Heroes

The school massacre in Newtown Connecticut has been in the news again recently.

The stories are still branded in the memory.

Horrific tales of terror, panic and death.

And the agony that followed.

But out of those stories have risen tales of heroism and bravery unequalled anywhere in history.

The principal and school psychologist who lost their lives as they rushed toward danger when the first shots were heard.

The teachers who hid children in closets and cupboards and bathrooms and then kept them absolutely quiet and safe as terror stalked past.

And those who used their last shield, themselves, in a desperate and often futile bid to save the lives of the little children in their care.

They are true heroes.

In every sense of the word.

And I weep for them and their sacrifice.

It has gotten me thinking of the heroes in my life.

The men and women who have appeared, sometimes fleetingly, and had a profound and lasting influence.

My Mom, who taught me responsibility, caring for others and to always, always be kind.

My Dad, who taught me the value of integrity, hard work and a sense of humour.

My eldest brother who taught me generosity.

My next older brother, who taught me the joy of friendship.

My oldest sister, who showed me true patience.

My youngest sister, who is a constant example of focused energy and unfettered joy.

My youngest brother, who showed me that one must never quit. That by keeping on, great things are accomplished.

There were others.

Teachers who spent their entire lives . . . teaching.

Store owners who cared.

Neighbours who watched out for.

People who appeared only briefly and taught me wonderful, important things.

And, more recently, the men and women manning the front lines in our own war with Covid.

None of them have had to make the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf.

None of them will ever appear in a newspaper or on TV as a description of their heroism is proclaimed aloud.

But still, they are heroes.

And they need recognition.

So to those whose actions are so justifiably blazoned across news headlines and TV spots.

And those whose quiet contribution is not as noticeable or dramatic.

I am offering a prayer of gratitude today.

Thank you.

All of you.

Writing Better-ly

A guest post by Diane’s chief proof-reader and editor: Anonymous Husby-Figure

As all of you out there in blog-land know by now, my Beloved Diane likes to write. I for one think that she does it very well.  But – horrors! – sometimes she makes a mistake.

Some time ago, she appointed me to be her proof-reader/editor/fixer-upper by insisting that, although she really does proof-read her columns before she posts them, sometimes typos and grammos just slip in there and hide. 

“Grammo” is the pet word I concocted for her very infrequent “grammatical” errors.

 Over the months, the most frequent of her infrequent grammos was the use of the wrong form of “its” or “it’s” as in: “Its simply not acceptable if it’s apostrophe is missing when its really needed  or present when its not.”  

So to speak.

So I do try to catch Diane’s  typos and grammos, because I do believe it makes for a better read not to have them in there, and I believe that it shows respect to you, her readers.

I do not claim to be a perfect writer, but I did learn early while chasing an elusive education the importance of being word-perfect.  So if you will indulge me, I will do as my Beloved does so well and regale you with the story of where my typo-grammo mania came from.

It was the early 1980s and I was in a graduate school senior seminar, learning French Revolution history and cultural anthropology from Dr. de Luna.  (His name of course is of French extraction, and we often heard about his relationship to the moon – “lune” in French.  Some of my classmates preferred to suggest that it was “loon”, others wondered whether there was a vampire connection, but most of us ended by irreverently, although affectionately,  referring to him as Professor De Lunatic.)  Now besides endless etymological meanderings about his name, Dr. De Luna liked to tell us, almost daily, about how any written work, as in papers and articles, that we gave him HAD TO BE WORD AND LETTER PERFECT.  A summary of his reasonings: “It is disrespectful of your reader if said reader stumbles over typos and grammos  WHICH ARE ENTIRELY AVOIDABLE because you MISGUIDED doctoral candidates were TOO LAZY to proof-read it.  Your work is therefore sub-standard because your miserably lame analysis and argument that you think is intelligent discourse is unreadable because your reader is distracted when  having to stop to figure out what it is that you MEANT to say when you made your typo  . . . . . “ 

I think you get the point.  We got the message, many many times over.

Not so lunatic, when you stop to think about it.

So, time came for us to present to the dear Professor our first major research papers; and, a few days later, time to hand the graded papers back and discuss them in seminar.

Dr. De Luna went around the room, handing each paper back to its (notice this is the right one!) author, each with some mostly encouraging commentary and all with some very vociferous praise for being letter-perfect in the typo and grammo department.

All but one paper – the one belonging to a good friend, Ostap.

Now you should know that Ostap had a great sense of humour, was actually a very good scholar, but he had not internalized the message about being word-perfect.  He just didn’t think it was all that important.  At least not yet.

We came to discover, by the Professor’s 10-minute+ recapitulation of the obviously degenerate if not criminal intent and nature of anyone who dared to hand in a paper IN THIS SEMINAR that was anything LESS than word perfect, once again how important this whole typo-grammo business was. 

At the end of his lecture (not the one about the French Revolution), Dr. de Luna passed this last paper to Ostap, with a scowl and a stare, and asked: “So, Mr. Ostap, what do you think I should do about this sort of thing?  Hmmmmm!???”

Ostap quipped back without the blink of an eye:  “I think you should stop worrying about it so much!  You’ll enjoy life a lot more and live a lot longer!”

We weren’t sure how long Ostap was going to survive.

But he did, and went on to a bright future.  

But not as a writer.

Dr. De Luna retired shortly after.  We think it was because of a brain aneurysm.  Caused by the lodging of typos and grammos in the blood vessels of the brain . . . .

And so, my friends, I pledge to continue doing my best to save you from typos and grammos in my Beloved’s columns.

Its the least I can do.  (Oops!)

Seamed

Okay, it seemed bad to me!!!
And ignore the glasses!

I was 12.

I had acne.

My life was over.

Looking back, it couldn't have been all that bad, but when I compared my blotched and disfigured face to that of my best friend, with her milky, creamy, clear, totally spot-free complexion, I just wanted to wear a paper bag over my head.

And did, but that is another story . . .

My mom sympathized.

She said she knew exactly what I was feeling. But I had seen clear-skinned pictures of her as a girl.

She wasn't fooling anyone.

But she did buy me different 'cures'.

They didn't help much. But they made us both feel pro-active.

One such cure was a thin, pink liquid that one painted on.

With a brush.

What it didn't accomplish in actual pimple eradication, it more than made up for in unique-ness.

And price.

For months, every evening, I would carefully coat my face, neck to forehead. Then I would wait.

Now, the instructions were very clear on this point. One applied the product to every visible surface. Then one waited.

Twenty minutes. While said product dried and tightened. And tightened. Until one's face was roughly the colour and consistency of a native signal drum.

Then, just as the wearer/owner was certain that all facial features had successfully merged into one great shiny shapeless mass, one could wash.

The relief was instant. And unfathomable. 

Okay, I don't know what that word means, but it sounds distinctly . . . deep.

Which is what the relief was.

Moving on . . .

For many weeks, the process was adhered to.

Without fail.

And also without results, but I'm nothing if not persistent.

Then, one night, I made the fatal error:

I painted myself. Lay back on my bed to wait the requisite twenty and promptly committed the final, unforgivable sin.

I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, my pillow felt . . . strange.

Rather . . . sticky. And at the same time . . . gritty.

What had Mom done to the laundry?

And why hadn't I noticed it when I first went to bed?!

I sat up and stared down at the pillow.

It was covered with pink slivers of  . . . something.

I could see them glinting in the morning light.

Slivers?

Then it hit me.

I gasped and made a record sprint to the bathroom.

I washed. Then, towelled myself dry and leaned in to the mirror for a close look.

And shrieked. 

Lines seamed my normally youthful skin.

Deep lines, following the natural and heretofore unseen creases in my skin and caused by the drying and cracking of the evil pink coating.

I looked . . . old.

At least thirty!

Or a hundred.

My life was truly over.

I slumped down on the side of the tub and hid my face in my hands.

Mom, who had come running when I screamed, skidded to a stop beside me.

She moved my hands aside and looked at me and her eyes widened. "What did you do?"

"I fell asleeeeep!"

She started to laugh. "It'll be okay."

OKAY???! Was she nuts? I stood up and moved, with her, to the mirror.

"Look at me! I look . . . ancient!"

"It'll go away."

I shook my head in disbelief. 

I knew I was forever disfigured.

Nothing on earth could fix this.

I would be regarded as the freak.

The 'Seamed One'.

The . . .

"Breakfast is ready," Mom said.

Okay, my despair could wait until after I had been fed.

I followed her to the table.

For a short, wonderful while, I forgot my troubles in a stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs, bacon and hot chocolate.

My favourite.

But meals can only last so long and the school bus was drawing nearer, even as we ate.

I could put it off no longer.  I got up and made my slow, unhappy way back to the bathroom, feet dragging.

Only to discover that Mom had been right!

The lines were nearly gone. Ah, the resiliency of youth. And youthful skin.

With lighter steps, I bounced back into the kitchen. "You were right, Mom!"

She nodded. But she was careful not to say, 'I told you so'.

I learned from that experience.

After that, I spent very little time 'pimple hunting'.

I really didn't have that many.

And I had definitely seen worse.

P.S. The lines are back. Sigh.

My Robo-Valentine

Continuing with Valentine’s celebrations just a bit...

He was contemplating going...somewhere.

He had gotten out of bed.

And pulled on his easily-donned trousers and shirt.

Then things got...complicated.

He needed his special socks. The tight ones requiring much grunting to acquire.

Then orthotics. Particular shoes.

Good so far.

He fussed with his hearing aids.

Then paused before the dresser deciding between three pairs of glasses.

Finally, his hat, coat and gloves.

And that special scarf that covers his neck just right so he won’t get a chill.

I thought the entire operation was adorable.

Especially when, at the last he stood proudly before me. “I’m ready,” he announced. He turned away and added in a mumble, “Mind you, it was a bit like assembling Iron Man. Without the benefit of robots.”

45 years we’ve been together. He just keeps getting cuter!

And I love him!

Sublime Valentine

Oh, Valentine, my Valentine,

Toward your kitchen, I incline.

What ecstasy again is mine,

Your bread is great, your cakes, divine.

At night upon my bed, recline,

For gastronomic Heaven pine

And toss my head, all leonine,

And think of trips so clandestine.

I know perfection will be mine,

My engine fueled by food sublime.

Though my figure trends toward ‘bovine’.

Your name upon the stove enshrine.

And write in letters nine-by-nine,

My heart is yours, my Valentine!

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 just might have some clout,

‘Predictions’ we will talk about...

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!)...

Valentine (February 14) Today!

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

And to my eldest granddaughter, Megan:

Happy 19th birthday, Sweetheart!

I love you!

Almost Sally

Sally is away.

That statement, alone, should guarantee that life for her family will sail smoothly along without mishap.

Right?

Right?!

Sigh.

Sally's movie shoot is somewhere in Tennessee. She says it’s beautiful there. And fairly warm.

Certainly warmer than what we are witnessing here in the good ol’ Midwest. I guess I don’t have to tell you that we are languishing in a very chilly 10F.

Sooo…good for them in Tennessee.

The movie they are working on requires Sally to do something decidedly ‘witchy’.

And I’m not talking about being grumpy or nasty here.

Nope.

I am talking about being a part of a coven and doing spells and all that.

Sally is having a grand time.

And Mort is fascinated. The two of them have spent hours—HOURS—on the phone, talking about souls and all the ‘stuff’ Sally is doing. The spells she is casting.

The potions she is stirring up.

Okay, we all know that all the results of said potions and spells on the set are the end result of many, many clever special effects people.

But I’m not quite sure Mort understands that.

And that brings me to today…

Mort had bounced into the house with a couple of large paper bags filled with ‘stuff’, which he then—rather gleefully—began to arrange on the kitchen counter.

Peter and I decided it was a good time to take a gander, so we walked over and…perused.

Now, admittedly, he didn’t have exactly what was required in all cases. Yes, there was cheese, corn starch, avocados and butterscotch (which Peter and I kept snitching till Mort hit Peter with a spoon). But his dragon’s liver was beef. Dragon claws—his own toenails (ew). Eye of newt—heaven knows. It was something dried and shriveled.

Hmmm…maybe it was an eye from a newt.

Moving on.

There were herbs galore.

And also a large beef bone and a cow’s horn.

????

Once he had arranged everything, a happily-humming Mort got to work.

He pulled out the biggest pot in the kitchen, filled it half-full of water and set it on to boil.

Okay so far.

He then smashed the bone with a hammer and threw the shards into the pot. And started adding other stuff.

He chopped and grated and peeled and mashed.

Then, in his best ‘as seen on TV’ manner, he started waving his hands over the steaming pot and—chanting. What Mort lost in actual technique (or knowledge), he made up in theatrics.

Peter and I just stood there, transfixed.

I finally got up the courage to move closer and peer into the pot.

A thick, viscous fluid was bubbling and burping like the famous mud-pots.

As I watched, it stopped its said bubbling.

Just stopped.

Then I saw that the entire mass was…swelling.

“Duck!” I screamed.

Peter and I hit the floor beneath the kitchen table.

Mort disappeared behind the cupboards.

There was a large, wet, rather muffled kablooie! and the contents of the pot…blew.

Fortunately, the hot…erm…liquid seemed to miss anything important (ie. people), but it managed to coat everything else.

And the stench?!

Surprisingly, though, through skill or happenstance, the potion worked.

It made Peter and I disappear.

 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. 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...

 

My words this month are hammer ~ potion ~ languish ~ soul ~ bounce ~ happenstance

And were given to me by my brilliant fellow wordsmith, Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Thank you, my friend!

Having fun?

Visit these other Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts!
You'll be glad you did!

Baking In ATornado
The Diary of an Alzheimer’sCaregiver
Climaxed
Part-time Working HockeyMom 

Silencing the Scary

My granddaughter (hereinafter known as Little One, or LO, for short) has the occasional use of her mother’s iPad.

On long trips or when she has been particularly active and needs some quiet time.

Said iPad has several movies installed. Good movies. Deemed by her mother and/or me to be suitable for a child her age.

Those of us closeted with her regularly hear most of The Princess and the Frog, Wreck It Ralph, Frozen, Big Hero Six, Toy Story (1,2,and 3), Up, WallE, Brave, Monsters, Inc., and many others.

And I do mean ‘most of’.

Because LO will watch a movie closely from the opening credits through to . . . well, let me illustrate.

On a recent trip to take care of errands, she was absorbed in the colourful antics of a little, dark-haired girl with ‘race car driver’ in her genetic code; and a large, lovable troll of a man whose job was to wreck things. The movie was rolling rapidly toward its usual conclusion.

Okay, I admit it, I was absorbed as well.

And, quite suddenly, I was transported to the Deep South as Louisiana jazz filled the car.

I looked at her. “Why did you change it?”

She lifted her head and said, matter-of-factly, “It was getting scary.”

“Oh.” I said nothing more and let myself get carried into the current story: Young woman with dreams and grit and young man with charm and a penchant to idleness on a course toward things life-changing and dark and . . .

“Oooh. Scary.” And once again the program changed. This time to a couple of current enemies and future best friends on their first day of college.

See? ‘Most of’.

But she was happily engrossed and I have a strict policy of ‘never disturb a happily engrossed child’, so I left her alone.

That evening, Husby and I were watching the news just before turning in for the night. And I can think of nothing more likely to induce nightmares than a recap of yet another day in our often-scary global situation.

And, just for a moment, I found myself wishing I could just change the program.

Okay, I know that nothing is accomplished if one simply turns away from unpleasant situations or tasks.

And that if the good stop trying, the bad have free rein.

But, just for a time I wished I could do what LO does. Turn to another program when things get scary. Or better yet, make the scary things disappear entirely.

The children obviously have the right idea.

Pranked

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis (a particularly nasty infectious disease caused by bacteria) testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably mention that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there. Together.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers. And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

One of the very best things about said world.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite - albeit reluctantly. He knew what was coming . . .

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterward, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.

Hay You!

Dad’s way.

Farm kids have all the fun.

Except when they don’t.

Maybe I should explain.

In my day, hay on the farm was cut by machine. Bound into bales – also by machine. The picked up by hand and gathered into neat stacks in the hay loft or hay shed.

And left there smelling warm and fragrant.

For some reason, it always made me think of baled sunshine.

We kids would spend hours lugging said bales around and constructing intricate forts and ‘hidy-holes’.

Many a day was passed dreaming dreams from inside a dark, sweet-smelling stronghold.

Heaven.

In my Dad’s day, hay on the farm was cut by horse-powered mower. Gathered using a horse-drawn rake. Moved using a great hay sling. And piled into massive mounds of loose, fragrant wonderfulness.

Sheds on either side of the large barn housed the farm animals. But much of the barn itself was given over to an immense pile of newly-gathered hay. A perfect place for a young boy to spend hours working . . . on his imagination.

Building a fort was quite a different prospect in these circumstances. All one had to do was put one’s head against the wall of the hay pile and . . . push. The soft, loose hay gave way and one could burrow through much like Bugs Bunny on his way to Miami Beach (See here).

Ten-year-old Dad made a positive warren of the place.

When a boy finds something really, really fun, he generally wants to share it with a friend or companion.

Or, barring either of those, a young nephew will serve almost as well.

Enter four-year-old Brian, son of Dad’s eldest brother. Sweet, malleable, totally trusting, eager. A perfect companion for an adventurous devil-may-care farm kid.

Dad drew him into the barn and showed the small boy how to push his way into the hay. Brian thought it was greatest trick ever and started in with enthusiasm.

And that’s when the whole plan came to grief.

Because little Brian suffered from asthma and was allergic to the timothy in the hay.

Oops.

Within seconds, his eyes were swollen nearly shut, he was coughing and sneezing and – well, let’s just say it - was one thoroughly miserable little adventurer.

Fortunately Dad recognized that all was not as it should be and managed to drag his companion from the hay and hurry him to his mother where Brian was soon made comfortable somewhere far, far from the nasty old timothy.

Dad felt bad. Bad enough that he never again invited Brian back to his magical little hay-strewn world in the barn.

But not bad enough that he didn’t get him into trouble in other ways.

Remind me to tell you about it . .  .

Why I Do What I Do

My 3000th Post!
Where it all started...

The new barn

My big brother and me.
I'm the one in the dress...

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old cattle ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated halfway between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

We rode horses and worked the cattle.

Gardened and gathered eggs.

Explored the river and the surrounding countryside...barefoot and on horseback.

I even trapped a full-grown jackrabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

The Ranch

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of 2013. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

Kited

A kite is such a wondrous thing,

It’s magic; held aloft with string,

And for a moment, lets you be

At once on ground, and in the breeze.

 

It tugs and tugs, as though it tries

To leave the earth and touch the skies,

And when it does, for you, it seems,

You’re floating there, fulfilling dreams.

 

But did you know that airy kite,

That tries to leave you in its flight,

Simply would not—could not—last,

Without that string that you hold fast?

 

An anchor sure is what it needs,

So it won’t fall into the weeds,

Conundrum, strange--to reach the skies...

Must be held down to make it rise.

 

I think, whene’er I fly my kite,

That I am like it, just a mite,

To fly as I am wont to do,

I know I need safe anchors, too.

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, will truly be sublime...

We will discuss our Valentine!

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!)...

Kites (February 7) Today!

Valentine (February 14)

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

 

S.W.T.

YD. Not in a Time Out...

Shopping With Toddlers. A condition frequently and affectionately known by its acronym of SWT is a one-way ticket to adventure.

Via the crazy train.

And that’s just the beginning…

DIL (another popular acronym!) had spent much of her day shopping. Mother of soon-to-be-six, suffice it to say she had her hands—and her day—full.

Between finding the items she had ventured hesitantly from home to find, chasing down fugitives and side-tracking frequent requests/out-and-out-begging, she was on the downward slide toward exhaustion and distinct done-ness.

You’ve all been there.

Just turned two-year-old Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as YD) was also past finished.

Hungry. Tired. Irritable. All were rolled up into one neat, efficient—explosive—little package.

After a loud bout of screech and flail on the floor of the department store, her mother asked, “Do you need a time out?”

YD looked up at her. “Yes, pease.”

“Fine. Go and sit on that chair.”

YD got to her feet and crossed over to the nearby chair, where she took up a perch.

Once settled, she looked at her mother and sighed. “Sanks,” she said.

If any of you reading this feel the need for some SWT, she’s available to rent ...

When Gramma babysits...

Yuk-M-Aid

Mmm. Candy. The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience. Or commands respect.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites. Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed the bathrooms scrubbed with the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were. Chocolate in its myriad forms. Bubble gum. Wax sticks with sweet, tasty juice inside. Suckers.

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils. Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out. You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus. We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted. If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of Kool-Aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Kool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else being added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky, yet I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement. A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of Kool-Aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as Kool-Aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the Kool-Aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Kool.

Then she put it away. Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary. That stuff really tasted awful.

Her Kool-Aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient? Maybe the Kool-Aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

P.S. Several of my grandchildren have also tried this experiment. According to their individual results: It was yukky.