Getting Your Tang Toungled

Coy-Bow. Sans guns . . . 

My Dad had a speech impediment.
Sometimes, he said things backwards.
Oh, he could control it.
He just chose not to.
An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.
And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.
For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:
Rock a bay bybee
On the tee trop.
When the blind woes,
The radle will crock.
When the brough bakes,
The fadle will crawl.
And down will bum caby
Adle and crawl.
You're right. That's not even English. But that's how I thought it went. And Dad said it made just as much sense his way.
I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them. Our conversation was as follows:
Me: What are you singing?
Them: Rock a Bye Baby.
Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Them: Let's play somewhere else.
As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.
Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.
And that my favourite ice cream wasn't scutterbotch.
Others had to find out for themselves.
My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother. The imminent arrival scheduled for, at most two weeks, stretched to six, leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.
It was a happy six weeks . . .
Michael was playing cowboys. And had dressed accordingly.
He had his gun and holster.
His boots.
His overlarge hat.
And his training pants.
He was ready.
Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.
Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style. "Stick 'em up!"
Oh, he was good.
Dad looked at him. "What are you? A coy-bow?"
Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .
"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"
"Coy-bow."
"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.
Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."
Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"
That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"
"No! No! Gow-boy!"
Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."
Michael had outlasted his grandfather.
A noble feat.
I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time. It was the exception rather than the rule.
And he always correct us afterwards.
But it was fun while it lasted.

Fifty Day #2

The phone rang.

She waited for her slumbering husband to answer, then, disgusted, climbed out and walked around the bed.

“Hello?”

“Hon? I went outside for some air and accidentally locked myself out. Could you come open the door?”

Slowly, she turned to look at the still figure lying there.

Today is Fifty Day.

A word challenge from my good friend, Adela of Black Tortoise Press!

The challenge? Write a story in exactly 50 words!

It's more difficult than it sounds. 

But totally fun!

Care to share?

It's easy... Just leave your link in the comments section!

Charmed

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!

Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter

Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!

 

Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.

 

Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.

 

She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.

 

“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-orders, known only as ‘Jack’.

 

“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”

 

Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that lead to her good fortune, saying only:

 

“Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”

 

One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.

 

“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet!

 

“We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity.

 

“I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

 

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

 

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

 

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

 

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

 

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.

 

“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so-doing, lost a personal item or two…

 

“But still, when answering her co-workers questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”

 

Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her.

 

“I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.

 

There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers,

 

But with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted and Cindy was quickly on her way.

 

Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—

 

And all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!

 

From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyways.

Today’s post is a writing challenge! 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: Karen 

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them out!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

First Day

My good friend Hank had worked a job for most his adult life.

It supported all his family—his children and his wife.

But Hank decided he’d begin with something else this year,

Yes. Even at his age, he’d try and start a new career.

So Hank shed uniform. So happy! Gladly traded for

A job a lot less boring than the one he’d had before.

Yes, Hank became a Taxi driver, certain he would find

His clients much more charming than were those he’d left behind.

His first day started normally, with sunrise and a fare,

He wisely quizzed his passenger, then started off from there.

He caref'ly weaved through traffic, even whistled as he went,

Singing with the radio and feeling most content.

When suddenly a hand reached up and touched him on the arm,

His client had a question. Didn’t mean to cause him harm.

But Hank, he screamed and spun the wheel. Just barely missed a bus,

Scared people on the sidewalk. One or two tossed him a cuss!

When finally stopped, Hank pushed his door and left it there, ajar.

For just a moment, both sat convalescing in the car,

And then a tiny voice spoke up from somewhere in the back.

“I only tapped your arm,” it said. “It wasn’t an attack.

"I merely had a question. I didn't mean to scare!

"If I'd known I'd frighten, I'd have taken greater care!"

"You have to know I'm new," Hank said. "Cab driving? 'Tis my first!

“But you simply need to understand, for years, I drove a hearse!”

New is good, you know, but when beginnings are discussed.

Remember, as you’re switching jobs, good mem'ry is a must.

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? Thrown away or Pinned?

The topic we'll discuss is WIND!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Tell a Joke (August 16) Today!

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

My First Best!

Best of Boomer Blogs!

I'm way past excited to be included in this amazing group of bloggers.
I mean, I've been reading them--some for years--but never thought I'd be considered one of them!
Cover your ears and picture my little girl squeal of delight...

And now this week's Best of Boomer Blogs!

Carol Cassara
Never in a million years did Carol Cassara ever think that her ex-fiance's mother would become her best friend. But that is, in fact, what happened and she's sharing that story this week. It appeared a few years ago in one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies.

*  *  *

Laurie Stone
Laurie Stone of Musings, Rants & Scribbles knows the feeling: you spend much of your life thinking something’s wrong. You’re alone a lot, usually with your nose in a book or daydreaming. But then someone puts a label on it, and everything falls into place. You’re an introvert. You’re wired differently. And even better, you realize this trait comes with 6 great benefits…

*  *  *

Rebecca Olkowski

It’s hard to believe 50 years can pass by so fast and for Baby Boomers, we were in high school half a century ago. Rebecca Olkowski with BabyBoomster.com just attended her 50^th reunion and was able to see old friends she hung out with then. It’s weird how life takes you down so many different paths and then you come back full circle as if nothing ever changed.

*  *  *

Meryl Baer
Summer means travel. And travel, in many places, means traffic. Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin experienced a too-long road trip this past week, as she describes in this week’s post, Summer Road Trip - A Daytime Nightmare.

*  *  *

Rita R. Robison
Since prices on some items are going up, Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist, writes on how to cut your expenses. Let’s hope that Jerome Powell, chair of the Federal Reserve, is correct when he says it’s temporary. Powell also says it is transitory, meaning the increased prices aren’t going to go back down right away, they’ll linger.

*  *  *

Diane Stringam Tolley

Born and raised on one of the last of the great old ranches in Southern Alberta, Diane is remembering communication in the phoneless, isolated '50s. It was personal, neighbourly . . . and eye-to-eye.

Thank you for visiting with us today. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed bringing it to you!

Pure and Clear

With Sally growing up in our fair city, the long-suffering citizens have had to get used to terms like: Code Red. APB. Emergency. And the host of smaller crises tragedies disasters calamities cataclysms. . . erm . . . misadventures that can plague a community.

To say they’re used to it would probably be an understatement.

Every member of the police force knows her by name. All the firemen. Even the SWAT team.

Maybe it would be easier to say all the city’s emergency response personnel and leave it there, shall we?

The general population also know her as they often see her face—much larger than life—on the marquee at the local movie theatre because let’s face it, she’s a movie star and a celebrity. Which means only that her sphere of ‘influence’ is just that much bigger.

Sigh.

All of this is to explain why Mom, Peter, Mort and I found ourselves as guests at the finest restaurant in the city for the biggest Celebrity Gala of the year. (Biggest because they weren’t allowed until now. Thanks, Covid!) But why we were justly nervous about being there.

I have to admit; it was nice to see Mom all dressed in her best—a simple but lovely floating chiffon in peach. And I probably don’t need to tell you, Peter looks spectacular in tie and tails. Even Mort fancies up nicely.

The evening had been fun. All the city bigwigs were there—including the mayor, though he managed to keep a justifiably wide berth between him and Sally. He seemed to tolerate the rest of us quite well, though. I was actually part of a group wherein he was describing his new, spectacular specs (Glasses to any who may not have heard them so labelled, ie. me). His exact words?  Something to do with the optometrist finally getting his prescription right. And not knowing How he survived without them!

All proceeds were to go to our local women’s shelter—a cause our family believes in very strongly—and people were giving generously.

There had been a fancy meal with subsequent open-ended tables of munchies and drinks arranged about the enormous room. We had been entertained by acrobats, a juggler and two puppet masters, and finally, a famous opera star who nearly shattered my ears during her moment in the spotlight. I have to tell you—that woman can sing. I think she hit notes that haven’t been invented yet. A few of them will likely be named after her, you know like they do those roses that people create . . .

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

I guess the term for a great party is ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

And this one was.

Then . . . Sally.

Now up until now, she had been behaving herself admirably. Chatting with people. Eating. Watching.

You know . . . normal.

The rooms were growing hot, so our group wandered over to one of the snack tables after Madame Voice finished her performance. Several men stood there, serving wine and other spirits, but as we were not wine-drinkers, we made a bee-line for the non-alcoholic side of the table.

A large, delicately balanced pyramid of wine goblets had been arranged in between the ‘als’ and the ‘nons’.

Rather than wait for one of the servers to fetch her a glass, Sally simply helped herself . . .

I’ll bet you were holding your breath there.

I know I was.

Moving on . . .

Then, goblet in hand, she grabbed a bottle of her drink of choice—Grape Somethingorother.

One of the helpful men swooped in and opened it for her, then offered to pour it, but Sally turned him down.

I remember staring at her white dress (yes, she was wearing white) and thinking, ‘Please don’t spill on that. Please don’t!’

And she didn’t.

This really was a great party!

Then Madame Voice swooped in. “Cherie!” she gushed. She embraced Sally with all the enthusiasm (and the mass) of several hundred pounds of ‘woman’. Kissed both of her cheeks several times, then chattered excitedly in French for a few moments.

I gathered she was a fan.

Unless she was some sort of masochist, it really was the only explanation.

Ahem . . .

Sally just stood there, a wide grin on her face, nodding at intervals.

Finally, at a pause in the very one-sided conversation, Sally lifted her glass.

Thinking she was about to propose a toast, the woman gasped, then quickly reached for a glass of her own. From the ‘als’ table. Something thick and red. She lifted it to tap against Sally’s.

There was a musical ‘ping’.

And Sally looked at her glass. “Hey! Is this crystal?” She looked at Mom, who nodded.

“Cool!” She turned to our singer. “Do you know that crystal sings?”

The woman looked at her uncomprehendingly.

Sally lifted her glass, deliberately dipped the end of one finger in her soda, then started running that finger around the rim of her glass.

Immediately, a pure, clear note sang out.

The woman brightened and, copying Sally’s actions, started her own glass singing.

Not to be left out, Mort grabbed a full glass and did the same.

I should probably mention here that the notes were pure, but . . . erm . . . not quite in the same register.

Sally’s glass, the least full, produced the lowest note. The Singer’s, whose glass was a little fuller, was higher.

Then Mort’s whose glass was nearly full, higher yet.

The three of them produced a sound which . . . well does the word ‘discordant’ mean anything to you?

These notes gave that word a whole new meaning.

And they didn’t stop there. Those note-producing fingers went faster and faster and the notes got more and more intense.

Until something snapped.

Or maybe, shattered would be the better word.

Remember that tower of glasses?

The one that had us all shaking in our sparkly shoes just moments ago?

That one.

Yeah, it shattered.

From the bottom to the top.

Every. Single. Glass.

And it didn’t stop there.

Nope.

Every liquid-filled goblet within thirty feet of us simply—ceased to exist.

There were exclamations of concern and disgust from several dozen party-goers as the contents of those former glasses suddenly found their way onto dress and shirt fronts, skirts, pants and shoes.

It took a moment for the three instigators/would-be musicians to realize what was happening and stop playing.

And in that instant came the final blow.

The mayor’s eyeglasses.

Our town now has a new emergency code: Code ‘S’. 

You understand.

Use Your Words is a monthly word challenge that I totally love!
Each month, we participants submit words to our intrepid leader, Karen, which she then redistributes.

None of us knows who will get our words or what they will do with them till now.

We're as surprised as you are!

My words this month:  hot ~ helpful ~ open-ended ~ restaurant ~ guest . . . came to me from our intrepid leader, Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Thank you SO much, my friend! 

Now go and see what the others in the group have created!  

Baking In A Tornado 

Wandering Web Designer 

Climaxed 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom  

What TF Sarah 

Fifty Day #1

Oh, how I admire the unabashed, unashamed innocence of the two year old…
Sweet little voice in the background during my and Daughter’s recent phone conversation: “What’cha doing Mama?”

“I’m talking on the phone, Quincy. Want to?”

“Nope.”

Aren’t there times when you wish you, too, could be a ‘Quincy’?

 This is a word challenge from my good friend, Adela of Black Tortoise Press!

Care to share the fun?

Click here to join!

Furry, Cute and . . .

 

Blair in winter. Just add mouse...

Guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

We had little furry critters (mice) that were common around the ranch.

They seemed to be everywhere.

When a grain bin door was opened they scampered away to safety. When we pulled bales from haystacks, ditto.

A little background . . .

Every summer I had the pleasure of baling and stacking hay.

Every late fall and winter I had the pleasure of feeding hay.

Most of the time we baled an alfalfa-grass mix but on some occasions, we baled green-feed (an oat crop that is cut when green and just headed out.) Creative name, eh?

Cows really like green-feed and so do little furry critters.  Consequently, you see lots of them when you feed green-feed bales. 

On with my story . . .

One day in the middle of winter, dad and I were loading green-feed bales.

The snow had just fallen and we had a lovely white blanket everywhere.

I was pulling bales from the stack and throwing them into the back of the truck where dad was stacking them for the trip to the field. When each bale lifted, critters would skitter to the safety of another bale.

Suddenly, I got a funny feeling.

A little warm furry critter had somehow found his way up my pant leg.

Umm . . . yikes.

As the critter was slowly making his way up, I managed to grab him.

Now I had a predicament.

It was inside my pants leg. Which were inside my coveralls.

I could only stop the critter by grabbing it from the outside of said pants and coveralls.

I didn’t want it to bite me so I grabbed and squeezed.

Then I tried to shake it down my pant leg.

It wouldn’t shake. 

I turned to Dad. He of the years of experience and endless knowledge.

Surely he had some wise method to take care of this very unwanted predicament.

His advice? “I guess you’ll have to take off your pants.”

I had only this to say:

Stackyard!

In the winter!

In the snow!

In my underwear!

Yeah. Dad had a good laugh.

Black Saturday

The ranch

Production sale day.

The highlight of the Stringam Ranch year. Black Friday in our ranching world.

The catalogs have been printed, painstakingly hand-addressed (ugh!) and mailed out.

All over the world.

The cattle have been groomed, trimmed, tucked in and kissed good night.

The ranch site has been mowed, scoured, repaired and painted.

Now it sparkles like a new penny in the dawning sun as the crew slowly climbs out of bed.

Some (my parents) might not have seen their bed.

Arrivals start

Breakfast is on the table and Mom is a blur of motion as she tries to do three things at once.

A shout from the barnyard. “They’re here!”

A glance out the window. Sure enough, the first of a long line of vehicles is moving slowly up the ranch drive.

From then on, the day is a series of impressions.

Snapshots.

Greeting and handshaking.

Parking cars and the trickier trucks and trailers.

Handing out catalogues.

Tending the coffee and the all-important donuts.

Making sure the auctioneer staff are comfortable and cared for.

Dusting the bleachers, ready for customer bottoms.

Hearing the shouts and movement from the pens behind the sale barn.

The warm up patter from the auctioneer on the stand as he gathers the chatting, laughing, gesticulating crowd.

An open gate and the first animal, an outstanding heifer, in the ring.

The auctioneer assistant, armed with a cane, moving her about.

Oohs and aahs from the crowd as they thumb their catalogues, looking for this entry.

More chatter from the man with the mike.

Bidding.

The smack of the gavel.

Another open gate and the now-nervous heifer gladly disappearing.

Gates open.

Gates close.

Shouts from the pens as stock is shuffled into catalogue order.

Animals in.

Animals out.

Pounding of the gavel.

Talk and laughter as the auctioneer plays with the crowd.

The final animal, a 2000 pound bull, in the pen.

Final strike of the mallet.

“Mark and Enes Stringam would like to thank all of you for making this day special!” the auctioneer says. “And to invite you to come and enjoy a nice home-grown beef dinner on them!” A grin. “It should be good, it’s out of the neighbour’s bull!”

Much laughter. The crowd is well aware of the almost fanatic fence maintenance required by the ranch owner.

And the unlikely possibility of anything four-legged crawling through with mischief/romance in mind.

Everyone moving down the hill toward the long tables set out in front of the ranch house.

Tables groaning with mountains of Stringam beef, salads, rolls, and every other good thing.

A buzz of contented ‘people noise’ as food is consumed.

Sounds of vehicles as buyers take turns backing up to the loading chutes.

Visiting. Laughter.

The crowd slowly dwindling, along with the sunlight.

Finally, peace.

The mercury-vapour barnyard lamp shining on the faces of a family of people, collapsed in chairs in front of the house.

Tomorrow the whole process begins again, from the beginning, with breeding, calving, culling, choosing, feeding, grooming and all the processes within the processes. But for this minute, everyone is quietly, happily exhausted.

It’s been a good day. A good year.

Communication ‘50s Style

As I was driving to the city for an appointment, I saw two trucks stopped on a frontage road paralleling the highway.

They had been travelling in opposite directions and had pulled over next to each other in the centre of the road so the drivers could chat.

It brought back memories . . .

In the fifties, in the sparsely-inhabited and phoneless outer ranchlands of Southern Alberta, neighbours didn’t see each other much. Busy with ranch demands and family life, they only got together at county shindigs and the occasional branding or barn dance.

Oh, they travelled the same roads to and from the nearest towns, but the chance of running into one another on those long trails was slim to nil.

When it did happen, it was cause for excitement . . .

A cloud of dust appears on the horizon, slowly coalescing into a dark spec. Then into a vehicle.

As it draws closer, said vehicle is recognized – a friend or person who is not yet a friend.

The vehicle slides to a stop in the middle of the road.

Your car does the same and you look out to see that the other person is already leaning on his crossed arms out his open window – ready for a chat.

Everyone in each vehicle crowds around their driver for a peek and a listen.

Inevitably, there’s a few minutes of chatter, beginning with: “Well, Enes! I haven’t seen you in dog’s years! How are you? The kids? And how’s Mark?”

And Mom’s answer: “Oh, everyone’s fine. Busy. You know.”

“Heading into town?”

“Oh yeah. This crew never stops eating. And I have to make a call at the hardware and the shoemakers.”

“Yeah, the missus sent me on much the same errands. Oh, she’d like to drop by sometime, if that’s okay.”

“I’m always happy to see her! Tell her to bring the kids down for an afternoon. They could go swimming.”

“Had any rain at the ranch? We’re so dry, the birds are building their nests out of barbed wire and the trees are bribing the dogs.” 

“You still have birds? And Dogs?”

“Good one.”

This goes on for some time. Until one or the other realizes that they have to be somewhere . . .

Then it ends with: “Well, better get back. I’ve got ice cream and we all know how much it likes this hot weather! Could you please tell Mark that I’ve got those bulls that need testing and we still haven’t done our vaccinating. Maybe have him stop by?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And you and the kids come by any time! The pot’s always on and you know you’re always welcome!”

The driver shifts into gear and, with a wave, heads off down the road.

We continue our trip, with us kids all swivelled around to watch the truck disappear into another cloud of dust.

Communication.

On the prairies. 

In the fifties.

It was always personal, neighbourly and eye-to-eye.

And you took it when you could get it.

Where you headin'?

P.S We kids often re-enacted the whole visiting-on-the-road scenario. When playing with toy cars, we would inevitably stop beside someone else and discuss plans - which usually included going for groceries.

P.P.S. It was even funnier when we were playing with model planes. Did you know those guys can hover? Well, when they see someone they know, they can hang there for inordinate amounts of time and discuss the weather.

Cat's Tail

You’ve heard this tale before, you have,

I thought I’d tell it one more time,

Perhaps it’ll be less scary when,

The whole darn thing’s put into rhyme?

‘Twas evening on the Stringam Ranch,

The cows were fed, tucked in for night,

The cowboys all were TV bound,

T’was Friday—time to watch the fights.

But Cheeta, our small terrier,

Disturbed the joy we 'hands' pursued,

Her barking (loud) drowned out the sound,

Trust dogs to bark and spoil the mood!

I went to see what had her miffed,

I walked beneath the carport there,

And just as I was stepping out,

My foot raised to the evening air . . .

A scream rang out above my head,

A cougar, sure, was on the roof,

Like us, he’d had enough of noise,

Was offering his best reproof.

I spun around and headed back,

Then called my dog. The errant waif

Came like a shot. The two of us

Determined to find somewhere safe!

Dad looked. By then the cat had gone.

And Cheeta, barking once again,

But moving t'word the hills, for sure,

No longer skulked on our terrain.

There is a moral here today,

If, a cat, you'd like to own...

Before you make your final choice...

Make sure it'll fit INSIDE your home!

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, for all you special folks...

Please come. For you we'll Tell A Joke! 

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Cats (August 9) (Today!)

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

The Love of a Child

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

When he was 19 years old, Husby went to live, for two years, in France.

As a Missionary.

It was an exciting time.  A time of growth, education and change.

And of new and varied experiences.

One of the latter had such a profound effect on him that it defined his life . . .

He and his companion were visiting with a woman teetering on the very brink of disaster.

She had been married. But to an abusive animal of a husband whose daily and favoured recreation seemed to be the use of his very manly fists.

With his wife as the target.

When he finally abandoned them, he left her and their two children completely destitute.

Desperate to feed her small family, the wife, after much tearful consideration, decided the best course would be to send her small son and daughter  to live in the very large and efficient orphanage some ten miles away. Knowing, even as she did so, that she would seldom, if ever, be able to even visit.

This was the situation when Husby came by.

At the end of their call, the mother tearfully begged them to make the ten mile trip to visit her children.

They agreed to do so, covering the distance fairly easily on their bicycles.

Husby clearly remembers his first glimpse of the massive building – a former hospital – now given to the housing and feeding of hundreds of young children.

There were children everywhere. Clothed and clean and obviously well-fed, but almost without adult contact.

He and his companion made their way to the main office and inquired after the two children. They were directed to one of the wings of the building. Carefully, they mounted stairs and counted doors, coming at last to a massive room.

The young boy – about nine – and his younger sister met them in that doorway.

Husby peered into the room and saw literally hundreds of beds placed in regimental order down each side of the huge room.

Here was home.

Clean. Tidy.

Institutional.

Their only adult supervision supplied by the nurse in charge and their daily contact with their teachers.

Husby thought of their grieving mother and his heart melted inside him.

He and his companion spent a few minutes chatting with those children, but in that few minutes, he was changed forever.

Into the loving, giving caretaker of any child – every child - he sees.

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

And sometimes, though the experience is painful, it’s for the good.

Husby doing what he does so well...