The Housing Market

“This one. See?”

I followed Sally’s pointing finger. It stopped about a third of the way down the page of the flier she was holding.

At a beautiful home on an acreage somewhere outside of town.

“Mr. Baggins stopped by and gave me this flier. What do you think?”

About Mr. Baggins bringing my sister real estate fliers? Ummm…

“Mort and I are going to go to the open house this afternoon and have a look. Wanna come?”

I thought of the lovely book I was just getting into. And my special date with Peter later tonight that I had bought a new dress for and…

Just then Ivy Jean Gunn of the sweet face and very loud lungs sounded off somewhere in the house.

I set down my book. “You know what? I’ll drive!”

I squinted at the picture and typed the address into my phone. “K. Let’s roll!” I led the two of them into the garage and, from there, into the car. “Did anyone check for motorcycles?” I asked.

You have to know that, since the birth of Ivy, the entire family has been a bit skittish about backing the car out of the garage without doing a ‘stray motorcycle check’ first.

“It’s right there.” Mort pointed.

“Ah." I pushed the button for the garage door. "Then we’re off!”

Sally and Mort were happily discussing the selling points of the house we were going to see. (Well, Sally was. Mort just, in his ‘Mort’ way, smiled and grinned.) Suites, extra room. Extra rooms. Outbuildings. A shop. Barns.

I nearly stomped on the brake. Barns? A picture of the damage Sally could do if she had some actual, you know—horsepower—burst in living colour into my mind.

Heaven help us all.

But I’m nothing if not determined, so I kept going.

“Turn right at the next intersection,” the GPS voice said. In a southern accent that sounded more like ‘tun rat at the next intusection.’

I turned.

The house that slowly came into view was, in a word, spectacular. It went on and on and on.

I think I gasped. I should have gasped. It was bigger than the home town we grew up in.

“Oooh! It’s a win!” Sally squealed. “Morty, honey! It’s our sanctuary!!”

Mort shrugged and grinned.

See?

I pulled the car into the wide, circular driveway.

Sally was out of the door before we stopped. She looked around. “Huh. Why don’t they have any signs?”

I frowned. She was right. Nary a real estate sign was in evidence.

“Maybe we’re early?”

She shrugged and, taking Mort’s hand, towed him to the front door and tried the knob. “Well, it’s open, so come on in!”

We did.

The foyer was amazing. And huge. A chandelier the size of my bed at home looked…normal.

“Perfect!” Sally enthused. “Oh, I’m so happy right now!”

An archway to the left led into a bright, immense, living room. Or drawing room. Or…what do they call these rooms that are so large our whole house could sit comfortably in one end and a group of forty could still find seats and carry on a conversation in the other?

Right. A cathedral.

I didn’t get much chance to get much more than an impression, though.

Because there, on one of the numerous couches, was a man.

Stretched out and obviously asleep.

Huh. Maybe he was early, too?

Just then a woman came around the corner, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She stopped and stared at us. “Jes?” she said, with a distinct Spanish accent. “What can I help you with?”

Sally looked at her. “We're here to see the house.”

“House?”

“Yeah.” Sally tipped her head to one side. “The open house.” She held up the flier and the woman adjusted her glasses and bent to look at it.

Then the two stared at each other.

I think that’s when I finally realized we had entered a set of stunning front doors, passed through an amazing foyer, and were standing in a beautiful cathedral-sized room…all in the wrong house.

Oops.

I looked at the address on my phone. Then reached for the flier. The picture was a fairly close match. Oh. Walker Lakes Station. Not Walker Lakes Street. Huh. What are the chances?

On a good note, Mr. and Mrs. Cavallero have laughingly agreed not to press ‘breaking and entering’ charges.

And may be coming to dinner on Sunday.

Ahem.

We’re going now to see the real house.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post with the understanding that all words be used at least once. 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.

Today, I’m using: match ~ sanctuary ~ win ~ chances ~ happy

Submitted by my BFF Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Thank you, my friend!

Now check out my fellow bloggers! 

BakingIn A Tornado 

Climaxed 

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver 

 

 

 

Germ of the Dog

The thief.

We buy our cheese in a large block.

We have a lot of mouths to feed.

And every one of them is a cheese-lover.

Also: grating said cheese leaves an interesting pattern of little grooves on the main piece.

And: We raise Old English Sheepdogs. Our big male is named Chiefy.

On with my story . . .

Husby and I had been out for the evening.

The kids, ages eight to nineteen were home.

Watching TV and eating . . . what else? . . . cheese.

Putting it on bread.

Then toasting the two together.

Mmmmmmmmm.

Periodically, someone would come out to the kitchen, prepare another round and disappear into the TV room once more.

When we got home, the snacking and movie-watching was still ongoing.

Or at least the movie-watching.

The food had not yet been put away.

Okay, I admit it, I’m a bit OCD when it comes to food being left out.

Spotting the large block of cheese sitting on the cupboard, I made my disgusted face and instantly turned into uber-annoying SUPERCLEAN MOM.

I picked it up.

Now, usually, when the kids are making snacks including cheese, they would simply slice pieces off.

The end of this block looked as though they had been grating it.

Hmmm. Not common, but not unheard of.

I sliced the grooved end off the cheese and ate it, then wrapped the main block and put it into the fridge and generally tidied up.

Then I went into the TV room to join my Husby and the rest of the family.

My daughter turned to look at me.

“Mom! Did you see that Chiefy has been eating the cheese?”

I stared at her. “I thought you had been grating it.”

“Nope. I came upstairs and there he was chewing on the end. I pushed it to the back of the cupboard, but left it there ‘cause I wasn’t sure what you’d want done with it.”

“Ummmm . . .” I thought of the piece I had just eaten and felt a little green. 

(Lucy Van Pelt from Peanuts has nothing on me when it comes to dog-germ-phobia. I know. I know. Weird, coming from a ranch girl.) 

“I’ve taken care of it,” I said finally.

I had.

Yuck.

Pie’d

These pictures say it all!

From this:

Through this:

To this:

And finally, this:

86 pies reduced to 14. Happy Pi Day, everyone!

Pie-Eyed

Until Covid, we Tolleys celebrated every March 14 (3.14) with Pi(e).

It was busy.

It was delicious.

It was...fun!

Then the 2020 Covid lockdown came—quite literally the day my daughter and I were to make the pies.

We sighed and put our rolling pins into storage and waited for the all-clear.

This year, it came.

Finally.

So yesterday, we (my daughter and two of my granddaughters) spent a few hours making pies.

70 of them to be exact. 10 different kinds (in no particular order): Cherry, Blueberry, Apple, Rhubarb/Strawberry, Peach, Pumpkin, Banana Cream, Coconut Cream, Chocolate, and Lemon.

And today, we have invited our friends and neighbours to come in and eat pie!

I wish you could join us.

I’ll let you know how it goes...

Everything has to start somewhere...

Our crew.
I’m absolutely thrilled that the next generation is learning the joys of the rolling pin!

Ready to go!

Unhelpful Literature

 Welcome to Poetry Monday!

Now I know the topic for today is Butterflies, but I'm bending it a little.

Oh, I'm still going to talk about winged insects. 

But... oh, never mind. Just read on...

The rain poured down persistently,

For days he’d stared out wistfully.

A last, he stood with arms outspread,

“I’m bored,” he, to his mother, said.

She thought about it for a time,

(Impressed I say all this in rhyme?)

And then suggested to her son,

“If all your chores, indeed, are done,

The only thing I can suggest

For you, a hobby would be best.”

“A collection, maybe? Moths? Or stamps?

Now go – and to your room, encamp.”

The little boy gave it some thought,

Decided moths were what he sought.

Donned raingear, to the store betook,

To find himself a research book.

Then home amid the raindrops sped,

Threw coat, and landed on his bed.

He read for several hours there,

Then came to mom in clear despair.

“I’ve read that book from end to end,

But failure did the words portend.

For though I read so eagerly,

No single ‘moth’ word did I see!”

His mother frowned and asked to look,

Obediently, he fetched the book.

She turned it over, understood

Just why it did him little good.

‘Advice to the Beginning . . .’, true.

A wealth of facts from those who knew.

But the last word in the title there,

Had caused her fine, young son to err.

It stood out plain from all the others,

The last word there (you’ve guessed it) ‘Moth-ers’!

Advice to 

Beginning Mothers

You can see where he went wrong.

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?

Strange, and just a little scary

Buzzards, next week, are our quarry!

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!)...

Butterflies (March 13) Today!

Buzzards (March 20)

Celebrating Earth Day (March 27)

Maps (April 3)

Golf (April 10)

Safety Pins (April 17)

Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

My BBB's and ME

 Every eight weeks or so, it's my turn to host my wonderful Best of Boomer Bloggers tribe. 

A true highlight!

This month, my bloggers started their adventures along Consumer Protection Bay, went along Nostalgia Avenue, past the corner of Women's History Boulevard, along Truth Alley, made a right on Spring Street and ended up in the historic Grand Central Market!

I love these guys!

First up, Rita Robison:

Have you heard of National Consumer Protection Week? For Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist, it’s a big deal, and she wrote about it last week. Take a look at Robison’s article for actions consumers can take every week to stand up for their rights, including filing complaints and findinghelpful financial information.

Next is Carol Cassara:

As each year passes, Carol Cassara finds more of her blog posts are tinged with nostalgia, a subject she addresses in this weeks piece about "hiraeth" -- a longing for lost places of our past. And in her case, her youth.

Then Jennifer Koshak:

Celebrating women who tell our story is this year's Women's History Month theme. This inspired Jennifer, of Unfold and Begin to share 12 Quotes for Women's History Month from some of those women who are being celebrated.

And Corinne Rodrigues:

It was Aldous Huxley who said that facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored! But when it comes to facing up to our painful experiences or moving out of toxic relationships, we often act as if facts do not exist. Denial of pain is something that Corinne Rodrigues of Everyday Gyaan has written about in her post The Truth Shall Set You Free.

Followed by Laurie Stone:

The other day Laurie stood in her yard when she heard that lovely sound. Against the blue sky was the familiar V-formation of a dozen geese, trumpeting their arrival like noisy house guests. She watched, feeling that familiar stirring. Spring is coming.

Then Rebecca Olkowski:
Rebecca Olkowski with BabyBoomster.com finally got a break from the torrential rain that Los Angeles had been experiencing. She hopped on the L.A. Metro and took herself Downtown to the historic Grand Central Market for a bite to eat. Read about it on her L.A. travel blog here.

And Meryl Baer:

In this week’s post, Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin takes time to recognize Women’s History Month. A history major, a woman, and a writer, she pays homage to three Victorian writers, the Bronte sisters, who blazed a path, unknowingly, for generations to come. 

Then finally, Me! 

Diane Tolley:

In the modern day, the use of so-called 'expressive metaphors' has become more and more prevalent. But it is possible 'clean up one's language', as discovered by Diane's Mother-in-Law...

And that's a wrap!

I hope you enjoyed these wonderful bloggers as much as I do!

Thank you for joining us!

Yumm-Balls

Yumminess.

Twice a week, and sometimes more, the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through the Stringam home.

Magic.

It was followed, almost immediately, by the sight of children munching great slices of fresh yumminess, thickly spread with fresh butter.

Mmmmm.

I wasn't one of them.

Oh, I loved Mom's bread.

It was amazing.

And I definitely was munching.

But I chose a unique - ie. weird - way of doing it.

Often to be followed by my Mom saying, “Diane! I work hard to make perfectly good, soft bread! Why do you do that to it?!”

She said this because . . . I squished it.

Squished.

Into a tight little ball.

Which I - then - ate.

Really.

Mom would watch, in disgust, as I took my slice of freshly-baked awesomeness.

Quickly peeled off and ate the crust.

Pressed and molded the rest.

Then nibbled.

I have no idea why I did this.

Maybe it was because I had seen the screen cowboys eating little balls of bread out of their saddlebags.

Okay, it looked like little balls of bread.

I didn't realize that what they were eating was, in fact, biscuits.

I wasn't known for my powers of observation and deduction.

Ahem . . .

I no longer eat bread this way.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

The biggest one being that it's rather hard to spread any significant amount of peanut butter and/or nutella on a tightly pressed ball of dough.

And, let's face it, bread is just the medium by which such things are ingested.

And, in a choice between eating balls of dough or getting nutella to the mouth?

Even the cowboys would agree with me.

Barbie Battles

Okay. She's tougher than she looks . . .

My little brother and sister were playing.

Something they wasted a lot of time doing.

When they could have been involved with much more productive pursuits.

Like me.

Sitting in the chair, reading.

Ahem.

Fiery, three-year-old Anita had a new Barbie doll.

She was combing its hair and dressing and undressing.

Happily absorbed in what she was doing.

Placid, five-year-old Blair had been playing with some of his toys.

Also happily absorbed.

Then he noticed Anita’s activities.

Hmmm.

This looked interesting.

He watched for a few minutes.

Fascinating.

Finally, his curiosity had to be addressed.

“May I see it?” he asked.

I should point out that he asked politely.

Blair was always polite.

Still is, but that is another story.

Moving on . . .

Anita looked at him. “Sure,” she said, grabbing her new Barbie by its feet and holding it out.

Blair moved closer.

Closer.

He reached out.

Whereupon (good word) Anita lifted her Barbie and whacked him over the head with it.

“See!” she said.

“Ouch!” Blair rubbed his head. “Whydja do that?”

But Anita was back to playing.

“I guess I won’t look at it then,” he said.

Of course there were reports and repercussions.

Punishment was meted out.

And all was forgiven.

But not forgotten.

Who was it who said revenge is a dish best served cold?

This Barbie dish has been waiting a looong time.

Using Clean Words

Probe, (n): a parlor game introduced in the 1960s by Parker Brothers. It is reminiscent of the simple two-person game Hangman, whose object is to guess a word chosen by another player by revealing specific letters. Probe extends the number of players to a maximum of four and introduces additional game elements that increase the levels of both skill and chance. Like Hangman, each player has a secret chosen word. But unlike Hangman, the game ends when the last word, not the first word, is revealed. All players remain in the game until the end.

Enough background . . .

My Father-In-Law, Ray (hereinafter known as Dad), loved games. But one of his favourites was the game of Probe. He loved the challenge of guessing his fellow players’ words.

And he really loved the challenge of coming up with nasty, horrible, very, very difficult words.

Particularly words containing letter such as ‘Z’ or ‘X’ or ‘Q’ or ‘K’.

Or multiples of the same.

Sneaky devil . . .

Dad loved this part of the game so much that he kept a list of words he encountered.

I am not making this up.

In his breast pocket, he kept a list of words he had read or heard that would surely stump his opponents in future games of Probe.

Such words as: acquire (a ‘c’ and a ‘q’? Come on!!!). Galax (wha . . .?). Abuzz (took us a while with that one!). Katharometer (okay, now you’re just making stuff up . . .).

Ugh.

So while I was composing such stumpers as rhododendron, he was crafting masterpieces like: xenophobia. Now how do you compete with that?

It got so that, when any of us sat down to play the game with him, we’d see that list come out, and hear the distant drums that signalled our impending doom.

Sigh.

But my Mother-In-Law beat him.

Okay, I don’t mean actually ‘beat’ him, although there were times (Particularly when he dipped into that pocket and emerged with that list) . . .

No. I mean that she fixed him and his little list of stinkers for good.

And she wasn’t even playing the game.

How? You ask as you prepare to play your own game and are looking for an edge . . .

Simple. She waited for laundry day and washed his list.

When he complained long and loud about her actions, she snickered and said, “Well, they were dirty words. I just had to clean them up!”

Of course she claimed forevermore that it really was an accident. And that she’d never actually meant to do it.

But we knew.

She was simply getting payback for trying to guess such posers as: zomotherapy. And: quadriform. 

Yep. We knew.

Genius.

Fort-i-Fied Breakfast

Today is National Cereal Day.

Hmmm....

What to say... What to say...

Breakfast.

The most – interesting – meal of the day.

Mom believed in beginning the day with a good, hot, hearty meal.

Bacon. Sausage. Eggs. Pancakes. Waffles. Ham. Fruit. Muffins. Fresh bread. Cinnamon buns. French toast.

A breakfast milkshake that included eggs and fruit. And occasionally, chocolate.

She mixed and matched.

And pure deliciousness emerged.

But sometimes, she allowed us kids to graze.

Okay, her version of grazing was to set out a plethora of cold cereal boxes and let us take our pick.

Funny how kids accustomed to ‘home-cooked’ can think ‘store-bought’ is a real treat.

But we did.

We happily selected and poured and sugared and crunched.

Except for big brother George.

He did all of that . . . and built a fort.

His breakfast fort.

And, because he did it, and made it look like fun, I had to do it too.

Did you know it’s possible to sit at the same table with someone and never even catch a glimpse of them?

Well, it is.

With a little ingenuity.

And a lot of cereal boxes.

George would set a large cereal box on either side of his bowl. Then add a third to connect the first two.

Voila!

Cereal box fort.

Private and exclusive.

One could eat one’s bowl of awesomeness and never even know that one had breakfast companions.

Well, until Mom came, demolished one’s fort with her genius for quick and effective relocation and a, “Stop doing that, you two. We need to see each other’s bright and smiling faces in the morning!”

To which George would inevitably reply, "My face isn't bright and smiling!"

Yeah. Cereal boxes. They can hide so much.

Baker 2.0

Then

My blonde-haired son with eyes of brown,

Who rode his bike all over town,

He’d reached the grand old age of nine,

Had learned so much in all that time.

But mostly, how he loved to eat,

My cookies were a special treat,

He’d lick a beater, taste the dough,

Then grab some cookies, off he’d go.

But soon, my boy just wanted to

Find out how he could make them. True.

And so he learned and soon discovered,

His baking had surpassed his mother's.

Tonight he joined us in our home,

He brought his wife, six kids along,

We laughed and talked and had such fun,

‘Twas hard to think it'd soon be done.

The grandkids said they had a yen...

Our boy went to the kitchen then,

And set the oven, got some ‘stuff’,

Then added till he had enough.

It only took a moment, till,

He, all his kids’ dreams, he’d fulfilled,

And cookies warm were on display,

Enough to last till end of day.

And now, it was his mom. (T’was so!)

Who licked the beaters, tasted dough,

Then, as the cookies, warm, emerged

Stole a few, by hunger urged.

We gathered them (just one more bite!),

To send with folks into the night,

I watched him pack up kids and then,

I thought of ‘now’ and thought of ‘when’.

It’s not so long since he was nine,

And still so young and still all mine,

Where did the years all pass away?

Did this not happen yesterday?

Today is his. It’s his turn now,

I wouldn’t change things anyhow...

I wave to them from on the porch.

I've happ'ly passed the 'cookie' torch!

Now

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 try us out for size...

Our theme will be BUTTERFLIES!

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!)...

Cookies (March 6) Today!

Butterflies (March 13)

Buzzards (March 20)

Celebrating Earth Day (March 27)

Maps (April 3)

Golf (April 10)

Safety Pins (April 17)

Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

Testing the Acorn

This may sound like bragging.

Okay, it is . . .

Our second son was in grade three.

He loved it.

He was a good student and the teacher, Mr. Knall, seemed to like and appreciate him.

The time for our first parent-teacher interview of the year approached.

Usually a time of apprehension for me.

But there were smiles on both sides as we introduced ourselves and shook hands.

Whew.

We discussed Erik’s behavior and accomplishments.

Then the teacher brought out a little stack of papers. “Now,” he began, “You are allowed to look through these, but I’m letting you know now that I'm keeping them.”

I stared at him. “Ummm . . . okay.”

He then laid out Erik’s spelling tests to date. Like his father, Erik was a good speller. He had even been known to correct spelling for others. (ie. my brother, completing his degree in Engineering.)

Erik’s only difficulty lay in the fact that he usually finished writing the word almost as soon as the teacher had said it. Leaving—seconds—before the next word. Time that lay heavily on his hands. That needed to be filled with something.

And he filled it. 

With illustrations.

In the margin beside his words, he would draw tiny, exquisite figures illuminating whatever it was he had just written. Thus, beside the word: Space, was drawn a tiny astronaut floating in space on an umbilical. A couple of words later: Fire, had an equally tiny cannon, firing at the spaceman.

And thus it went. The entire margin was littered with these pictures.

I could see the teacher’s reasons for wanting to keep them.

This was a truly unique spelling test.

I should probably let you know I allowed him to have the tests.

Because I kept the boy.

Moving forward several years . . .

A few days ago, Erik’s second son, just out of grade three, was completing some math worksheets for his mother.

A “keeping up the skills” exercise for the summertime.

He excels at it. Math, that is.

And, like his father before him, finds himself with time on his hands.

And, without even realizing it, has completed the circle.

And ensured that another acorn has dropped immediately beside another great oak.

Cannons of the Prairie

Oh, the treasures one can discover on a ranch first settled by a Colonel from the Boer War . . .

The Stringam ranch lies in a crook of the south fork of the Milk River, near the Alberta/Montana border. A spot of ground dominated by towering cliffs, a large hill and a (usually) meandering stream. To Colonel Mackie, the man who first settled it, a patch of waving grass and peace after a season of bloody turmoil in Southern Africa. 

Years later, it became home to the Stringams, a family of eleven.

Of which my Dad was the youngest.

Enough background . . .

A favourite diversion during the hot summer days for a young boy growing up on the prairies was a swim in the ‘milky’ water of the river. And that’s what he and a friend were doing on the day they discovered the cannon.

Yes. You hear me correctly. A cannon.

One minute, they were splashing around happily. The next, staring at a long chunk of iron sticking out of the water at the edge of the stream.

Oh, they weren’t entirely sure that that was what they had discovered. In fact, after they lugged the thirty-five pounds of iron home, no one could agree with their excited assumption. Most sided with Grampa, who stated that it must have been something used to drill wells. 

I mean, how on earth would cannon end up in the middle of the Alberta prairies?

The interesting artifact ended up sitting next to the garage. Neatly nestled with the rest of the ‘we-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it’ junk.

For some time, it sat there.

Then Grampa, intent on installing a new door in the garage, decided it was just what he needed as a counterweight. Wired up and tied, it worked perfectly.

And then someone happened onto the ranch who knew about firearms and things ‘army’. Seeing Grampa’s counterweight, he became very excited.

It was then the family discovered that the remarkable hunk of iron was indeed, as Dad and his friend had first thought, a cannon.

The man had the cannon cut down and proceeded to examine it eagerly. And closely. He found, after he had cleaned out the silt, that it still contained pieces of metal and black powder.

All ready for business. 

Yes. The Stringams had a loaded cannon serving as a door prop.

There’s something you don’t see every day . . .

The friend took the cannon home, cleaned it up properly and constructed a base for it.

It served as a feature in his home for a number of years, but finally found its way back to my Dad.

Who donated it to The Fort Museum in Fort Macleod, Alberta.

Where it sits to this day.

A little piece of history toted from Southern Africa to Southern Alberta.

In business...

Colonel Mackie

The original Ranch House. Really had nothing to do with this story, but I like it.