Egg Plant

 I’m on a bit of a ‘Daddy’ kick right now...

It was supposed to be:

A) Easy.

B) Efficient.

C) Convenient.

It was:

D) None of the above.

Maybe you’d like to hear about it . . .

When he was eight years old, my Dad’s daily chore was the gathering of the eggs.

The household used many.

And the extras were sold.

It was an important job for a small boy and Dad took it seriously.

Well, most of the time.

One Christmas, after church services, the family was invited over to Dad’s Aunt’s house for Christmas dinner.

The food was plentiful.

The cousins, ditto.

Dad was in small boy heaven, playing.

Five o’clock rolled around. Egg gathering time.

And no, chickens don’t get the Sabbath off . . .

“Mark,” his mother said. “Time to go home and gather the eggs.”

Dad wheedled a bit, knowing that his chances of getting out of the chore were slim to nil. Finally, the two of them agreed that, if he was quick, he could gather the eggs and return for a bit more play time.

Happily, Dad put on his coat and headed out into the frosty air.

Now, I should explain here that his mother was an accomplished seamstress.

And yes, this will be relevant . . .

She had taken one of Dad’s Dad’s old suits and made it smaller for her youngest son. It fit perfectly.

All that remained the original size of the original suit were the pockets.

But Dad never complained. More room to hide/store things.

It was this suit Dad was wearing as he charged out the door.

I should also explain that the chicken coop was nestled snugly half-way between his Aunt’s house and his home.

What could be more efficient that to gather the eggs on his way to his house.

Only one problem needed to be addressed. He had nothing to carry the eggs in.

Then, with small-boy ingenuity, the solution popped into his head.

He had oversized pockets! And pants pockets for any extras.

Genius!

Dad proceeded to stuff the fresh, warm eggs into every available space. By the time he had finished, he had 37 of the little moneymakers somewhere about his person.

Carefully, he waddled home, excited at the prospect of delivering his cargo and returning to his play.

He opened the kitchen door.

The warm air rolled out to envelop him as he stepped forward onto the linoleum.

Disaster rolled out with it.

Frosty shoes refused to grip the shining clean and very warm floor.

Both feet shot out from under him.

There was nowhere to go but down.

Picture it if you will.

37 eggs.

Stuffed into various compartments.

None of which were intended for egg transport.

One egg survived.

One.

Yeah, his mother was fairly disgusted as well.

Let’s just say he never made it back to play with cousins that night.

Seeking Safety

Daddy on Heinrich. 
(With my eldest sister who doesn't appear in this story...)

The Stringam ranch covered a lot of ground.

A lot.

Going out to check the cows was an event.

Usually requiring hours. If not a whole day.

And prairie weather is—ummm---let’s go with capricious.

It sounds a whole lot better than unpredictable. Or just downright volatile.

On to my story . . .

Daddy had gone to ride through the herd, checking that no one was AWOL.

Or hurting.

Or dead. It was nature, after all.

It had been a beautiful day when he left. With no weather channel or satellite imaging, there was no way of knowing that this could change. Dramatically. 

Sigh.

About five miles from the ranch, a storm blew up.

Now you have to know that the prairies are known for their endless stretches of grasses.

And notable absence of trees. 

When a storm starts, it can get a really good run.

In a matter of seconds, one can go from happily basking in the winter sunlight to being mercilessly buffeted by cutting winds and blinding snow.

That’s what happened here.

Daddy’s world was instantly blotted out.

No landmarks. No solar guide.

Up and down were even difficult to differentiate. 

Daddy stopped his horse. There was only one thing left to do.

Have you ever heard the phrase: “There are no atheists in foxholes”?

Well that would apply equally to ranchers stuck in snowstorms.

Daddy needed to pray.

He did.

Then he waited.

All at once, he felt the distinct impression to let go of the reins.

Yep. Cross them over the horse’s neck and leave them there.

I expect you realize that this is a tall order for a rancher. You let go of the reins, you lose control of the situation.

Again, the impression came.

Sighing, Daddy did as he felt impressed to do. Then hunkered down in his coat and tried to pretend he was somewhere warm and sunny.

The horse started to walk.

Slowly. And steadily.

Occasionally, Daddy would poke his head out to stare at the great featureless wall of snow that hemmed he and his horse on every side.

Then, as his mount kept moving, he would slide back into the comparative warmth of his coat and start praying again.

All at once, the storm seemed to lessen. Daddy frowned. Yes. There was a definite break in the wind.

The horse stopped moving.

Daddy poked his head out.

They were standing in front of the barn.

I believe in answered prayers.

And in the Guardian Angels sent to our aid.

They appear in all sorts of ways.

Sometimes with four legs and a mane and tail. 

A Good Fence

Dad – Cattle Rancher, Veterinarian and Architect of “Good Fences”

  

When I was 13, my father sold the Milk River ranch and bought a ranch near Fort Macleod.  We then went through the myriad tasks that are part of the moving of cows, equipment, tractors and horses to our new oasis.

The new ranch was minus corrals needed to feed young bulls and heifers. Once we were moved in, dad purchased rough sawn 2” by 8” planks for coral rails directly from a sawmill about an hour from the ranch. The term rough sawn meant that the boards had not been planed and they were very close to the 2 inch by 8 inch dimensions. 

They were also very heavy.  

We also salvaged truckloads of railroad ties from the railroad who had just refurbished their tracks nearby.  At the time, the used railroad ties were just left beside the rebuilt track and farmers and ranchers encouraged to load up as many of the ties as they could use.  It saved the railroad from having to gather up the used ties and dispose of them.  The ties may have lost their soundness for railroad lines but they were ideal for corral fence posts.

Once we had gathered our fence building materials, the building commenced.  We used the posthole auger to drill holes in the ground for the posts/railroad ties. Once the posts were in the holes, we nailed the planks in place with very long spikes.  It was a labor intensive task, but we had the corrals constructed in about a week.  At the time, I wondered why dad used such heavy materials.  Most of the other ranchers had corrals that were made with lighter materials. These ranchers had wilder cattle. Our corrals were for our semi-comatose polled Herefords and they would rather you scratch their backs while they ate large quantities of grain and hay.

I should say most of our Herefords were comatose.  Everyone once in a while there was the one nasty bull or heifer that somehow missed the ‘nice and comatose’ class. 

About 2 years later one of the bulls that had obviously missed that class turned on his ‘I’m not going to be a good boy’ attitude when we were trying to separate him from his pen mates and move him to another pen. Perhaps, he had a pile of grain and hay saved that he wanted to consume or maybe he wanted to say goodbye to his pen mates or perhaps he was just wanting to get his exercise for the day. What ever the reason, as we tried to move him through the open gate, he dodged to the left.  My brother moved in front of him so he dodged to the right. I stepped into his path so he spun around and plowed directly into the fence.

At this point everything went into slow motion. 

The young 1500 lb. bull turned into a large red and white blob against the fence as hind parts seemed to merge with front parts. The fence...bent...as the full force of the bull was thrown against it.

I stood there holding my breath as cracking sounds were emitted by the fence.  I started to think that maybe we needed to make the fence stronger.  Then suddenly there was a ‘boingggg’ sound and the blob flew off the fence and landed heavily on its back in the middle of the corral. 

The bull scrambled to his feet shook his head then meekly walked through the gate to the intended pen.

All motivation to resist had disappeared.

I learned 2 important things that day.

1. Dad knows how to make good fences, and 

2. The work in building a strong fence is worth every sore muscle and effort made to construct it.

I believe that Robert Frost said in a poem “good fences make good neighbors”.

I think we should add that they also keep would-be rebellious animals where you would rather they went.

Humpty Dumped

The Edmonton Zoo's rendition.
Terrifying youngsters for decades!

Today, join me as I again explore the wondrous—and often confusing—world of the Nursery Rhyme:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again. 

Hmmm…where to start? Where to start? I mean, first of all, who is this Humpty character? I don’t know about you but I find the name more than a little—irregular. Doesn’t it suggest a rather physically-hunched person who suffers from agility impairment? 

I’m pretty sure you’ve all assumed—understandably so, due to common portrayals—that Mr. Dumpty is some sort of anthropomorphic egg. But please allow me to point out that nowhere in this strange, little verse is that mentioned. Read it. No eggs. None. 

So what we have is an irregularly-shaped, nimbly-challenged person who seems to have a penchant for sitting on walls. And that brings me to my next point. Why a wall? I mean, were there no chairs? Benches? A stool, for heaven’s sake? 

I find this disturbing. I mean, call me maladroit, but please understand that I struggle to remain safely seated when perched upon anything that doesn’t have four sturdy legs at the very least. With preferably a back and sides. And maybe a seatbelt. 

Was he, perhaps, sitting up there on the lookout for something? And, just throwing this out, but wouldn’t that make him—I don’t know—rather noticeable? A look-out easily spotted by whom he’s looking for if he (or she) just happens to…erm…look out? 

Okay, yeah. I didn’t follow that either.

Ahem…

And then we come to the part where he falls.

Falls. Off said wall that he was perched upon. Hands up anyone who didn’t see this coming.

Remember, when I mentioned ‘chair’? And ‘seatbelt’?

That. 

And it seems to be a rather messy fall as well. We’re talking pieces here. Just how high was that wall? Great Wall of China tall? Cause, let’s face it—slipping off any walls hereabouts may break a bone, but that’s about it. 

And now to the front-line responders. Would they have done better if their horses weren’t involved? I mean, I love horses, but there are definitely a couple of things missing if one is calling upon them to perform delicate surgery. Dexterity. Brains. Hands.

Indeed, wouldn’t they—even with the best of intentions and connections (they were the King’s horses, remember?)—have just been in the way? I can just picture it. Doctor: “Disinfect the area.” Horse: “Snort.” Doctor: “Hand me the scalpel!” Horse: Stamps three times. 

I think we need a do-over. One that addresses especially the issues of safety/reality:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a chair,

Humpty Dumpty felt so safe there,

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men

Waved happily at Humpty as they rode by. 

I think it’s better…

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Each month one of the participating bloggers picks a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part 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: 43

It was chosen by: Me! 

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In A Tornado  

Messymimi’s Meanderings   

 

Pie-Eyed

 Lemon pie, it is the best,

Topped with meringue, there’s no contest,

Into it, headfirst we will dive,

Don’t even need a fork. Or ‘knive’!

 

Our theme this month is lemon pie,

Topped with meringue to make you sigh,

And so I will (for all you folks)

Tell my favourite groaner jokes!

 

I love pie, you know I do,

My fam-i-ly all loves pie, too,

So when we’re looking for some snacks…

I guess we’re PIE-romaniacs!

 

Pie costs 3 bucks out in Cuba,

Four, way over in Aruba

They serve pies and we sing paeans,

To pie-rates of the Caribbean!

 

What’s white and fuzzy, lives up high,

Eating leaves and catching flies?

The trees of Borneo are grand

To the great meringue-a-tan!

 

In Aussie-land, they do like pie,

And chefs, they make it, by and by,

And when they set it ‘fore the gang,

They never, ever boo meringue.

And so that’s it, that’s all I’ve got,

Looking back, it’s not a lot…

And now I’m off, if you drop by,

Come and join me—we’ll eat pie!

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, angels we will be,

Come and join us. You will see!

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!)...

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15) Today!

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Labour Day (September 5)

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Try, Try Again

 Dad took Mom fly fishing. Someplace watery and peaceful.

He seems to be ‘taking her away’ a lot. Between you and me, I think he’s trying to preserve her mental health.
Sometimes, I wish he’d take me and Peter away as well.

Especially today.

First little background…

We live in Sally’s house. She bought it with her first paycheck from her first movie. (I guess it’ll come as no surprise when I tell you she is well-paid.) It is the largest in the neighbourhood and looks—from the outside—fairly grand.

On with my story:

The day started as days do—tranquil. Quiet.

With a couple of my windows open, I could hear the birds singing madly in the backyard. It was such a … peaceful sound.

I could faintly hear Sally and Mort downstairs laughing and banging pots and pans. Probably stirring up breakfast in their kitchen. The four of us (them, Peter, and I) had stayed up quite late watching old horror movies. Then, when discussion of the ridiculous and very unlikely rescue of the heroine by an overly-agile leading man had grown heated, Sally had taken it upon herself to prove to the rest of us that it could be done.

Peter hadn’t even gone out the door till after 1.

I stretched and reveled in being able to spend a few more peaceful minutes in bed.

And that’s when said peace was shattered.

I told you Sally earns quite a bit of money.

Well, she does.

And that’s my theory for what happened…happening.

The garden door to my room burst open. Now, normally, when something like this happens, Sally is the figure entering.

What came in was—definitely not Sally.

Nope. Three large figures, dressed head to toe in camo, toting weapons and sporting the very latest in total-head-coverings.

Not what usually steps in from the garden.

Did you know hearts can stop from sheer surprise?

Well, I’m pretty sure mine did.

I didn’t even get a chance to react. One of them—I’m assuming the ringleader—pointed to me and one of the other guys scooped me up. The third fastened my hands together with a zap strap and then ‘scooper guy’ threw me over his shoulder.

The force with which I hit that hard shoulder drove the breath from my lungs. But, still, I managed a fairly credible scream.

The ringleader spun around and motioned to my mouth.

The third guy applied a gag (emphasis on ‘gag’) and the three of them--and me--continued forward.

All of this took place in near silence. I mean, these guys were big and still they hardly made a sound!

We left my room and made our way up the hallway to the kitchen.

My scream must have alerted Mort. He had just reached the top stair. “SALLY! CODE RED!” he shouted as the leader pounced.

Man, that guy could move!

The man thumped Mort on the head and my gangly brother-in-law went down in an unconscious heap.

The other two looked at their leader and he motioned toward Mort’s hands and face.

Another zap strap and gag were applied. Though what they thought Mort would do when he was unconscious, I’ll never know. He struggles when he's awake.

We left Mort and started down the stairs. Me, still draped like an old carpet over second guy’s shoulder.

In my summer Pj’s which had been entirely adequate for sleeping—in the summer—but which were totally inadequate for a kidnapping.

Sigh.

We stepped out of the curve of the stairs.

At this point, most of the downstairs apartment is open to view. I guess that’s what ‘open concept' means.

Sally was nowhere in sight.

I blinked—the only part of me I could still move.

“Sally!” the ringleader said in a warning tone. “We’ve got your sister!”

I felt suddenly chilled, wishing I was the aforementioned old carpet.

And that an army platoon or two would appear out of nowhere.

The men spread out.

I don’t know where she came from, but suddenly Sally was there, swinging a heavy frying pan.

It connected solidly with the noggin of the third man and, like Mort before him, he dropped like a stone.

Still carrying the pan, Sally leaped over him and darted up the stairs.

The ringleader charged up after her.

So much for ‘We’ve got your sister…’

I didn’t see what happened, but I heard it. There was a heavy thud and boss guy slid down several steps and into our view, bleeding profusely from a crease in the side of his head.

Second guy let out a bellow, dropped me without even a by-your-leave, and he, too, started up the stairs.

Now, call me stupid, but something told me I needed to see what happened next, so I crept up the stairs behind him.

Just in time to see Sally swing down from the top of the stairs on the rope she had attached to the chandelier to prove her point the night before.

The point being someone could swing from a rope and accomplish an almighty rescue.

I’ll never question again.

Remember when I said these guys were packing heat?

Well, up till this time, their guns had remained holstered. I guess they thought Sally would be easy pickings.

Wrong. Remember the kidnapping attempt when she was filming in Brazil? Yeah. That.

Sally swung down in an arc and hit the guy just as he was pulling his gun.

Right in the chest.

The guy, not the gun.

He performed a spectacular back flip, right into the front door, which burst open, spilling him, unconscious, into the glorious morning light.

The light caressed his black hood and pristine camos like warm honey.

When Mom and Dad got back that evening, Sally was giving me a manicure at the kitchen table. Peter was hovering close by. Something about 'not wanting to let me out of his sight ever again'.

Mort had gone to bed early, claiming a headache.

Once more, it was peaceful.

Serene, even.

Mom hung her purse from a hook in the front hall closet and turned to us. “Hello, my sweethearts!” she said brightly. “We had a glorious day! How was yours?” 

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 to be used at least once. All the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. And 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: fly fishing ~ manicure ~ tranquil ~ ringleader were sent to me, via Karen, from my good friend, Rena! Thank you, Sweet Girl!

See what my friends have done with their words!

 BakingIn ATornado     

TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver 

Climaxed  

Part-timeWorking HockeyMom 

Baby Words

Husby and I had spent the weekend in Provo, Utah.

He, walking, relaxing and catching-up-on-sleep in the Marriott.

Me, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Ally Condie, Brandon Sanderson, James Dashner and Jennifer Nielsen at the Storymakers Conference.

Yep. Me (and over 700 other writers) were all sharing with and learning from the best and brightest, including several New York Times bestselling authors.

What a weekend!

But, as with any good thing, it ended. And I had many long months to wait until the next Storymakers.

But, after we had packed up and checked out, something happened that made the joyous weekend of books and words last just a teensy bit longer . . .

Husby and I decided to attend Church a short distance from the hotel. We walked in as the congregation was singing a hymn. (Yes, we were late.)

We took a seat near the back, where many of the families with small children had taken up residence. (I was missing my grandchildren, so this was the perfect place for us.)

A tiny girl—just shy of actually walking—was in the pew just across the aisle from us. For the first few seconds, she stared steadily at Husby’s bearded face.

He gets that a lot.

Then another couple walked in (We weren’t the latest arrivals. Whew!) with a tinier baby in a carrier. They took a seat a few rows back from us and set the carrier down on the floor in the aisle right next to their bench.

The little girl’s attention was immediately diverted. “OOOH!” she said, pointing to the baby. Getting down on her hands and knees, she quickly closed the distance between her and her soon-to-be-best-friend.

Her parents watched her go.

Did they jump up and retrieve their wandering daughter?

Nope.

Instead, her father quietly took out a board book and propped it up on the floor in the aisle beside their family’s pew where it would be in plain sight of their little explorer.

The tiny girl sat down beside the baby carrier, then spied the book.

“OOOH!” she said again. She started crawling back toward her family. And her book.

Halfway back, she again sat down, her head swiveling between the baby and the book. Hmmm . . . which to pursue?

Finally, decision made, she closed the distance between her and her reading material. Happily, she grabbed the book. Her dad grabbed her and the two of them proceeded to make their way through something brightly-coloured and catchy.

The baby in the carrier slept on, unaware that her friend had abandoned her for an adventure of the printed kind.

And I realized how important it is that we are readers. That we are raising future readers.

And the thought struck: If more children chose reading over hanging with friends—even part of the time—what kind of world would we live in?

Just wondering . . .

A Field Promotion

Sorrel gelding (male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, I would present myself to my teacher at the tack shed and draw my piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

I would grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, I would pick out a suitable mount (ie: one that I could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing I was ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

And/or lazy.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining. (A fairly common occurrence.)

The wind wasn't blowing. (Not so common.)

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Umm . . . Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

Something that had never been done before with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day. With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Where the Love Came From

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers
That's me on the far right, second row.
With my eyes shut.
Sigh.

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Woronoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Woronoski had a list of words on a large flip chart. And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it. I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip. Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room. Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't. I just glanced at it briefly with silent 'deer-in-the-headlights' terror.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn. Miss Woronoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled. Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Woronoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Woronoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Woronoski.

You changed my life.

Gifted

I go to church, it’s what I love,

I do believe in God above,

And all the folks who attend with me

Are people that I like to see.

 

They’re honest, faithful, loving, too,

Will gladly help with things to do,

I mentioned ‘honest’, did I not?

Their honesty, I love a lot…

 

So it will come as no surprise,

It is a fact that opens eyes,

That seldom do these people lock

Their car doors when to church they walk.

 

It’s not uncommon when we meet,

To traipse along that sunny street,

And try a car door, here and there,

And find admittance to their lair.

 

But there’s one time (you will be shocked),

When no one leaves their cars unlocked,

It happens late in summertime,

Or early autumn. (So sublime!)

 

But it’s not theft they worry ‘bout,

Nope. That thought really has no clout,

What’s taken out is not the sin,

It’s what someone is putting in!

 

Yep. If unlocked you leave your car,

You may have to travel far,

With your backseat filled with a catch

Of zucchini from your neighbour’s patch!

 

So if you go to church, you must,

Lock your car doors as we discussed,

Cause you will end up just like me…

Your back seat filled with zucchini!

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'll have hunger pangs,

And Pie of lemon--with meringue

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!)...

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch (or car) Night (August 8) Today!

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Labour Day (September 5)

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Praying to Stay Awake

See? Adorable.

I went away to school.

Far away.

It was the most difficult four months of my life.

But I learned a lot.

Most importantly, I learned that I really don’t like to be away from family.

All I could think about was being home.

I learned a lot about prayer in those days.

It got me through.

My five roommates were great. Supportive, fun, encouraging, sympathetic.

And they taught me something about prayer as well.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I lived in an apartment with three bedrooms.

Each shared by two girls.

My roommate, Bev, was a sweetheart.

Kind. Sweet. Patient. Soft-spoken.

And very strong in her faith.

It was not unusual for her to kneel in prayer for a long time.

A. Very. Long. Time.

At some point, shortly after we became roommates, I realized that she wasn’t praying.

She was asleep.

There. On her knees on the hard old floor.

It couldn’t have been comfortable.

After that, when she had been praying for what seemed a sufficient amount of time, I would make some noise.

Not a lot.

Just enough so that if she really had dozed off, it would stir her.

And save those knees.

Now Bev was nothing if not proactive.

She saw that she had a problem and did what she could to fix it.

She bought a book, ‘How to Pray and Stay Awake’.

I applauded her positive, pre-emptive spirit.

That evening, she sat down happily on her bed and opened her new purchase.

A few minutes later, I glanced over at her.

She had nodded off over her book.

And was snoring softly.

Some things you just can’t fix.

Early Parking

My stylin' ride.

The grocery store in Milk River in the 50's was on main street.
Parking was on the street.
Angle only.
I know this doesn't seem to have much to do with my story, but wait for it . . .
Mom usually came into town once a week to do the grocery shopping.
For me, it was a magical time. Mind you, I was born with unfettered enthusiasm. For me, everything was magical. But I digress . . .
On this particular occasion, my brother George was with us.
The two of us had been separated because he was causing fights.
Not me.
Never me.
Ahem . . .
So George was in the back seat and I was in the front.
Mom parked the car in front of the AGT building, directly across from the grocery store, and got out.
When we made to follow her, she put out her hand and told us to stay where we were.
As punishment for being so disruptive on the trip into town, and as Mom was only going into the store for a moment, both of us were forbidden from following.
We could sit in the car quietly and think about what we had done.
We each thought about it in our own unique fashion.
George pouted. Arms crossed, face fixed in a frown of displeasure.
I did gymnastics.
I should probably point out here that the seats of our (then) late-model car were wide.
And long.
And bouncy.
I started out small. Bouncing up and down in a sitting position.
Then I discovered that I could get more height if I got up on my knees.
Finally, I was standing, hands on the back of the seat, jumping up and down. I think I hit my head numerous times on the roof, but no brain, no pain.
I continued to bounce.
I should point out here that, in the 50's, crime hadn't been invented yet. It wasn't unusual for people to leave their kids in a car. With the keys in the ignition.
And the car running.
Don't condemn my Mom. She was a product of her time.
I bounced closer and closer to the steering wheel and wondrous, automatic gearshift attached to it.
Closer. Closer.
And then . . . that one bounce too many. I came down on the gearshift.
The car lurched into action, leaping over the curb and across the sidewalk on fat, whitewall tires.
I think I screamed, but I can't be sure.
There was a distinct 'crunch' and the car came to a sudden stop.
I don't remember George's reaction. I think he remained stoically silent in the back seat.
I picked myself up off the floor and began to cry.
And suddenly, my Mom was there. Holding me in her arms and telling me that everything was all right.
Mom was really, really good at that.
After she had calmed me down, she set me back on the seat and put the car into reverse and edged back off the sidewalk. Then she put it into park and, this time, shut it off and we all got out to survey the damage.
The bumper had pierced the stucco, leaving a half-moon crescent in the wall of the building, just below the front windows.
Where the entire AGT staff had assembled.
They waved, cheerfully.
Mom sighed and towed us into the office to explain.
The office workers were remarkably forgiving of the whole incident. Even laughing about it.
Red-faced, Mom was soon able to drag George and I back to the car.
I think I received a lecture on using the inside of the car as a playground, but it wasn't very forceful.
Probably because Mom realized that the whole thing wouldn't have happened if she hadn't left the car running.
The mark I had made in the wall remained there for many, many years. Until the building was renovated and re-faced, in fact.
Some time after my escapade, a second crescent appeared in that same wall, just a few feet from mine, obviously from a similar source.
I examined it carefully. It was a good attempt.
But mine was better.

Circa 2011. (52 AD (After Diane))
Same building. Different damage...