment carries the warning: Please keep hands clear, there's a reason for the warning.
2. Inattention begets injury.

and

3. Two-year-old bulls look just fine the way they are.
4. Fussing not required.
5. Or appreciated

Mom always told me, and I quote, “You have to suffer to be beautiful.”

She never pointed out that I would suffer.

And something else would be beautiful.

I probably should have paid attention.

Carbon for Breakfast

 

Daddy at 5.
Background: his brother, Bryce.
Ignore the gun . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.
He had never been anywhere.
When Dad was five, his father decided he was old enough, finally, to go along when he took supplies to one of the family cow camps - about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.
The two of them started out.
Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.
As often happens in Southern Alberta.
And before they could start for home, a blizzard had blown in.
Travel quickly went from difficult to impossible.
Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales) of the camp.
Dad was beyond excited.
It was his very first time sleeping away from home.
The next morning dawned bright and clear.
Something else that often happens in Southern Alberta . . .
And Granddad decided that travel home would be attempt-able.
Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.
He made bacon and eggs and, because the old, wood-burning, camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.
At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.
They weren't too bad.
He even got through a second.
Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.
Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.
He wished he could have stayed.
His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.
It had been great, he enthused.
And he had eaten all of it!
"What did you have?" his mother asked.
"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.
No wonder people were hardier back then.

Friction

 

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teacher's notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lot of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact, if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not. (Think Canadian streets for 9/10ths of the year.)

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

And . . . ahem . . . where would life be like without it?

Shoed

 

Okay, yes, modern housing has reached the heights of ridiculous-ness. But, you know what? Things have been worse…

Years ago, a couple lived in a fine house in the countryside and were blessed with many children.

But one semi-average day, their lives were forever changed when a giant destroyed their beautiful home with a club.

And to add insult to injury he took the father/husband, who was a talented wood-cutter, as his prisoner.

I know what you’re thinking. Rude. Cause they weren’t bothering anyone with their quiet lives and 18 children.

But he did what he did and left the poor wife/mother with no home and lots mouths to feed.

Now he did leave something behind. A shoe. Strange, and can I just say: weird? Nevertheless, it’s true.

The shoe, being about size 1,000,000EEEEEE was the right size for a poor fatherless family of 19.

They added a roof, a couple of amenities like a window and doors. And a boatload of deodorizer.

And moved right in. I totally get their reasoning. Giant takes father/breadwinner. Family takes shoe. Completely equitable. Right?

Now other versions of this story suggest the mom had tyrannical tendencies. All those are simply not true.

She was kind and just and her children did all they could to contribute to the family fortunes.

One day, the eldest son and his eleven brothers decided it was their duty to rescue their father.

Armed with swords none of them knew how to use, they started off. Following in the Giant’s footsteps.

Let’s face it, the print of a 1,000,000EEEEEE shoe is definitely not going to be hard to follow.

Soon they came to a huge castle. (Because, why not?) The eldest brother banged on the front door.

A strange man with a big head answered. (I know, it’s an unkind description. It’s all I have…)

The young man demanded his father. The doorman nodded and took the young man to the dark dungeons.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? If it was this easy, why didn’t they do it months before?

The man with the big head (sorry, again) disappeared and the young man went alone into the dungeon.

There he found a great, sleeping dragon. What happened next was a direct result of dozing on duty.

The young man stabbed that sleeping dragon right through the heart. (Hands up all you who guessed it.)

The dragon died without a whimper and the young man moved on and, of course, found his father.

(This story practically writes itself, wouldn’t you say?) The young man returned with his father to his brothers.

You’re right. The siblings didn’t have much to do in this story. The eldest brother just needed company.

Meanwhile, a witch/confirmed Giant hater, stopped by the shoe. Over tea, she convinced the Mom to come a-giant-ing.

Not quite sure how. I guess the Mom was still a bit miffed over the whole destroyed-house-abducted-husband scenario.

The two of them started out, only to find said Giant sleeping in a field not far away.

Probably he needed the rest after crushing the hopes, dreams and dwelling of yet another family. Seeing a pattern here?

The witch, being very powerful, cursed him with corns and tender feet. (Because what could possibly be worse?)

When the giant awoke, he groaned in pain. (Anyone feeling sorry?) and thought of his uber-comfortable lost shoe.

A short time later, he found it. Because it’s rather hard to hide a 1,000,000EEEEEE shoe. Right?

Ignoring the large number of children fleeing and running for their very lives, he put it on.

I don’t know about you, but I always shake my shoes before donning in case there’s anything inside.

Something disgusting like spiders. Or crawly bugs. It never once occurred to me to check them for children.

Just then, the boys/dad arrived and started shooting at the giant with the bows and arrows they carried.

…?! The bows and arrows that haven’t been mentioned till right now. I guess we needed the surprise?

Wounded, the giant fell to the ground, where he was quickly and easily dispatched by Eldest Son’s aforementioned sword.

Father, Mother and children were reunited to the joy of all and began plans to re-think their housing.

Because, how on this green earth were they going to pry giant shoe off said corn-y giant foot?

And who would want to. Ewww. Nope. Their exciting new plans were for something a little more conventional.

The witch faded quietly/happily into the landscape, her own personal vendetta against the giant well and truly over.

Now you know the real story of the woman/children who lived in a shoe. You’re welcome . . .

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times.

 

This month’s word count number is: 18

It was chosen by: Mimi of Messymimi’s Meanderings           

Check out these other participating blogs!

BakingIn ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings 

Monkeyshines

 

He’s not a  mean or nasty lout,

In fact, were you to ask about

Our Paddy Craig O’Connor boy,

You’d find that he’s just hoi polloi.

He’ll shoulder in, with work to do

He loves his wife, and kiddies too,

He’s loyal, almost to a fault,

A fisherman--a seasoned salt.

But after a long day at sea

He’ll meet the boys occasionally,

And, of the good stuff, have a dram,

Then get himself into a jam.

‘Cause Paddy, when he’s had a few,

There's not that monkey will not do,

Though he draws the line at lawless stuff,

It's hard for him to say, "Enough!"

He’s mixed the pigs in with the sheep,

And upset everybody’s sleep,

Howled with dogs and sang with cats,

Joined Ladies Aid with a box of bats.

Dropped a pig in the local pub,

Took chickens to the senior’s club.

Yes, Paddy really has a knack.

For monkeying 'round the 'mischief' track.

Until that time e’en Paddy knew

He’d knocked the Universe askew.

He had to make a major change.

Frivolities, he’d rearrange . . .

It’d started harmlessly enough,

With Paddy swimming ‘in the buff’.

Just floating out there in the bay

Till the Archbishop came his way.

I must admit: How could he know

An august visitor would show?

But there he was upon the sand,

With formal robes and raise-ed hands.

Well, Paddy rose out of the sea,

His clothing somewhat absentee,

Advanced to ask him “What's the craic?”

And give His Grace’s hand a shake.

And right there on the sea levee,

In frank and simple way, did he

Beseech His Excellence to leave.

A blessing for one who believed.

The small request no sooner said,

His Grace’s face turned slightly red,

T’was only then Pad realized

They were the focus of all eyes.

The village, whole, was there to see.

Pad sobered up immediately,

And in the mayhem that ensued,

Vowed he would be more subdued.

So if you’re staying here to sleep,

Hear pigs and chickens, dogs and sheep,

Know, with those feats of fun and brawn,

That Paddy’s clothes are staying on.

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's the day past Father's Day,

Let's Honor Dads once more--what say?

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Monkey Around Day (June 14) Today!

Fathers (June 21)

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Scooting

Okay, I admit it. With Covid winding slowly down and everyone in our household vaccinated, not once, but twice (amazing how accommodating a city can be when Sally lives in your household…just sayin’), things are starting to look quite a bit rosier.
And, let’s face it, with the advent of Peter, my life in particular has taken on a distinct glow.
In the weeks since that first meeting at the park, we have managed to meet at quite a few other places.
7-11 for Slurpies.
Wendy’s for Baconators.
Pizza Hut for . . . you know . . . pizza.
Popeye’s for the best chicken sandwich this side of anywhere.
And more than one visit to Dunkin’ Donuts.
I know. I know. That’s a lot of meeting ‘somewhere elses’. I’ll tell you right here: I was just a bit afraid of exposing him to too much Sally.
Because.
So I discovered that we like the same food, drinks and snacks.
And, once I relented and allowed him a closer acquaintance with my family by actually (gasp) inviting him inside our yard, we realized there were even more things we had in common.
Like liking the same movies on Sally’s big outdoor screen.
Even those featuring heartbreak, beautiful women in distress and/or men in kilts.
Seriously. He’s the first guy I know who also cries at the end of Pride and Prejudice.
That alone would be a reason to hang onto him.
He’s also steady, honest and I probably don’t have to mention it—brave.
Because this guy can handle Sally’s shenanigans. Well, I’m just going to say it: he’s a king among men and leave it at that.
But today, he proved that, not only is he all of the above, he’s also smart . . .
Sally and Mort were pouring over some sort of catalogue when I reached the breakfast table out on the back deck this morning.
That alone shouldn’t be reason for alarm.
But in our household, it is.
You know that Sally’s job pays . . . quite well.
So money is definitely not a problem at this time in her (and by association: our) life.
As I sat down to Mom’s amazing apple popovers and homemade yogurt, I glanced casually over at what had them so engrossed.
It was a motorcycle catalog.
M-O-T-O-R-C-Y-C-L-E C-A-T-A-L-O-G.
Did this orchestrate the same symphony of alarm into your heart as it did mine?
Then, all I can say is this: YOU DON’T LIVE WITH HER!!!
Suddenly, all I could picture was Sally, hell-bent-for-leather, riding through the formerly peaceful streets of our fair city, causing no end of mayhem.
And Mort right behind her, tangling up the dripping remains.
I mean, if they would promise to only ride out in the boondocks, then maybe.
But what are the chances of that?!
My life and the lives of all the other innocent citizens who called this city home suddenly flashed before my eyes.
My mouth was instantly frozen in an ‘oh’ of horror.
And then Peter walked in.
Well, knocked on the back gate and waited for admittance.
Then walked in.
Suffice it to say I was more than glad to see him.
He took one look at that magazine, then turned and glanced at the dismay that was still writ large on my face.
And pulled out his phone.
“You know what would be better than motorbikes?” he asked.
Both Sally and Mort looked at him. “What?” asked Sally, already interested.
“Mobility scooters.”
“Say again?” Mort said.
“No. You could totally have fun with these!” Peter tapped a few keys and held the phone out to them. “See? They’re electric. You could get a bunch of them and have all kinds of races. Play baseball. And, at a top speed of 4 miles-per-hour, everyone could do it!”
Sally reached for his phone, her eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah . . .” she said softly.
I was staring at him.
In less than 100 words, he had neatly diverted their attention.
And channeled their enthusiasm toward something not too deadly.
This man wasn’t just smart. He was a genius!
By this afternoon, Sally, Mort and Scary Gary along with half a dozen neighbourhood kids and at least three seniors were organizing races and a baseball game around the park in the center of our neighbourhood.
And from now on, when any of us speak to Peter, we're just going to call him ‘Sir’.

He deserves it.
 

Today’s post was a writing challenge. Each participant picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words to be used at least once and all the posts to be unique as each writer has received their own set of words.
That’s the challenge—here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.
 
My words were: boondock ~ electric ~ heartbreak ~ mouth ~ sir
And given to me by my sweet friend, Rena at: https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog
 
At the end of this post are the other blogs featuring this challenge.
Check them all out—see what words they got and how they used them. 
 
Baking In A Tornado                  
Wandering Web Designer
Climaxed
What TF Sarah
Part-time Working Hockey Mom

See. And Do

Grandma was babysitting.

Cousins, the two-year-old (H) and the three-year-old (B) had been playing in the front room.

Occasional outbursts over the train.

The doll.

The stroller.

The spot on the couch.

Whose turn it was to breathe the surrounding air . . .

Had been painstakingly and endlessly sorted out.

Silence had descended.

There’s nothing quite as suspicious as two toddlers who have gone quiet. 

Grandma hurried to investigate, skidding to a stop in the entry to the living room.

The two little girls were still playing. But had changed things up a bit . . .

B held a tiny water paint set in one hand. In the other, the dry miniscule brush. “Look at me, please,” she said.

H was seated, facing her older cousin.

B was ‘painting’ H’s face. “Look at me, please,” she said again. She applied a couple of strokes. “Look at me, please.” A couple more.

Grandma smiled and stood quietly watching.

Have I mentioned that B’s mom is a face-painter? Well, she is.

A good one.

It doesn’t matter what we try to teach them, kids do what they see us do.

 Actions definitely speak louder than words.

Although in this case, the words are nice, too . . .

The novice

The professional

The result

Stringam Travels

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, semi-hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

The Stringams join the end of a line of cars.

Dad peers ahead through the windshield. "Huh. Weird." 

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom spits on a Kleenex and starts to scrub the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet. But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along. The Stringams creep along behind it, more cars joining them every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster.

"Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, is standing on the front seat and has started doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here." Mom pulls the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear. We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because the Stringams will be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss." She turns to Dad. "How long till the turn?" 

"At this rate? About three days."

The family is heading to the relatives for dinner. Mom and Dad are beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.

She glances around at her brood. Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine. Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses. The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms crossed on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap. "There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

Dad glances back at his second son. "There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" 

"You can have some of mine!" Anita offers her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red and makes a face. "That's okay. I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.

Again the potty comes into play. Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad again leans forward and peers through the front windshield.

"I'll tell a story!" Mom volunteers. She proceeds to drag out her Reader's Digest and regale the family with a humorous gem about being raised in the ghettos of New York.

The story winds down and she closes the magazine.

George sighs. "I'm bored."

Mom blinks. That was fast. Then her face lights up. "Let's play a game! How about 20 questions?"

Jerry drops his magazine to the floor. "Okay! I've got it!"

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Is it dead?"

"Maybe."

"Hey! You can't have maybes! Only 'yes' or 'no'!"

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad grins and points. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often!"

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he shouts with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver shouts back. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" 

They wave to each other and the Stringam car moves off.

Just another family car trip.