Language Lessons

Missing my Mom today...

Mom (third from the left) with five of her eight brothers.

Some ninety-two years ago this year,

On Alberta’s new frontier.

My Mama started school that day,

In Millicent, not too far away.

Swedish was what she knew best,

And not a word of all the rest.

But for this day, that pint-sized girl

Would, English, give a little whirl.

Her mama coached her carefully,

On what to say at Teacher’s knee.

The words that would the class transfix?

“My nom Enes, I’m halfpastsix.”

Clutching book in little hand,

Mama entered ‘No-Girl’s Land’,

Then sat down in the nearest seat,

And tried to make herself discreet.

But Teacher saw her sitting there,

With press-ed dress and flaxen hair,

And called to her to please advance,

And of her schoolmates, get a glance.

My Mama went, but she was tense,

She did not want to be thought dense,

So, hoping they would not despise, 

Recited what she’d memorized.

But when her class did mock with glee,

The words she’d said so carefully.

My Mom, their teasing did abhor,

Wished she could sink right through the floor.

From then, my Mom deliberately,

Forgot her Swedish publicly,

And ever after English spoke, 

When e're she talked with other folk.

Before you sympathize too much, 

Blame kids that did make fun and such,

Please note Mom didn’t cry or bawl...

Scholastically outpaced them all.

More Than One?

 We just celebrated the 47th anniversary of our first date.

First Dates are like Dress Rehearsal. If a Dress Rehearsal is terrible, the play will be great. Likewise, if the First Date is terrible, the Marriage will be great.                                                         Diane Tolley

Forty-Seven years and counting!

First dates.

Relationship killer or kindler . . .

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

We decided to go on a date. Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

The first half of the date was fairly low-key:

He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Rather awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family. And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Weird.

Moving on . . .

I watched the movie.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

Suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Yep. Wonderful.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.

He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents' bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

They must be out.

What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up. It moved. Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure. Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church and had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced, and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant swears his heart fell into his shoes.

Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.

Of Mittens and More

Johnny of the second grade was in his new snowsuit, 

The snow outside necessitated also wearing boots,

He huffed and pulled and pulled and huffed, then finally, defeated,

Enlisted Miss Carmichael’s aid to get this job completed.

 

The two of them, they pulled some more, and finally succeeded,

In getting onto Johnny’s feet the boots he sorely needed,

But when the boy looked down at them, he saw they were mistaken,

“These boots are on the wrong feet,” Johnny said. “My feet are achin’.”

 

His teacher sighed and pulled them off. Then pushed and pulled till fin’ly,

They had them on his feet again, and settled quite benignly,

“These boots aren’t mine!” our Johnny said. His teacher sighed and then,

She pulled them firmly from his feet, prepared to start again.

 

“They’re actually my brother’s. Mom said wear ‘em,” Johnny added.

They pulled them on again so that, for Winter, he was padded,

“Go get your mittens!” Teacher said, now sweating to her roots,

“I can’t!” our Johnny said. “You see, I stuffed them in my boots!”

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, join us for the dance,

We'll talk about our potted plants!

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!)...

Mittens (December 5) Today!

Poinsettia -or- Potted Plants (December 12)

Muffins (December 19)

Candy Canes (December 26)

Treasure (January 2)

Stuffed animals (January 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

 

A Toad in the Hole

The native denizens of the pasture

I was checking the herd in the north pasture.

My favorite assignment.

You pointed the horse in the right direction and sat back for the ride.

Occasionally you would be required to come out your reverie long enough to glance around and take stock (literally).

The cows would stare at you for a moment, glance towards their calves for reassurance, then drop their heads and continue grazing.
Then you could sink back into your own thoughts.

Tough job.

The most peaceful work on the planet.

Except that this time, there were more critters in the pasture than I had anticipated.

But I am getting ahead of myself . . .

It had been a wet year. Almost unheard of in very arid Southern Alberta, but very much appreciated.

Things were green and growing. There were even small ponds of water standing about. 

Something I had never seen.

I started up the east side of the pasture, heading north.

All was well.

I turned west at the northern fence and continued on.

Everything remained quiet.

Reaching the western boundary, I turned south.

Halfway along the western fence, my horse stopped.

Okay, this was different. I emerged from my thoughts long enough to frown at her and give her a nudge.

She stayed where she was, eyes and ears pointed straight ahead.

Huh. Weird.

Maybe my goofball ex-racehorse had seen something. It would take a miracle, but I believed in miracles.

I decided to look around.

Just to my left was a small hill, and beneath it, a basin, hardly more than a dimple, which had until today been filled with fresh, clean water.

Water that had . . . too quickly . . . disappeared in the sandy soil.

Now only mud remained.

And something more. Something that was . . . moving.

I nudged my horse again.

But she was staring at that mud and "had no intention of going any closer, thank you."

I slid off her and, looping the reins around my arm, proceeded forward on foot.

My horse let the reins play out as far as she could, then reluctantly followed.

I stopped a few feet from the mud's edge because that was as far as I could go without stepping on something.

A tiny toad.

One of dozens, maybe hundreds of them, crawling over each other and milling about.

Toads.

Here.

In a place that, in a normal year, was miles from any water.

And where, I should point out, we had never, ever seen them before.

Where could they have come from?

And, more importantly, how could I get one home?

I glanced at my still-nervous horse and my 'saddlebag-less' riding pad.

Nothing there that would hold them.

I had pockets.

Hmm. Worked for Dennis the Menace on TV.

I picked one up and studied his small, sturdy-looking but still delicate body.

No. I might squish him.

I set him down.

I watched them for some time, moving about, doing their little 'toady' things.

It was fascinating.

But finally, I had to move on.

Regretfully, I mounted up and let my horse make a wide detour around the writhing mass of little bodies.

By the time I was able to drag my father out to see them the next day, the mud had dried up.

And my little friends had disappeared as if they had never existed.

I glanced around.

Surely this was the spot?

But there wasn't a living thing to be seen.

Certainly nothing moved.

Where could they have gone?

Dad stared at the spot.

Then he looked at me and shook his head.

He believed me. I know he did.

I'm almost sure he did.

Okay, well, it wouldn't have been the first time I had told a 'big windy'.

But this time, I was telling the truth.

Sigh.

We never saw them again.

They disappeared as completely as if they had never existed.

Maybe they hadn't.

But if that's true, I had held, for a short time, a bit of my imagination in my hand.

It tickled.

Conveniences, Modern

In 1848 or 9, 

The guys in charge thought it was time,

To close the place that represented

Everything that was invented.

“What need have we of patents, new?

There won’t be any more breakthroughs.”

“We’ll save some cash, if we close down,

The patent office in each town.”

Yes, they had electric power,

And indoor plumbing, bath and shower.

They’d bifocals and games of ball,

The clock, the telegraph and all.

But let’s see what we would have missed,

Had they done just what they wished,

In 1848 or 9,

Had they been allowed to draw the line.

The first dishwasher (of a kind),

In 1850 was designed,

And the wash machine to make clothes new?

Invented in the 50’s, too!

The vacuum came a little later,

The 1860’s. Ask its maker.

The clothespin and sewing machine,

Toilet paper, jelly beans.

The phonograph. The mason jar.

Kleenex or the chocolate bar.

And what would you, if you had known

Do without the telephone?

And airplanes and the ballpoint pen,

I’m sure you use them now and then.

Air conditioning. And jeans.

Earmuffs and most all machines.

There’s millions more that I could tell,

Like penicillin, solar cell.

I’ll put computers on the list,

And that is where I will desist.

We're glad that they did not succeed,

To close the patent place. Agreed?

With me, let’s raise a plastic cup,

Thankful someone shut them up.

Cold or Gusty

Winter has truly arrived here in Northern Alberta.

With temperatures set to plummet to -30C (-22F), we are digging out the long-johns and woolies.

And remembering other days...

This . . .

In the early days of our marriage, Husby and I bought a mobile home.

It was 686 square feet of cozy, happy space.

And it was all ours!

Our little home on wheels came with a small entryway, built by the previous owner and attached to the side of the trailer with an assortment of screws.

Husby got the trailer set up. Dug lines for water and sewer. Connected the power.

And attached the entry.

We had a home!

I should probably mention, here, that, in Southern Alberta, mobile homes MUST be set up in an east-to-west direction. If they sit north-to-south, there is a very real risk of having them roll over in tomorrow’s gale force winds.

True story.

Moving on . . .

Our little home sat on the bare prairie, fully exposed to the elements, but it presented one of the small sides to the wind.

All was well.

Our bedroom was in the far west side. No problem.

And then . . . the wind.

During the day, spending our time - as we did - in the center, or on the east end, the wind was merely scary as the trailer shivered with each onslaught.

At night, however, it was truly terrifying as we lay in our bed with the floor bucking and hopping beneath us.

One doesn’t get much sleep when one is in a constant state of ‘oh-my-goodness-we-are-going-to-roll-completely-over-with-the-next-gust’.

One afternoon, I was standing in the kitchen with the wind howling around me. A strange noise had begun. A . . . scraping sound. I waited for the next blast. There it was again. I followed the sound.

Right to our little entryway.

With each blast, it was being slowly ripped from its moorings. I could see daylight in the cracks.

Frantically, I called Husby at work.

He hurried home and surveyed the situation. He fired up the tractor and placed the bucket against the backside of the little box, supporting it against the onslaught.

Then went back to work.

For the rest of the day, I kept an eye on our sad little entryway.

Things didn’t look good.

Finally, Husby came home for the day. He looked at the entry, creaking and jumping with every gust. 

Then he reached out and, putting a hand under the step, lifted.

The entire structure vaulted into the air like a box-kite and flew 300 feet, landing in the nearby field. You have to know that this wasn’t a little, flimsy, featherweight structure. It was built of solid materials. Walls, floor, roof, doors.

And yet it flew 300 feet.

Yikes.

Husby then proceeded to build newer, bigger and better.

Which lasted until we sold our little first home and moved north.

Out of the wind.

Into the cold.

But our house didn’t shake and we could sleep at night.

Yep. I'll take the cold.

Or this . . .
Photo Credit

Real French Toast

The sign said, ‘Breakfast Any Time’,

You know I like to eat,

And breakfast is my favourite meal…

It really is a treat!

 

A whole day’s worth of calories,

So much from which to choose,

Everything from cake to nuts…

One really cannot lose!

 

But harking back to that bright sign,

The ‘Breakfast Any Time’,

I thought that I’d just go right in…

And try some tastes sublime!

 

The server sat me on a chair,

Then handed me a card,

The foods they offered listed there…

But my choice wasn’t hard!

 

I gave the menu back to her,

Said, “Now that I’m ensconced,

You’re serving Breakfast Any Time…

French Toast in the Renaissance!”

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?

We'll try to keep you warm next week,

And try on 'Mittens'! Take a peek!

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!)...

French Toast--or Breakfast (November 28) Today!

Mittens (December 5)

Poinsettia -or- Potted Plants (December 12)

Muffins (December 19)

Candy Canes (December 26)

Treasure (January 2)

Stuffed animals (Januray 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

BBB Times Ten

 

It's my tenth turn to host my BFFs of the BBB's!

Recently, Husby and I took a little Covid holiday. (In that IT visited and we suffered. ) Nothing quite changes your perspective like a brief dalliance with de-struction.

But we're alive to tell the tale (Which is quite, quite disgusting) and that's all that matters!

GET VACCINATED!!!

Now onto more pleasant things!

This time, my Best of Boomer Bloggers are discussing everything from Thanksgiving to Christmas!

Enjoy!

First is Carol Cassara of Carol A. Cassara, Writer:

Christmas started early for Carol Cassara, with a week in London chock-full of fun events, from theatre, to visiting the Queen's grave, to tea at the Ritz (and more). Over at her blog she shares details and photos in How We Started Christmas in London.

Next is Rita Robison of Rita R. Robison, Consumer and Personal Finance Journalist:

Buying a new car and wondering which ones on your short list are the most reliable? Consumer Reports issues a report every year on vehicle reliability. Toyota tops the latest list with Mercedes-Benz coming in last, reports Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist. See which brands are No. 2 throughNo. 23 in her article.

 Then we have Laurie Stone of Musings, Rants and Scribbles:

Do you feel holiday pressure starting to kick in? Do you feel the need to get everything done…on time…on budget… and with a smile? The other day Laurie Stone’s inner Scrooge started up. The to-list was growing — trees, wreathes, cards, decorations, stockings, holly, cookies, gifts. She needed to get into the spirit. Then she turned on the radio…

And Rebecca Olkowski of Baby Boomster:

As the weather gets cooler, we begin to crave warm and satisfying meals. Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com has a great recipe for Butternut Squash Stew that is Italian-inspired and vegetarian. It’s also packed with nutrients and immunity boosters. Give it a try.

Followed by Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin:

The month of November we turned the clocks back one hour, celebrated Thanksgiving, and Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin spent a couple of weeks exploring New Mexico and Arizona, and contemplating time. She ruminates on the topic of time in this week’s post.

Then finally, me! 

Diane Tolley of On the Border:

When a Little learns to pray, it's both entertaining...

And something to be THANKFUL for!

And that's a wrap!

Thank you for reading...

I do hope you enjoyed this as much as I did!

Kindness Begins With...

I want to be kind to everyone,

For that is right, you see!

So I say to myself, “Remember this…

Kindness begins with me!”

            -from a favourite childhood song by Clara W. McMaster 

My Mom was the sweet soul of kindness,

She helped everyone that she’d see,

With cooking or cleaning or baking or gleaning…

She was an example to me.

 

If we kids started in with our fighting,

She’d start singing her favourite song,

Even caught in the fight, there was nothing else right…

Except to start singing along.

 

When Big Brother got into some mischief,

She chased him about with the broom,

Rebuke turned to glee—no ‘swattage’ for he…

And happiness replaced the gloom!

 

People are known for their talents,

Athletes, or writers and more,

There are all kinds of fame, people cheering their name…

Mom’s kindness is what I cheer for. 

This month's Theme: Kindness

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's the Bee's Knees!

And we love her, you know that’s true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,

With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,

Each month we write and have such fun

We can't wait for another one,

Sooo...this month, how well did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

BakingIn A Tornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

The song: Kindness Begins with Me. Mom's and my favourite!

(It repeats three times...)

A Little Prayer of Thanksgiving

A little prayer of Thanksgiving today. To honour our Brothers and Sisters south of the border.

"Eyes!"

Dinner time was special in our house.

It was the time when everyone gathered.

When everyone ate.

And everyone visited.

We are a family of expert visitors. Just FYI.

Sometimes, the talk and laughter would go on for hours.

Long after the eating had finished.

It was the best part of our day . . .

And every dinner time began with prayer.

Thanksgiving for the food.

For the blessings of the day and every day.

For each other.

Our children had been raised with prayer at meal times.

It was as important as the food.

As soon as each of them began to speak, they had their turn.

Gently coached in the very earliest days.

Given their freedom as they got more proficient.

And kids can certainly pray. Sometimes those prayers would go on for some time.

Blessing everything from their friends to their toys to their favourite TV programs.

It was . . . sweet.

And went by all too quickly.

Our kids are all grown up now with families of their own.

But prayer is still a big part of their lives.

And especially their mealtimes.

The next generation is being carefully trained up.

Case in point:

Our eldest daughter and her family were sharing the evening meal with my Husby and I.

Everyone sat down.

I looked around. “I think it's Baby girl's turn to say the prayer.”

I should point out, here, that this little girl was just learning to talk. Her vocabulary of decipherable words was . . . not extensive.

And this was her first opportunity to say the prayer.

Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

Little arms were folded.

“Beloved Heavenly Father,” her mother began.

There was a pause as we all waited for the expected response - the repetition of her mother's words.

Baby girl opened her mouth. “Eyes!” she said.

“We're thankful for our blessings,” her mother went on.

“Eyes!” Baby girl said louder, pointing to her mother.

“We're thankful for safety today.”

“Mama! Nose!” She was making progress.

“We're thankful for this wonderful food.”

“Mouf! (Something unintelligible) Mouf!”

“Please bless it to nourish us.”

“Eyes!” We were back to that.

“In the name of Jesus Christ . . .?” her mother paused, waiting for the obvious answer.

“Elbow!”

Way wrong.

“Amen.”

A chorus of 'Amens'.

Than another chorus of long-suppressed chuckles.

“Oh, Sweetheart, you said your first prayer!” I said. “You're such a big girl!”

She clapped.

Her words weren't 'right'.

But the food was well and truly blessed.

As were we.

A precious moment indeed.

Happy Thanksgiving, my brothers and sisters!

That Place

Charlie's. The dive formerly known as Danny's.
But, in reality, the Canadian Cafe.
All the teenagers in Milk River went there. The little, dark, hole-in-the-wall storefront with the half-dozen booths, a couple of pinball machines, dusty dingy floors, dim lighting and the long glass-fronted counter on the north wall.
It was the 'after-school and sometimes Saturdays' place to be.
To just hang out and be cool.
Maybe get a snack. A bottle of pop. Fudgecicle. Chocolate bar.
Play pinball. I should mention here that this was where I learned there is a fine line between 'encouraging' the pinball game and making it 'tilt'. There's a dime I'll never get back.
Moving on . . .
One could listen to the latest hits on the giant jukebox that greeted you as you stepped in the front door. Those fresh and new and those that instigated a store-wide groan because they had been played a little too much. *cough-Honey!*
It was to Charlie's I went to meet my friends whenever I had a loose nickel.
Or--more often--when I didn't have any money at all.
Of course, at those times, we were at the mercy of the moneyed because they got to choose all the music. *cough-Honey!*
Charlie's was the place to let it all hang out.
The first place I saw someone my age smoking.
Gasp.
Where you snuggled into one of the booths on a vinyl-covered bench with your sweetie-of-the-moment.
Okay, I never got to do that, but I dreamed . . .
It was also the place my friends and I discovered that one could actually square dance to 'Ode To Joy'.
True story.
Also my brother tells me it was the place for the finest chop suey known to man.
Who knew?
What was your Charlie's?

One more time. Honey.

A Gas

Another of Daddy's favourite stories...

In rhyme again because I love it!

It’s important you know that Emerson Ells loved beans most of all when he dined.

But it’s also a fact that his good wife Elaine, was not one to be so inclined.

It wasn’t the taste or the texture abhorred, but the methane that followed hereafter.

I’m sure you appreciate all her displeasure when gas filled her home to the rafters.

So Emerson, he of the bean adoration, betook himself oft times to lunch,

And happily chose from the menu extensive, a large plate of baked beans to munch.

On this day it was doubly important to him, for his birthday, again, had appeared.

He decided a plate of baked beans would endorse his making it through one more year.

He happily slurped up—not one, but two—plates of his favourite food.

Then laughed when he thought of his unwary wife (and her wishes that he could elude).

When Emerson got to his home after work, his wife met him as he came in.

“I have a surprise!” she said as they kissed. Then blindfolded him with a grin.

She led him, unwary, along the main hall, the dining room clearly her goal,

When someone knocked loudly upon the front door. She sighed and disrupted their stroll.

And parking her husband in a dining chair, she hurried herself off to see,

Who could possibly be interrupting her plans and to knock with such temerity.

Now, remember those beans so happily consumed and their unlucky penchant to gas?

Well, through the drive home, old Em’s  innards roiled and now he had something to pass.

He listened. Elaine was still firmly engaged. He could hear as she spoke from somewhere. 

So Emerson leaned to one side (sneakily) and let loose a blast of hot air.

He felt better at the ensuing release, but his bowels soon started to strain,

And knowing his wife was still there by the door, he tipped himself over. Again.

A third time inflated, a third time released and a third time his needs were addressed,

Then hearing his wife as she closed the front door, decided he’d best keep the rest.

Soon his dear wifey was there at his side. As she murmured her a-pol-o-gies,

Old Em, he just smiled in a secretive way, thanking his three times release.

“And now your surprise!” his sweet wifey exclaimed as she pulled off his blindfold with care.

 Its removal revealed some guests at the board. Twelve of them were seated there.

So to you who like beans, and I’m one, I confess, please beware of the spouse-ly surprise,

Cause the likelihood’s there that you may just end up: the sole cynosure of all eyes.