Covered

Now before you say what we’re all thinking, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So just bear with me . . .

I think I’ve mentioned before that we, Mom, Sally and me—oh, and Mort—all live in Sally’s house.

The one she bought with the money she got when she did the movie Nosedive just before Covid hit.

You have to know that some actors are really well paid.

Ahem . . .

Well, even though it is technically Sally’s house, Mom looks after its care and upkeep.

Because . . . Sally.

Am I right?

So Mom decided that said house was due for a fresh coat of paint on its ‘painty’ areas. All those not covered in stone.

Now Sally could have easily paid to have some professionals come and do the job in half the time and a quarter of the effort, but that’s not how Mom works. She’s all about creating opportunities for us to learn and grow through hard work and perseverance.

Or something like that.

So Saturday morning found Mort, Peter and me—brushes in hand—swiping an oily coat of primer onto freshly scraped walls.

Mom was just ahead of us, doing the scraping.

Sally was lounging on a lawn chair twenty feet away. Supervising.

In an effort to reassure Peter and I and to ensure herself of our help, it was the only job Mom could allow Sally.

So far it was working.

Work was progressing.

Scraping was happening.

Paint was being applied.

All was well.

You, who know Sally, also know that this is the place where things usually get . . . erm . . . sticky.

Mom finished with the wall before us, then disappeared around the side of the house. A moment later, she reappeared carrying the large, wooden ladder.

The one tall enough to reach the second story.

Keep breathing . . .

Moving said ladder back to the corner, to a place just above where we had all started, Mom clambered up it like a monkey and again started scraping.

Mort, Peter and I kept on painting, moving forward steadily.

Just then, a car pulled into our driveway.

Now you have to know that due to—I’m going to go with ‘Covid’ but it could just as easily be ‘Sally’— we don’t get many visitors.

Intentional ones, that is.

This was cause for all of us to turn for a look.

Mom, came down from the ladder and stood there a moment, squinting into the sun and wiping her hands.

Sally got up from her chair and hurried toward the ladder. “I’ll give it a try, Mom, so the painters don’t have to stop.”

“It’s okay, Hon,” Mom said absently, her concentration on the person climbing from the car.

I guess none of us really noticed when Sally, instead of taking the scraper Mom had been using, nabbed Mort’s paint can and a new brush and scurried up the ladder.

A man was coming toward us, a broad smile on his handsome face, the sun glinting from his ‘just-a-little-gray’ hair.

A man who looked remarkably like Peter.

I looked at Peter, who was sporting a wide grin and an extended hand. “Uncle Pete! When did you get back?”

The man ignored Peter’s hand and, instead wrapped him in a great bear hug. “It’s a surprise, Favourite Nephew!” he said. He stepped back. “I just got home last night.”

Peter laughed and looked around at all of us. “Everyone! This is my Uncle Peter, or Pete to the family. I was named after him. He was just pulled out of Afghanistan.”

Uncle Pete looked around at all of us, finally settling on Mom. Moving toward her, he held out his hand. “Peter Gunn,” he said. “No relation to the private eye.”

Mom laughed self-consciously. Her cheeks went pink. “Oooh!” she said, taking his hand. “I’m . . .”

But that’s as far as she got.

Sally. Ladder. Paint.

You know it had to happen. And it took . . . seconds.

“Oops! Look out below!”

Mom and Uncle Pete were suddenly drenched in a fresh coat of primer.

Head to toes.

Side to side.

Remember when I said things were about to get ‘sticky’? I was right.

Just as a side note, Mom had asked for the paint with the best coverage.

She got it.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will 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.

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them. 

My words this month? reassure ~ hand ~ try ~ seconds ~ primer ~ create              
They were submitted by my good friend Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com   
 
Are you up for more fun?
Baking In A Tornado
Wandering Web Designer
Climaxed
What TF Sarah
Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Friends at Last

Tangmere. History makes me cry.   (bbc.uk.co picture)

For over thirty years, my Husby worked for Alberta Culture. Specifically building the great museums for which Alberta is famous.
The last two museums had been announced by the powers-that-be.
One to house a collection of cars and trucks and thing that go. Or fly.
The other to showcase the horse-drawn vehicle era.
Both having to do with transportation.
In preparation for this, my Husby was sent to the UK.
They have museums.
And could offer insights.
Thus, twenty-five years ago, he went. Taking me.
Because.
It was a wonderful, informative, exhilarating, exhausting, emotional trip.
We saw farm museums. Transit museums. Air museums. Automobile museums.
We even went to the mews at Buckingham palace and got up close and personal with the gold coach.
But one visit stands out above all of the others.
Oh, we had seen exhibits expertly assembled.
Cunningly and beautifully displayed.
Extensive, professional artwork in beautiful buildings.
And trained, informed staff.
But none of them could compete with the (then) little museum, Tangmere.
Near Chichester, England, on the site of the old RAF Tangmere Airfield, this museum was almost exclusively manned by airmen who had served there during WWII.
Perhaps that is what made the difference.
The displays came to life when your guide, who had known the showcased men personally, described them.
He had many stories to tell.
And no few tears were shed in the telling.
One, in particular, I remember most vividly . . .
The worker/veteran, I'll call him Michael, described a gentleman entering the museum.
Alone.
This man wandered from exhibit to exhibit, reading the hand-lettered cards and information.
Studying the artifacts.
Finally, he approached the desk. "Have you a cemetery?" he asked Michael in heavily German-accented English.
"Why yes, sir. It's just through there." Michael pointed him towards a door.
"Thank you." The man went outside to the small cemetery directly behind the main building.
There rests everyone lost during the August 16, 1940 raid on Tangmere during WWII.
Everyone.
The visitor stayed outside for a long time.
Finally, he re-entered the building and returned to the front desk.
"Please excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you have buried the German dead with the English."
Michael got a bit teary-eyed in his telling at this point. "Why yes, sir," he told the man. "They were each and all someone's son."
The German visitor began to cry. Finally he whispered, "I was in the wave of German fighters who bombed you."
The Englishman put out his hand.
"Well it's nice to actually get to meet you!" he said heartily, shaking the other's hand. "And I should tell you that you and your boys made one hell of a mess!"
Michael looked at us. "I don't know what we were when he came in, but we parted friends."
I cried all of the way back to our hotel.

P.S. Most of us can never know the agony: physical, mental and spiritual. We can only thank those who take our places there . . .

50 Day Wednesday #14

Truck trouble.

He was waiting for a tow.

She came to meet him and take him home. 

The A&W was right across the street so she bought supper to go while they waited.

There on the tailgate of the truck in the setting sun, they had the nicest date ever.

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Noticing

 

It had been a good walk.

Granddaughter #9 (hereinafter known as Miss E), and her family were exploring the neighbourhood.

They had remarked upon the crisp, fall air.

Endless blue skies.

Sunshine.

NO SNOW.

The geese were flying, getting higher and more numerous as the babies gained strength and experience to be ready for the Great Flight South.

Dozens of people were out on the city paths, walking themselves (and, more interesting to the little girl, their dogs).

Transparent ice was forming at the edges of the ponds.

Crispy, colourful dead leaves were everywhere, inviting running and stomping and flinging one’s small self into.

For a few moments, the little girl had been quiet.

Then they walked past a small shrub which, unlike its larger neighbours who were just beginning the leaf-shedding of the season, had completely lost its green, leafy summer coat.

Miss E stopped.

Pointed.

“Oh look, Mom!” she said. “This one’s naked!”

Everyone turned.

“How embarrassing!”

Punny

Puns, I love, they’re so much fun,
What follows are some favourite ones!

 

My funeral? NOT an A.M. spot,

A mourning person, I am not!

 

A balance check, of me, required…

I pushed him over—now I’m fired!

A thief stole all the precinct’s johns,

Police have nothing to go on.

 

My kleptomania hurts a bit, 

But now I take something for it.

 

Boiling water, RIP,

You will be mist, we all agree.

The restaurant, Karma, strikes a nerve,

No menu. Get what you deserve!

 

The word ‘many’, explained when sought?

I’m grateful. Know it means a lot.

I took a pole. Know what I found?

All campers grouse when tents fall down.

My dog ate coins. “Wait,” said the Vet,

I’m waiting, but there’s no change yet.

Zero’s author – on behalf of banks,

We salute you. For nothing, thanks.

A man lost his left side. Oh, wow!

Not to fret--he’s all right now.

Cartoonist was found dead. Poor guy! 

Details are sketchy, please stand by.

 

The silkworm race? Well by and by,

It ended in a total tie.

High-voltage fence around my house?

My neighbor’s dead against it. Louse!

A new mechanic. Here’s the scoop…

They’re a highly wreck-a-mended group.

A hippo’s a really heavy blighter,

And a Zippo is a little lighter.

A clown, he held my door just yester- 

Day. It was a lovely jester.

 

An ad for burial plots. Agreed,

It is the last thing that I need.

And there you have it, that's the lot

I've finished doing what I ought,

But please, before this day is through,

I'd love to hear some puns from you!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, we're cleaning out the 'Fridge,

We're apprehensive, just a smidge...

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Puns (November 8) Today!

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.

Getting Good Help

 

It started with laundry.

Who knew it would escalate into . . .

Well, maybe I should explain.

Youngest Daughter and her youngest daughter (hereinafter known as Littlest Helper, or LH for short) were doing laundry (see above).

Generally, this included such things as: Sorting. Sitting on the floor to untangle various underpants from overpants. And giving the easiest jobs to almost-three-years-old LH.

Oh. And I should probably mention that LH was currently wearing her older sister’s snake sock puppet on her dominant hand.

Truth be told, said snake (or Mr. Snake as he came to be known) was the one actually doing the work.

Ahem . . .

At first all went well. The little pile of clothes on the floor in front of LH was steadily being dealt with by Mr. Snake, who proved remarkably knowledgable as to what went where and why.

Then, trouble.

Mr. Snake started having difficulties picking things up.

A true disaster when one’s only assignment consists of . . . erm . . . picking things up.

Mr. Snake received a stern and fairly volume-ific ‘talking to’, which in itself was—how can I say this?—humorous. Being forced, as he was, to face his accuser and submit to a firmly shaken finger.

Work resumed.

I really can’t say how it happened, but, by this time, not only was Mr. Snake struggling with his original assignment, he had adopted a rather cavalier attitude.

“SNAKE!!!” LH exclaimed, shaking him.

Finally, as no improvement was forthcoming, Mr. Snake was stripped of his increasingly dubious abilities by the simple act of being stripped from LH’s arm. Then, using the patented two-hand method, he was raised high in the air . . .

And dumped. In slow motion.

Just like that.

No notice.

No back pay or benefits.

Just . . . summarily relieved of his duties. Right there and then.

It was a crime.

Stories shall be penned of the outrage.

The unfairness.

Watch for them here.

 

P.S. Before you feel too sorry for Mr. Snake, however, you should probably know that apologies were forthcoming sometime during the afternoon, because by bedtime, Mr. Snake was in his usual spot—cuddled in the soft, dimpled arms of his mistress as she wandered happily off to Dreamland.

That is all.

Sunday Rest

A treat from Mom's journals.

How did this . . .

 . . . become this?

Sunday at the Ranch was a day of rest.

We slept in!

Instead of getting up at the uncivilized hour of 5:30 AM, we got up at the uncivilized hour of 6:30 AM.

The Wrangler assigned for the day saddled up Slow Poke and rode out to bring in the horses.

The other cowboys swept out the barn, fed the animals in the feed lots and milked the cow.

The man who drew the short straw got cow-milking duty.

Not a favourite chore.

Especially on Sunday.

And a cause for real irritation to whoever got stuck with it.

'Horse Play' usually erupted around or near.

Let me explain . . .

Hans, an animal lover came down the stairs from the hay loft, Cyclone (the aptly-named barn cat) purring in his arms.

Seeing Joe seated beside the milk cow, grouchily taking his irritation out on poor Jenny-the-cow, Hans got an idea.

Okay, not a great one, as it turns out, but an idea none the less.

He set the cat on Jenny's back and pulled his tail.

The cat's, I mean.

Cyclone's claws instantly contracted into the innocent old cow's hide.

Bellowing in pain, Jenny lunged forward, kicking wildly to free herself.

The milk bucket flew into the air, spilling its contents all over Joe as he scrambled for the door, desperate to get away from the flying hooves.

Cyclone flew through the air like a rocket. Five feet off the ground. He shot through the door with legs spinning, all of his nine lives in jeopardy.

With Jenny, intent only on finding the nearest far-away place, right behind him.

Just as the Wrangler arrived on Slow Poke.

Horse, cow, cat and cowboys met.

Completely out of character, Slow Poke erupted. With great heaves and grunts, he flung himself into the air.

Sunfishing.

Twisting.

Switching ends.

Pounding the ground.

The Wrangler catapulted into the sky in a beautiful arc.

Over the corral gate.

Everyone stood mesmerized in a total state of shock.

The dust settled.

Then the casualties began to moan and move.

Slightly.

This shook everyone out of their trance.

Mark grabbed his vet bag and began to check for cuts, broken bones and heart beats, prodding gently at each limp form. He swabbed and bandaged and dispensed pain killers.

Then Joe sat up, rubbed his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me in the morning," he said, "I just had a nightmare!" He opened one eye. "I should have gone to church!"

The boys carried Joe to the bunkhouse.

All of the other casualties limped or dragged themselves away to the nearest safe place.

Where they collapsed into a heap.

Everyone survived.

But it was some time before Jenny, Joe, Slow Poke, Cyclone, or any others involved in the spin off would approach the barn without apprehension.

Sundays. Truly a day of rest.

50 Day Wednesday #13

Dottie imagines herself a do-it sort of person—but is defeated at times. (Lawnmower? Still in pieces on her garage floor.)
One day she had a screwdriver out to dismantle an ‘uncooperative’ vacuum.
I smiled. “Why don’t you just take it to the garage and show it the mower?”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

When the Tough Get Going

You see a fence post. We see . . . 

Okay, I’m apologizing up front for this story.

It’s . . . gritty. So to speak.

Ahem . . .

I’ve always wondered about toilet paper ads.

Softer. Stronger. More effective.

I mean, why advertise this stuff?

Are there people who are not buying it?

Actually . . . yes.

Think of the people who live in places where dropping over to the local grocery store is really not a possibility. Like those in the deepest, darkest part of the jungle.

And their banana leaves.

Okay, I understand. Soft. Strong. Effective.

Now think of the cowboys on the wide, wide prairie.

Where there are no trees at all and leaves simply aren’t an option.

What are they going to do when nature . . . hollers?

Case in point . . .

Dad was out with his dad doing . . . cowboy stuff. Fencing and exploring the joys of barbed wire.

They were far from the ranch house and even farther from the miracle of indoor plumbing and its accoutrements.

Grandpa had to go.

You know what I mean.

He turned to Dad. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Dad nodded and continued with what he was doing.

Grandpa set down his fencing pliers and pulled out his pocket knife.

Dad stared at him, confused. Didn’t he just say . . .?

Grandpa walked over to one of the cedar fence posts and, using said knife, shaved off several pieces of wood.

Then he smiled at Dad and disappeared over the nearest hill.

Can anyone say ‘ouch’?

Grandma Hearing

 

For years, poor Grandma’s hearing had been slowly growing worse,

T'was steadily much tougher for her loved ones to converse,

And so she got a hearing aid to stop her daily strife,

Was told: ‘With perfect hearing, she’d a whole new lease on life!’

 

A few weeks later, back she popped for further tests and such,

Her doctor asked if life had changed. She told him, “Not that much.”

“The hearing aid you chose is number one,” he said. “First-rate!”

“Your family must be pleased, now that your hearing’s gotten great!”

 

But Grandma merely smiled. “I’ve yet to tell them anything.”

“I sit around and listen to the chats of my offspring.”

“They don’t know I can hear their many sordid gripes and crimes,

“But I can tell you, doctor, dear, I’ve changed my will three times!”

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week we promise will be fun,

Cause our topic will be PUNS!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

New Lease (November 1) Today!

Puns (November 8) 

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Time Off

“And I found this to wear at the beach.” Norma held something up.

Now, I’m assuming, because she said she would be wearing it and the word ‘beach’ was used, that what she was holding would fall under the classification of ‘swimsuit’.

So much for assumptions.

The garment she was displaying so proudly was a mid-calf length dress made of some dark blue material with puffy sleeves and a huge sailor collar. I could see bloomers of the same material lying on the bed behind her.

“Norma—” I was almost afraid to ask, “—where did you get that?”

She laid it on the bed and smoothed the material fondly. “I found it in a trunk up in the attic. Don’t you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Well . . .” Cutest? For a moment, I pictured puppies. Kittens. Baby seals. Even Reggie. “Umm—”

Norma made a face at me. “You’re just jealous because I got it before you could!”

I coughed. Politely. “Well—” I was trying to think of something positive to say. “You—umm—won’t get cold.”

She nodded happily. “It was a miracle I found it. I probably wouldn’t have if the trunk hadn’t tipped over just as I was crossing the floor. This little beauty simply fell out and—here we are! And it fits me!” She leaned toward me. “You know I never would have consented to our little beach vacation if I didn’t have this in my wardrobe.”

“You were going to turn Edith’s friends down?”

“You can’t expect me to stuff all of my parts into one of those skimpy things they call a ‘swimsuit’ can you? Think of the stories!”

I scratched my head and glanced at said parts. She did have a point. Even hidden under several layers of cloth, there certainly seemed to be a lot of them.

Norma looked up from her careful folding of the beach costume. “It was the oddest thing.”

“What?”

“Well, I was downstairs, confiding to Reggie my hesitation in accepting this invitation from Edith and her friends. Then I heard a noise coming from upstairs. I thought it was you.”

“I’ve been downtown all morning.”

“Yeah. I forgot that. Anyways, I came up here to investigate and there was the trunk. And the suit.”

“Really.”

She nodded. “As soon as I saw it I knew I was meant to go swimming.”

I would have known as soon as I saw it that it was time for a rummage sale. But then Norma and I never have thought along the same channels.

“Oh and I brought your suitcase up for you to start packing. I put it—” she turned to point, just as the case she had been talking about suddenly tipped over.

I smiled. All at once the reason Norma ‘found’ her suit became clear. Someone was looking for a weekend alone.

I wonder if Elvis is coming over.

Playing It Loud

 I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Hmmm . . . Maybe I should recap.  

Norma, my elder sister, and I have been roommates since the death of my husband three years ago. Norma never married and, in a move that was at once uncharacteristic and generous, asked me at the funeral to sell my home and move in with her.

It took me a while, but I finally decided that it would be much more practical for us to halve our expenses by sharing living quarters. Two days after the funeral, I was cramming my bed and furniture into her spare room.

This was new territory for us.

With the gap in our ages—she is twelve years older than me—we had really never ‘shared’ anything. Before I was old enough to be a friend, companion, or even a ‘spoiled-brat-hiding-under-the-bed-to-listen-to-her-and-her-pals’, she was gone, working in the big city.

Now was our chance to make up for it.

At first, all went well. I put up with her rabid attachment to her smelly old bird, Reginald, and she put up with my need to poke pins in her ego at key moments.

All was well.

Until we discovered our visitor. Our fragrant, albeit invisible boarder.

Then everything changed.

Reginald developed a nervous disorder resulting in bowels even more active than usual. Her words, not mine. (I mean, how is that possible?) And finally forced her to send him (temporarily) to our cousin, Edith.

Something that still doesn’t sit well. With any of the three involved parties.

Once good old Reggie was out of the house, Norma, using his future return as an incentive, took it upon herself to expose and terminate our boarder.

I probably don’t have to mention that issuing an eviction notice doesn’t work with invisible visitors. That was the first thing she tried.

Her most recent attempt included dried grass.

And a lot of sneezing.

Effective in exposing our visitor.

But in no way allowing us to capture. Or evict.

And that brings us to today. And her next challenge.

I walked into the sunny front room and stopped. “What are you doing?”

Norma looked up. “I just had the best idea! I’m going to . . .” her words faded to a mumble as she bent over the old stereo that, until this moment had resided in dusty splendour in the basement. She straightened. “What do you think?”

I looked at her. “I think you’re crazy, but that has nothing to do with this. What did you say?”

“I’m reinventing my strategy. I’m going to change the atmosphere here.”

I glanced from the stereo back to her. “And?”

She smiled. “I’m going to play our old records really, really loud.”

I blinked. “Oookay. And that will do—what exactly?”

She looked at me, disgusted. “Well, obviously she likes it quiet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And if we—somehow—make this place become more—undesirable, maybe she’ll just leave.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Norma. Maybe she’ll grow to like it.”

Norma reached into the stack of old LPs on the chair and slid one out. “Remember this one?”

I glanced at the cover. “You’re going to chase our ghost out by playing Elvis Presley?”

She nodded. “If it’s played real loud?”

If her plan was to get someone out of our house, it worked.

I’m now sitting at Edith’s.

With Reginald.

On a more positive note, I think Elvis actually showed up.

I’m quite sure he and our ghost were dancing up a bonafide storm.

I left before the rain started.