Here’s Goo for You!

There is a toddler golden rule:

Silence is golden, except when you have a toddler. Then it’s suspicious. 

I have a new one:

If a toddler is giggling, it could go either way . . .

Our family is large.

Because of that, food is always purchased in quantity.

[A little aside here . . . Our youngest daughter had moved out on her own for the first time and was grocery shopping with her roommates. She made a momentous discovery. One that she had to phone home to tell her mother about. “Mom! Did you know that peanut butter and Miracle Whip come in little jars? Really! I had to buy them. They were so cute!”]

But I digress . . .

True to form, we purchase many things by the restaurant-sized pail.

There is one drawback.

Buying in quantity isn’t always practical when said substance needs to be refrigerated.

Unless one also possesses a restaurant-sized fridge.

Which we don’t.

For that reason, condiments are quite often stored in the garage. In the sun room. Or right outside, depending on the cycle of the Great Canadian Weather at that particular moment.

Our house has another option. When it was built, the contractor neglected to insulate the floor under the back kitchen entrance.

In winter, that floor gets . . . a tad chilly.

Perfect for extra food storage.

And right off the kitchen.

It was in this area that I had placed a bucket (see above) of ranch dressing.

Okay, yes, it was within perfect reach of Grandson #3 (hereinafter known as GS3), but the lid was on.

And let’s face it, even grandma needed help getting that lid off.

I’ve finally gotten to my story . . .

The family was over.

Dinner was done and the older kids had gone downstairs to play.

The adults and those deemed too young for the hijinks of the older crowd were in the front room.

Visiting/crawling about. Maybe I should clarify. The adults were visiting. The babies were crawling about.

GS3 had disappeared into the kitchen.

We weren’t concerned. Everything was buttoned down/closed/out of reach.

He was there for some minutes.

Then the giggling started.

A giggling toddler is a happy toddler is a good sign. Right?

Ummm . . .

A few minutes later, his mother went in to check on him.

“Uh-oh!” Mom-speak for, ‘We’ve just set our levels to def-con one!’

I hurried in.

The walls (and, indeed, every available surface of the back entrance) were heavily spotted in thick, white goo.

GS3 had somehow wrenched the lid off that pail of soppy, white substance. Dunked his little fingers.

Then flung them around.

Numerous times.

Thus, the giggle. 

Mom took the toddler for a needed cleaning and Grandma started in on the mess.

I will say this. The coating proclivity of Ranch dressing has never been fully explored. Someone should get a grant and do a study. Preferably a parent . . .

Also: If anyone needs help removing those impossible-to-remove lids, I have a toddler who can help.

A Real Kick

You un-decorate how you want and I'll un-decorate how I want.

It was a party.

And all sorts of things happen at a party, right . . .?

Becoming a teenager was a big thing.

Well, it was to me.

And I was having a party to celebrate.

A different party from any I had had before.

This party was going to include *dun-dun-duuuunnnn!* boys!

Yikes.

I had planned carefully. Games of pool and ping-pong. Music. Dancing. 

Food.

I had even decorated with streamers and balloons and invited everyone – jocks. Cool kids. Regular Joes (my group).

Everyone.

And, wonder of wonders, they were all coming.

It was going to be great.

It was great.

Competitions ongoing in both the ping-pong and pool rooms.

Kids dancing in the family room.

Kids circling the food table. 

But nothing is so good that it can’t be made just a bit better, right?

Wrong.

Toward the end of the evening, I was in the ping-pong room.

A final match had just ended and the champion crowned. 

The lights had been dimmed.

Did I mention that I had decorated with balloons?

I did.

That is important here . . .

Suddenly, I had the fun idea of ending the evening by breaking up the decorations.

And what would I use? My foot.

Okay, I can see the look on your face. But it honestly made sense at the time.

I chose my target - one of the lower balloons fastened to the wall. I took aim.

And kicked.

The balloon gave a satisfying ‘pop’ as it expired.

But it remained fastened where it was, making a dark shadow on the wall. 

A large black shadow.

Weird.

Before I could investigate, one of the cool boys I had been trying to impress all evening decided to take my example and kicked the balloon next to mine.

His results were even more dramatic. His balloon also perished on a lively note. But it must have been a vastly larger balloon because it left a vastly larger shadow.

A foot-shaped shadow.

Oh-oh.

On closer inspection, it turned out that, not only had our balloons been destroyed.

But the wall behind them had, too.

Yep. My party had just turned a corner. The one wherein property damage is considered in the cost.

I managed to stop anyone else from following in my footsteps – so to speak.

But the damage was there for anyone to see.

Anyone.

My dad was in that group.

Shortly after that, the party broke up and peace once more settled across the Stringam household.

I managed to keep my mom out of that room for the remainder of the evening by offering to clean it myself. (Yeah, she was surprised, too.) Alone in there, I turned the lights up and examined the damage.

Yow.

Then I noticed that the drywall (the renovations were ongoing and the taping and mudding and painting had not yet been completed) was a yellow colour.

Hmmm . . . almost the exact colour of the pads of yellow, legal-sized paper on my dad’s desk.

I dashed upstairs and secured two sheets of the stuff and some glue.

Hurrying back to the scene of the crime, I held one of them up to the wall. Eureka! (Don’t you just love words?!) It was almost the exact same colour!

Quickly applying glue, I fastened a sheet of paper over each gaping hole.

Gone!

I will mention here that my parents never mentioned it there.

I mean, the person who finally did the finishing on that wall must have discovered my oh-so-clever camouflage. But my parents sold the house shortly after my party and the paper was still on the wall the day we moved out. 

To this day, I don’t know if they ever knew.

I was always afraid to ask.

Less-Than-Artistic

Artistic: fourth from the right, top row.
Un-artistic: fourth from the right, second row.

Grade three art class.

So much fun with so many things artistic.

None of them me.

I’m not sure, but I think when artistic ability was handed out in Heaven, I was outside.

Doing something else.

Or if I was there, my ability was poured in with a teaspoon and someone jiggled Heavenly Father’s elbow.

Moving on . . .

Others in my class were gifted with a bit more.

Quite a bit more.

One boy, in particular, was amazing.

And it was to Randy that I looked whenever a new assignment was handed out.

He never let me down.

We were in grade three, and had been given large pieces of paper and paints and instructed to paint a tree, I immediately turned to see what he did.

And how he did it.

He started with a graceful, fluid line of brown from the bottom of the page to the top.

I dipped my brush in my brown paint.

And made a streak.

That’s all. A streak. Heavy. Clumsy.

And distinctly un-graceful.

Sigh.

I tried to fix it.

It became an ungraceful streak that . . . thickened.

My teacher asked me, kindly, if I’d like to start again. I received my new piece of paper with relief bordering on giddiness.

And proceeded to do the same thing.

Oh, I did produce a tree.

But I had to label it so others would know.

Another time, we were given pictures to colour with our new pressed-wax crayons, and I fared better.

Again, I craned my neck to see what Randy would do.

His Santa picture was coloured heavily, completely filling in the spaces.

No white specks showing at all.

I tried to copy his technique.

But without his results.

Oh, I managed to stay within the lines. And it even turned out . . . acceptable.

But it just didn’t have the flare – the snap – that Randy’s did.

But I was nothing, if not persistent.

Every picture from then on was coloured with great intent. A lot of crayon.

And Randy’s technique.

But with equally disappointing results.

Then, a few months later, Randy changed things up.

For this newest colouring project, he outlined each space heavily, then proceeded to fill in lightly.

I could almost feel my mother’s relief as requests for new boxes of crayons . . . diminished. In fact, I think my current box and Randy’s new method actually lasted me through the end of the year.

Progress!

I kept on trying. And sometimes, was actually satisfied with my efforts.

But, by the end of grade three, I had realized something.

When it comes to things artistic:

Some do.

Others appreciate.

I’m definitely in the second category.

And I’m happy there.

Paused

Cousins

Two little girls were playing.

Had been for most of the day.

Their electronics – Ipads, television programs, movies – were lying forgotten.

They had spread pillows across the living room floor and played ‘stay-out-of-the-lava’. 

Arranged the dozens of little ponies into regimental order and enacted several scenarios. 

Dressed in pirate togs and created suitable situations. 

With appropriate pirate-y talk. 

Built a fortress and other grand structures out of Lego and then destroyed them – several times. Ransacked the toybox for forgotten treasures and pressed them back into service. 

Climbed Mount Sofa. 

Read books. 

Sang. 

Had a dance party.

And trekked to the kitchen numerous times for ongoing nutritious sustenance. (Those little engines needed a lot of refuelling with such a busy schedule.)

It had been a full day.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Engaged in yet another grand and complex enactment, they charged through the living room.

Then, one of them stopped and announced – loudly – “I have to go potty!”

She turned toward the hallway. But before she left, she looked back at her cousin. “Pause the game, okay? I’ll be right back!”

Her cousin obligingly stopped where she was and simply stood there.

A few minutes later, needs met, play resumed.

Remember when I mentioned they had left their electronics behind while they played?

Well, some aspects simply cross over . . .

Bikini-d

 

My girl and I sat on the beach. We’d had a little tiff,

I tried to talk a time or two. Response was just a sniff,

Then finally, real desperate, I turned to her and said,

“We’ve got to talk a bit or this relationship is dead!”

She still said nothing, sat there staring at the pretty view,

I thought I’d introduce to her a topic that she knew,

“I find it funny, Babe,” I said. “Apparel at the beach.

“If someone wore their bra and knickers, sure you’d hear a screech!

“Yet in bikinis they appear, and onlookers applaud,

“So why is one acceptable, the other says you’re flawed?”

She sat there just a moment more, then gave a little cough,

“I don’t care what they say, Hon, please go and take them off!”

And now for the ultimate in Bikini poetry!

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, our skills, we will apply,

To Cheer the Lonely, we will try!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Bikinis (July 5) Today!

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)

Shoes (September 6) From Mimi

Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi

Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

Real Time Movies

 

The Kitchen Window

For three years, we lived next to a haunted house.

Okay, it really wasn't 'haunted'.

But strange things went on there.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We lived on a street of tiny, beautiful starter homes. Less expensive and perfect for people living on a lower income.

They were filled with senior couples and young families.

We fit into the second category.

The house beside us, whose front porch I could see from my kitchen window, was home to a little elderly couple.

Sweet people.

Quiet.

Private.

We saw them seldom.

Then, one day, I noticed that two young girls were going in that front door.

I should mention, here, that I spent a lot of time at my kitchen window. It was over my kitchen sink.

Enough said.

For many months, we saw those girls regularly.

Then, suddenly, more people appeared. A young woman with tattoos, piercings, a neanderthal whose whose origins were questionable, and a baby named Levi.

Then I realized that I hadn't seen our elderly couple in quite some time.

In fact I never saw them again.

For several months the two young girls and the couple with their baby came and went.

Then two young boys, similar in age to the two young girls, appeared.

And the two young girls stopped.

Appearing, that is.

Now, as near as we could figure, the young couple and their baby and the two young boys lived there.

Then all activity ceased.

No one came or went.

One morning, I opened my front door to a very tall police officer. “Do you know the people who live next door?” he asked.

“That house?” I asked, pointing.

He nodded.

“I'm ashamed to say that I don't,” I said. “There was a nice elderly couple there. Then two young girls. Then a young couple and a baby. Then two young boys. But that's about all I can tell you.”

“Come with me,” he said. He led the way to the house.

I stopped in the front doorway.

Aghast.

I've always wanted to use that word . . .

The cute little house had been destroyed.

Cupboards had been ripped down off the walls and shredded into matchsticks. Every single wall and door had been punched out. The bannister ripped off the stairway and broken. Toilet ripped off the floor and thrown out the window.

The damage was unbelievable.

Incredible.

The officer was looking at me. “You didn’t hear any of this?”

I shook my head. I really hadn’t. For just a moment, I wondered why. Then I remembered the semi-constant din in my home made by five kids and seven day-home kids.

Yeah, Not so surprising after all.

Moving on...

Obviously someone had been very angry.

Or very, very disturbed.

For six months the little house remained empty.

Then, one day, crews appeared and effected repairs.

And, finally, a sweet young couple and their baby moved in.

Ahhh. Normal at last.

Then the fights began.

Usually in the wee hours of the morning.

One morning, after breakfast, I was again at my post, hands in the sink, when a police car, followed by a van pulled up next door.

Two policeman, one carrying a large camera got out.

Oh, no. Someone's killed someone, I thought.

The two went into the house.

Sometime later, more police cars arrived.

It took me a while to notice because I had the phone and was sitting on the floor calling my husband.

“I don't want to live here any more,” I said, tearfully. “Please move me somewhere else!”

I ended my phone call and stood up.

Just as the front door opened.

A policeman came out.

Carrying two large, beautiful, healthy marijuana plants.

Oh.

He was followed by another, carrying two more.

Then another.

And another.

In all, I counted 16 plants.

Okay, not what I expected.

The officers stowed the plants in the van and left.

I must admit that I was quite surprised when things next door became more or less normal for a while after that.

Then the fights began again.

One particular night, we heard the loud slam of a door.

Then pounding.

Then, “Open this door!”

The husband had pushed his wife outside and locked the door.

Soon we heard the starting of a vehicle and the squealing of tires.

Exit wife.

For a few weeks, the young husband and the baby continued to live there.

Then we moved.

I couldn't take it any longer.

Who needs TV when one has a kitchen window?

That Holiday Weekend

We had a glorious July 1 celebration! For the first time in Covid history, our family was together.

Albeit largely outside, but we were together!

And it reminded me of July 1st's of the past...

We had decided to take our children for a holiday over the long July first weekend.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But we had made a couple of mistakes.

1. We hadn't planned. 
2. Anything.

Did you know that you need reservations to camp in Alberta over THE long weekend?

Well, you do.

Sigh.

It was getting late on June 30.

We had been through dozens of campgrounds.

All completely filled with people who were better planners than we were.

Or at least had started out on their holiday a bit earlier in the day.

We saw a sign for yet another campground.

Almost hidden in the undergrowth.

Hmmm.

Maybe others would have missed it.

We drove in.

Right away, we saw an empty campsite.

Things were looking up.

The site wasn't very big.

Just down the street was a second.

Also tiny.

Forgetting the hours we had spent searching, we decided to do a loop and see if there were any better.

We completed the circuit.

Nothing.

A second loop opened off the first.

We decided to give it the once-over.

Grant turned.

We had gone only a few dozen feet before we realized that this was not part of the campground.

The road we were on trailed off into the trees, instantly becoming a small path.

We needed to turn around.

Grant nosed the car into the tall grass on an approach to a farmer's field.

There was a thump.

And the steering on the car . . . quit.

We couldn't turn.

Grant got out and inspected.

A large log had been pulled across the approach.

Presumably to stop exactly what we were trying to do.

The car had rolled over it.

And completely destroyed the power steering.

Grant stared at it, shaking his head.

Finally, he moved the log, opened the gate, and drove our car straight out into the field. 

It was the only thing we could do.

We stopped.

And looked at each other. 

It was seven pm on Friday, June 30.

The beginning the THE long weekend.

A disabled car.

Six hungry kids.

And no options.

We got out.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” one of the kids said.

Good idea.

We gathered close and prayed.

For help.

For guidance.

For some miracle that would instantly replace our ailing car with a new and pristine model.

Then Grant grabbed a basin and started out for the campground.

A few minutes later, he was back.

Basin brimming with cold, clear water.

But what was even more wonderful was the police car following directly behind him.

The kids and I surrounded Grant, peppering him with questions and turning to stare at the car.

Two officers emerged.

As they came closer, I realized that there was only one officer.

The other man was dressed in 'civvies'.

Grant handed me the water and turned to the men.

“This is the car,” he said.

The second man walked over, lifted the hood and bent over the engine.

Grant joined him.

It turned out that this second man was good friends with the officer. He was a mechanic and the owner of the nearby auto wreckers. He had decided to come along with his friend as the officer ran his evening rounds.

The two of them, Grant and the mechanic, began to converse in 'car'.

Finally, they straightened.

“I'll send someone over in the morning to pick it up,” the man said. “We can fix you up. No problem.”

I could have kissed him.

But there was the fact that we were total strangers.

So I shook his hand instead.

True to his word, a tow truck arrived the next morning at 8:00 AM. Took the car and disappeared.

At 3:00, the car was back.

Driving under it's own abilities once more.

Our prayers were truly answered.

We had been granted a miracle.

My daughter looked at me. “The car's fixed?” she asked.

“It is, Sweetie,” I said.

“It's a miracle.”

“It is.”

She looked at me again. “I wonder what that policeman thought when the mechanic appeared beside him after our prayer.”
I smiled. I wonder, too.

Home Wreck

 

I really wanted to take Shop class.

Working with power tools. Smelling the aroma of freshly-sawn wood as you constructed your first-ever end table.

Making pottery and jewelry.

A handi-girl's dream.

But in 1970 (yes that's really when I started high school) at Erle Rivers High in Milk River, Alberta girls weren't allowed to take Shop class.

I know. Because I asked.

Moving on . . .

I, and the rest of the girls, took Home Economics. Home Ec., for short.

Or Home Wreck, as it was not-so-affectionately titled.

So we were 'Home-Wreckers'.

The place where we 'learned' to sew.

Cook.

Clean.

And generally find our way around running a home.

Once I got past not being able to take Shop, I really had fun.

I sewed a potholder. An apron.

And a little purple linen dress with the sleeves in backwards.

Sigh.

I baked cookies. Made Chicken-a-la-King served in little toast cups.

And Gourmet Hot Dogs.

I learned the proper way to scour pots (and the sink).

Scrub a floor.

And generally make my house squeaky clean.

Sew straight. Cook carefully. And scrub hard.

I did pass. With unremarkable marks.

And, surprisingly, I actually used some of the things I learned.

And still do today.

There is a codicil:

Now my brother . . .

Yes, they allowed boys to take Home Ec. 

For one glorious week sometime during the year.

And yes, I know it wasn't fair . . .

My brother remembers Home Wreck differently. (See here!)

He remembers cooking.

Something he excels at today.

And hunting for mice with frying pans and spatulas.

Boys make everything more fun.

Dine-in Car

I probably don’t have to tell you that Canada is a large country.

In bygone years, the men who manned the trains crisscrossing it spent a long time aboard those trains.

A long time.

In those days, they spent much of the trip and all of their downtime in the little caboose as it clicked faithfully along the rails at the tail end of the train. It became their little ‘home away from home’. There, they did their visiting, sleeping, reading, game-playing, cooking and eating. 

Let’s discuss these last two for a moment . . .

One group, in an effort to be fair, took it in turns to cook and wash up.

They had one rule: If anyone criticized the cooking in any way, their turn was accelerated instantly through the queue and they found themselves with spatula (or spoon) in hand for the next meal.

Yeah. Probably best to keep your mouth shut unless you had a hankering to take over as cook.

So the men silently choked down whatever they were given. No matter how unpalatable. 

They still had to take their turn when it came, but at least they weren’t handed the apron at a moment’s notice.

One man in the group seemed singularly unable to create anything remotely appetizing. Or even edible.

Yeah. We’re definitely not talking gastronomic ecstasy here.

His friends were enduring his most recent effort, silently forking down breakfast.

Or what passed for breakfast.

One man poked disconsolately (real word!) at the blackened bit of char that had started life as an egg.

The cook narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening spasmodically on the spatula.

This is my story. I’ll imagine it how I want . . .

The man looked up and forced a smile at the cook. “Hank,” he said. “You burned the eggs.”

Hank smiled slowly and moved toward him, already extending his cooking utensil of choice.

“Which is truly remarkable,” his friend added, “Because it’s just how I like ‘em!”

Creative criticism.

It’s an art.

P.S. The trains that span our great country no longer pull a caboose behind them. With faster trains and shorter hauls between stops—and with improvements in technology—they simply aren’t needed.

I miss them.

Bubbled Over

I have a thing for bubbles, I could watch them constantly,

I love to see them, big or small, drift off away from me,

Sparkly iridescent—catching sunlight as they float,

They’re so carefree, and friendly-like, not angry, not remote,

And yet, their lives are short, they neither toil, nor do they spin,

But still make an impression—even adults sport a grin!

Sometimes, I’d like to be one, floating up so happily,

A shining, gleaming bubble all would recognize as me,

I’d fly across the neighbourhood, I’d never want to stop,

There’s just one thing, I hope that I would never have to ‘POP’! 

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, what a blast!

Bikinis—YES—to clothe your . . . behind.

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Bubbles (June 28) Today!

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)

Shoes (September 6) From Mimi

Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi

Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

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)