For Rena

 This is for Rena, my wonderful, wonderful, wise friend, co-conspirator and staunch supporter. I’ll miss you forever, dear sister!

 

When we holiday, we usually like to rent a house with several bedrooms and have our friends join us as they can.

Usually, it has worked out great!

Ocassionally, it hasn’t.

Our trip to Guadalupe in 2020 was…less than perfect.

Lost luggage for six people.

No bathroom for a household of 8.

No hot water.

No oven.

Ongoing renovations from window installations to full-sized backhoes digging up the driveway and front yard.

Let’s just say the first two weeks were a disaster and stop there.

Here is what we learned…

 

Holidaying always looks great. Relaxing and perfect.

When one is anticipating.

Let’s just say it’s not always so good when one is experiencing.

And just FYI: B&B photos aren’t always accurate. Ditto for reviews.

Always remember to pack essentials in your little carry-on. You never know where your luggage will vacation. Often it’s not going where you’re going.

When renting a car, make sure it’s not to a company waiting to pick you up on Martinique. When you’re on Guadeloupe. There’s a fair slice of ocean between them.

When your Landlady promises every day for twenty days that you will have wifi... tomorrow, it’s really okay to begin to NOT believe her.

You don’t have to stay home from your day at the beach to let workmen in. They aren’t going to show up anyway. Actually that’s not quite true. They will show up. Right at suppertime. And stay till midnight.

The noisier the tools—the later they stay.

One working toilet for eight people in the corner of one of the bedrooms can suffice. It just takes a LOT of cooperation.

A brand new bathroom (and toilet) following a week of noise and confusion and workmen at all times is definitely worth it. We think. 

One other important thing, though, is a door on that new bathroom. People get skittish when whatever they are doing is public knowledge.

Just because supposedly competent workmen have been properly engaged, it doesn’t follow that said workmen will install the new windows in the right holes.

One can do without hot water in the kitchen. As long as there is plenty of it in the one working bathroom. And one has at least one big bucket. True story.

You can think of a million and one dishes you want to make in the oven—when you don’t have one that works. Oh, and remember to watch out for the exposed wires that are the reason said oven doesn’t work. They can really pack a wallop.

Just because a toaster is top-of-the-line, it doesn’t follow that it will actually…toast.

Always keep a thick, absorbent mat on the floor in front of all the sinks. So the water will have someplace to go.

The Landlady’s idea of a beautiful swimming pool—and yours—are probably poles apart. Nine feet of mud isn’t nine feet of water. And back-hoes working on some remote building site are fascinating. Back-hoes in your front yard, digging away your driveway and your only access to your B&B are not.

Buying tools and effecting repairs yourself is totally acceptable. And may save your precious sanity. Just don’t expect a reduction in the rent.

When a foreman says he will come back and build you a front step, believe him. A pallet can be a front step.

Sometimes desperate tourists are the popular fathers of invention. Walkways made out of pilfered shipping crates will be appreciated by the whole neighbourhood!

It’s quite all right for your washer to discharge down the outer house wall. It’s also fine to use it as a shower.

And finally…

Just because a baguette is warm, it doesn’t follow that it’s fresh. OR ant-free. Please be careful when choosing your boulangerie!

 

Rena, we survived that holiday. In fact, the last six weeks of it were bliss.

Or perhaps our standards had just lowered.

Thank you for this prompt, my friend. And for the gift of...you!

I miss you.

Diane

This tribute to Rena is part of a “Secret Subject Swap”. Something Rena loved to participate in. My secret Subject was: What is one vacation that you took that was a total disaster? What went wrong?

This was Rena’s May prompt.

Please read on to see the rest of the participants!

BakingIn ATornado

Climaxed

WhatTFSarah

Part-timeWorking HockeyMom

Seeing the Specialist

 I needed an appointment,

My head just wasn’t fine,

And so I called the doctor,

They scheduled me for nine.

 

I went down to their building,

So far it all went well,

I walked into the office,

And rang the little bell.

 

The girl behind the counter,

She asked me who I was,

So I spelled out my name for her,

There was a little pause…

 

I told her I had problems,

Discomfort, bad, was mine,

She nodded, said, “Which doctor?”

I said ‘normal’ doc was fine.

Today is our Monthly Poetry Challenge.

Our topic? 

Making an Appointment

I love this!

Now go and see what my friends have created!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Mimi of Messymimismeanderings

Letting Down One's Hair

 Okay…I knew cravings could be…inconvenient.

I never knew they could be life-changing. Story-worthy.

Downright strange.

Maybe I should back up a little.

Ahem…

A king and queen had been childless for many long years. Something that wore away at the queen rather drastically.

 

One day, whilst out and about doing…queenly stuff, she came across a rather strange old woman who offered to ‘tell her fortune’. Or something to that effect.

The queen agreed.

Not because she placed all that much belief in the whole ‘fortune’ scenario.

 

But because she was a kindly person and could see the old woman needed both a vocation.

And some money.

Not surprisingly, the prognostication pronounced upon the queen took a bit of a turn.

Yes, she was promised ‘That which she most desired’.

 

But also that she would experience some distinctly powerful cravings.

The queen was both elated…and a little…erm…dismayed.

I mean things like pickles and ice cream, okay.

But let’s not stray into the whole chalk and dirt fiasco.

Like a friend did.

Moving on…

 

A few months later, the queen found she was, indeed, pregnant.

Between bouts drifting from elation straight through to nausea, the queen began to crave something.

Something green and tasty.

And that only grew in the (hereinafter known as Gothel the Sorceress) neighbour’s garden.

 

Now, normally, this wasn’t concerning. I mean a quick knock on the door. A smile and a ‘would you mind…?’

But Gothel was one of those neighbours. The nasty ones you hope aren’t out on the street while you’re climbing into your car.

 

You have to know, the king did try. He sent servants with entreaties, reasonings and finally, gifts to attempt to secure the neighbour’s cooperation.

But they didn’t make a dent. Let’s face it, this woman was hard as glass all the way through.

 

So the king resorted to theft. And because he couldn’t place any of his beloved subjects on the wrong side of the law, he went himself.

Of course, during one of his forays, he was caught.

Of course there was a hefty penalty.

 

Somewhere between six and nine months later, the neighbour appeared to claim her tearfully agreed-upon prize.

The newborn baby girl.

Soulful pleadings did nothing to sway her. Not even one iota.

I had a neighbour like that once.

We moved.

Because…yikes.

 

For years, the little girl lived in a tower located on one of Gothel’s remote properties. The only entry was by climbing the girl’s once short, now long and lovely locks.

Which Gothel did.

And my girls cry when I brush their hair…

 

Now we get to the exciting part.

A prince, out and exploring, happened upon Gothel climbing the ‘all-natural-and-no-animals-were-harmed-in-creating-this’ ladder.

It tweaked his curiosity.

A glimpse of the lovely face distantly attached to that hair tweaked something even more.

The prince began to hang around.

 

Finally, he overheard Gothel utter the magic words, “Rapunzel, let down your golden hair” prior to that long, golden braid granting entry.

And he thought he’d give it a try.

No sooner said than done.

And he and Rapunzel were face to face.

 

Things went surprisingly well, and, after a few visits, she was more than ready to follow him anywhere.

I mean, he was quite literally the only guy she had ever known.

Literally.

Only.

Of course he looked perfect.

She was easy to convince.

 

Then, that slip of the tongue so common to fairy tales.

One day Rapunzel, in her girlish innocence, asked Gothel why she was way easier to haul up than the prince.

Of course there was surprise.

Remonstrations.

And consequences.

The end result was Rapunzel, shorn and fairly helpless, and banished to a far wilderness.

 

Gothel hung the newly-shorn hair from a hook and, a day or so later, when the prince requested his ‘hair’way to paradise (snort), she obliged.

I’m not really privy to what happened interim-ly, but mere moments later, the prince expeditiously exited the window.

 

He landed in some rose bushes planted conveniently at the base of the tower that (1) Broke his fall, but (2) Damaged his eyes.

Blinded, the prince began a helpless wander of the countryside.

Said wander took him, finally, to his beloved Rapunzel.

 

Rapunzel bathed him, both figuratively and quite literally, with her tears.

And when said tears touched his eyes, his sight was restored.

What is it about fairy tales and tears?

I think there is a case for medical research to be made.

Right?

 

The prince, sight restored, was finally able to find his way back to his kingdom. Whereupon the oft-postponed marriage between he and Rapunzel could take place.

I’m assuming a tearful reunion with Rapunzel’s parents.

And an apropos shutting of Gothel in a tower.

 

And everyone—with the exception of Gothel—lived happily ever after.

Now what do we learn from this rather hair-y tale?

Don’t steal—even a king is subject to his own laws.

And never allow cravings to dictate your actions. They are poor decision-makers.

Today’s post is a word challenge! 

Each month one of us chooses a number between 12 and 50 and the rest craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.

This month’s number is: 43

It was chosen by me!

Now go and see what my friends have created!

Baking In ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Finishing the Laundry

 “My turn to do laundry!”

I sat up in bed. You have to know that, immediately upon waking, I am seldom coherent.

And yes, that condition flees pretty fast (out of necessity).

Because, you know…Sally.

This time, as my mind began to clear, I frowned.

Had I really seen her face at the door? Heard the barked-out words? The closing of said door?

Because, if I had, we were in trouble.

Ahem…

Sally really doesn’t do many of the chores around the house.

It is her house. And the rest of us who live there rent-free are generally happy to do them.

Mom has just carried on with her ‘mom’ stuff—albeit with a little less stress because the bills are all paid and she has Dad, the former Uncle Pete.

I happily do things that require the use of any sort of machinery because it has always satisfied something in me to…you know…do them.

Sally has simply spun in the middle.

Oh, she has tried to help. She’s willing and eager.

She is also accident-prone and known for her snap—let’s call them interesting—decisions.

After which, someone, usually a professional, tidies up.

So…today and back to that voice at my door.

It could have been part of the dream I was having.

Or it could have been real.

Either way, it would still be a nightmare.

I sighed and threw back the covers.

I climbed out of bed and dressed hurriedly. Then opened my door and poked my nose out into the hall.

At first, it was happily deserted. Then Sally appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, laundry basket in her hands. “Gwen! Come on! Mort and I are waiting to start!”

I think I know why she had suddenly become interested in doing everyone’s laundry.

Sally has an inventor friend who is working on a new incarnation of a washer and drier combination. You know—the one machine to rule them all.

And he has given a prototype to Sally to try out...

I sighed and went back into my room to get my hamper and we hauled everything downstairs.

Now you have to know it’s not that she plans any of this. Or deliberately sets out to destroy.

It just…happens.

The first few loads went surprisingly well.

Baby stuff into the machine first.

Then into the basket for Mort and I to start folding as the first load of whites was shoved inside.

Then a load of colourful clothes was inserted.

I stayed on the periphery. With Mort.

Folding and keeping my head down.

Because who knows when ‘something’ is going to happen?

This went on for much of the day.

The first, second, third and even fourth loads had been washed, dried, and folded. And, I have to admit it, the machine was doing a great job!

A load of towels was cheerfully tumbling, nearly at the end of the drier cycle.

And that’s when it happened.

Can’t you just hear the tight ‘Eee! Eee! Eee!’ of the orchestral strings?

There was a muffled thump, followed by a thick ‘click’ and what sounded like metal screeching against metal.

And then the door of the drier blew off.

I am not making this up.

It blew off.

Landed across the room, like, 20 feet away.

I was supremely glad that no one (ie. me) was standing in the way of it. I think it could have done some real damage.

A tongue of flame licked out of the tub.

I think I screamed.

I know someone did.

And then Sally flew in, fire extinguisher in hand and, with a flick or two, put out the few flames before they did much more than singe a couple of towels.

Say what you will about Sally, she usually gets herself out of difficulties even faster than she got in. And usually, while the rest of us are just starting to react.

Then she pulled the electrical plug out of the wall and looked at me. “I’ll have to tell Daniel there are a few kinks to work out,” she said, grinning.

I should say.

Mort, ever the posterior backup, was busy talking to someone at ‘911’.

A mere moment later we were hearing the sounds of sirens.

When Mom and Dad and Ivy Jean pulled up that evening, it was to see Sally, Mort, Peter and I seated on the front lawn, hemmed on one side by leafy bushes.

And on the other by firefighters. We were watching them roll-up hoses and chat happily about ‘doing safety checks’ and ‘another successful mission’.

Mom, clutching the baby, just stared at the house, her colour fading. “What hap-pend?” She managed at last.

I glanced over at the firefighters and shrugged. “Ummm…Sally did the laundry?” I said.

Mom gasped and leaned back against the arm that appeared around her shoulders. Dad patted her shoulder with his other hand and she smiled up at him and took a deep, sustaining breath.

“The good news is: the laundry’s done!” Sally said brightly.

I looked at her. Then at Mom. “So’s the drier,” I added.

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: everything ~ laundry ~ safety ~ click ~ posterior ~ leafy

Submitted by, Jenniy at 

https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com 

Thank you, my friend!

Now check out my fellow bloggers! 

BakingIn A Tornado 

Climaxed        

Answering the Call of Nature

Our Steed. I'll explain . . .

Our oldest daughter believed that there was something called the 'Universal Animal Call'.
It was a simple whistle. A single note rising in pitch at the end.
Tweee-eet!
She swore it worked on all animals.
We thought the idea was hilarious.
Enough background.
My husband, for our 25th anniversary, surprised me with a trip to Greece.
And a cruise around the Mediterranean on a tall ship.
My dream of a lifetime.
And the vacation of a lifetime.
Ten days of unbelievable bliss.
I probably don't have to mention, here, that I enjoyed it.
But I will anyway.
I enjoyed it.
Immensely.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .
What? Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Greece.
Mediterranean.
During the cruise, we discovered the joy of laying in the nets beneath the spritsail at the bow of the ship, watching the Mediterranean slip past far beneath us.
It was the most relaxing experience of my life.
On the second last evening of our cruise, we introduced several new friends to this delicious experience.
Let me describe the scene . . .
The sun was setting, glowing orange and red on the clots of cloud floating far above us in the darkening sky. There was just enough breeze to fill every rosy sail and push us forward through gentle, perfect waves on impossibly blue water.
The air was a caress. Soft. Fragrant.
The only sounds were the occasional call of the sea birds as they floated on still wings alongside us.
Rocked gently, we hovered at the edges of complete peace.
Conversation lagged as, one by one, the members of our party flirted with the idea of succumbing to the call of Morpheus.
Drowsily, I turned to my husband and said, "What a perfect evening."
He laughed. "No, we need one more thing to make it truly perfect."
"What is that?"
"Dolphins."
He was right. The last perfect touch would be dolphins, chittering and giggling as they leaped and played in the water beside us.
"We could always try the Universal Animal Call."
We explained the UAC to our new friends, and joined in their laughter.
Then I sat up.
And whistled.
Tweee-eet! Tweee-eet!
And we laughed again.
Silence settled over us once more.
Silence broken, suddenly, by . . . chittering and giggling.
We looked down.
Several dolphins were leaping and playing alongside us.
I blinked and stared, open-mouthed.
Then rubbed my eyes and stared again.
Yes. There really were dolphins.
And yes, they really were playing beside the ship.
My husband and I looked at each other.
And laughed.
Happily, this time.
Maybe the UAC actually worked.
Or maybe it was just an amazing coincidence.
But it made the evening truly perfect.
And I'll never, ever forget it.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because we are leaving our home and puppy in the charge of our daughter and her family and faring once again into ‘tourist land’. 
We will again be on a tall ship.
And I’m so excited!
Tomorrow’s post is already set, so this is my last post before landing in Malta.
I’ll message you from there!

Wish us luck!

Windy

See?

Picture: www.wallpaperfo.com

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

A lot.

And usually from the west.

Invariably, it’s hot and dry in summer.

But in winter, you get a selection. Either it’s cold and penetrating; or warm and very, very melty (my word).

This second wind, known as a Chinook, comes in from the west without warning, forming a great arch in the overhead cloud cover and raising the temperature forty degrees in an hour.

The people who make Southern Alberta their home have learned to live with the wind.

What else can you do?

The kids adapt at a very early age.

Case in point . . .

I was five and in grade one. That magical time when everything is . . . magical.

It was winter.

A warm Chinook had blown in during morning classes.

And we had been sent outside for recess.

Not an unusual combination of events.

We ran about the playground, moving with the wind, or trying to make headway against it.

Or huddling close to the school when we had had enough.

And that was when it happened.

And it was Kathy who did it.

Now, I will admit that Kathy was a slender little stick of a kid.

Wiry and athletic and just a tad daring.

But still, her action was life-changing.

She stood out in the wind, unzipped her coat, held the sides out and . . . leaned over.

And the wind held her there!

I am not making this up.

It held her there. At an angle.

Like a kite.

Ooooooooh!

The rest of us had to try it.

We had more or less success.

For some of the heavier kids, the wind wasn’t – quite – strong enough.

For the smaller, a little too strong. It could actually lift them off their feet or roll them over backward.

But for those of us somewhere in the middle, it was remarkable.

You almost felt as though you were flying!

After that, no one zipped their coats shut during a Chinook.

Instead, you used said coats – and that wind – to blow yourself wherever you wanted to go.

Extraordinary!

And world-altering!

I could see Kathy’s invention of cloth and wind being used for amazing things.

Like . . . pushing great vehicles.

Oddly enough, when I told my parents, they were less than enthusiastic.

And not at all willing to take me and Kathy’s invention immediately to the patent office.

Parents.

Pfff.

Moving forward . . .

The decades have gone by.

And still, whenever the wind blows, I think of Kathy.

And her coat.

And that clever mind that made such entertaining use of something that could have been so aggravating.

Sometimes, you can still catch me out in it.

The wind, I mean.

Holding my coat open against it.

And remembering . . . 

The ‘Off‘ in Stroganoff

Now wouldn't you love to invite them over to dinner?

I know you've all had one.

Some of you might have had several.

You never forget them, no matter how hard you try . . .

I’m taking about dinner party disasters.

My husband and I were hosting our very first party, ever.

We were starting small.

People we thought would be forgiving if things didn't go perfectly.

Okay, it was a few of my former college buddies.

Fellow journalists.

I probably should have given it more thought . . .

Things were going well.

They had exclaimed loudly and satisfactorily over our new addition, a cute little Old English Sheepdog puppy named Skaya.

And greeted Skaya's companion and chewing toy, two-year-old Muffy. 

Another OES.

Who, by the by, couldn't understand what any of us saw in this small, annoying ball of fuzz.

We had served them their before-dinner drinks of chilled ginger ale.

We’re talking high-class here.

We chatted. 

That's a classy term for 'gabbed like crows'. 

Because we're classy.

Ahem . . .

Dinner was ready.

They took their places while I proudly carried in the tureen (a classy term for 'bowl' because we were being . . . I'll move on) of Beef Stroganoff.

Yes.

Really.

I made Beef Stroganoff.

Me, who can't even spell Beef Stroganoff.

Talk ceased as all eyes were on me.

It was my proudest moment.

And, just like that, it was over.

The side of the stupid bowl (okay, classy had definitely flown out the window) broke right out and the entire contents of hot deliciousness landed, unceremoniously, in the nearest girl's lap.

Did I mention hot?

Did I mention lap?

There was a breathless gasp of dismay.

And my friend was on her feet, scraping frenziedly at the formerly delicious-looking, now distinctly icky, main course.

But, sadly, the story doesn't end there.

While my husby and I were frantically trying to clean up our sticky and uncomfortable guest, our  puppy, Skaya, was making quick work of everything that had hit the floor.

She was efficient.

And thorough.

We ignored her, foolishly thinking that we were taking care of the greater problem.

We were so wrong.

Skaya, having cleaned up the floor crawled under the table and proceeded to . . . umm . . . regurgitate everything she had just managed to swallow.

Placing it, quite effectively, on everyone else's shoes.

Something, I might mention, that wasn't lost on the aforementioned everyone else.

There was a mad scramble as people leaped to their feet in a vain attempt to avoid the . . . erm . . . mess.

My Husby grabbed the little pup's collar and dragged her towards the door.

Now, I should point out, here, that Skaya, when frightened, always performed what we later termed the 'submarine manoeuvre'.

Blow all tanks.

She left a (for want of a better term) 'trail' all the way across the floor and out the door.

For just a moment, there was silence in the dining room.

Picture the scene:

Beef Stroganoff, in its many incarnations, everywhere.

Guests liberally bedaubed.

Ichor in a glorious trail on top of everything else.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Or appetizing.

Needless to say, most of the guests turned down our offer of 'something else to eat?'.

And left soon after.

Never to return.

But we learned.

Now, when we invite people over, they are invariably handed a long, twisted wire and a hot dog and told to 'crowd into the fire and git started'.

It saves on mess.

And embarrassment.

And the dog is in its proper place.

Golf Hazards

Daddy loved telling this one...

Our Gary, well, he loved his golf, much more than I can say,

He’d waited for this tee time. It was such a perfect day!

 And, with his friends, enjoyed the game. Was really doing fine,

It seemed that, on this day, the planets truly had aligned,

The four of them were teeing off there on the seventh hole,

Just where the public road, around the busy golf course scrolls,

T’was at that moment that a funeral cavalcade went by,

Then Gary dropped his club and doffed his hat and closed his eyes,

He stayed like that the whole time as the convoy wound around,

His friends just stood and waited, didn’t make a single sound,

Then, when the cars had gone, and peace had once more been restored,

They looked at Gary. One said, “Man, you surely had me floored!

I am impressed with your respect and taking time to pay

So much esteem to that poor soul and showing it that way!”

Ol' Gary shrugged, put on his hat and grabbed himself a beer,

“Well, what the hay,” he said. “We two were married forty years!”

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, there will be outs and ins

as we're discussing Safety Pins!

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!)...

Golf (April 10) Today!

Safety Pins (April 17)

Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

Rhinos (May 1)

Socks (May 8)

Chocolate Chip (May 15)

Musical Instruments (May 22)

Compost (May 29)

 

 

 

Toddler Do

Who says the younger generation isn’t paying attention . . .?

My good friend, Jen, was having one of her ‘normal’ days.

Housework.

Kids in school.

Kids at home.

She came upstairs from the laundry room.

To hear someone in the front room.

Talking.

Now you have to know that Toddler Girl wasn’t yet making real words.

And the baby was rosily asleep in his crib.

Who could possibly be talking?

She dashed around the corner of the front room and skidded to a stop.

Huh.

Toddler Girl had a baby doll wrapped up and tucked into the crook of one arm.

In her free hand, she held a toy telephone.

She was walking back and forth across the room bouncing her doll up and down in the approved ‘pacifying-the-baby’ manoeuver.

But it was what she was doing with the phone that really caught Jen’s attention.

She held it to her ear, babbled animatedly for a few seconds (with no recognizable words) and threw her head back and laughed out loud.

Then, as Jen watched, she repeated the whole exercise. Walk about jiggling the baby. Talk animatedly. Laugh uproariously.

Hmmm . . . I wonder where she picked that up?

They are watching.

And taking note.

I guess talking enthusiastically and laughing while taking care of the baby is a good thing for them to see.

And emulate.

Unlike my kids who caught me eating peanut butter out of the jar.

With a spoon.

And forever after . . .

Well. Enough said.

Phil and Chiefy

Thinking of the Old English Sheepdogs we have been privileged to have in our home.

It brought back a tender memory.

Of a little boy who loved one of them...

Okay. Picture him even smaller and glued to a dog...

Phil was a tiny boy.

Not yet two.

With the dubious honour of being both the youngest of the ‘Three Musketeers’ and of his family of seven.

He had been dropped off at Auntie and Uncle’s place for a few days while Mom and Dad took a brief holiday.

For the first few minutes, he followed sisters and brothers around the unfamiliar house, whimpering and trying to make sure they didn’t disappear.

Like his parents had done. 

Then he saw his Auntie’s three Old English Sheepdogs.

Tears were forgotten as his face brightened. 

His small world . . . changed.

For the next two days, Phil attached himself, quite literally, to the big male, Chiefy.

Whom, in his baby way, he thought was called ‘Chiefy-Sit’.

During that time, whenever Chiefy moved, it was with two small hands clutching fistfuls of long, grey hair and a little man toddling along as fast as he could, babbling, “Chiefy-Sit! Chiefy-Sit!”

When Chiefy finally did ‘sit’, Phil would pounce on him. Burying his little face in the soft, gray hair.

If Phil was distracted and moved away, Chiefy followed.

When the little boy slept in his crib, it was with one small hand through the bars, still clutching the long, soft hair.

They were quite literally, inseparable.

It was a short, sweet, two days.

But it ended.

Phil’s family moved away and visits were few and far between.

He grew up and Chiefy grew old.

They never saw each-other again.

Twenty years after this story, Husby and I travelled down to Portland, Oregon to witness Phil and his bride marry.

Since then, he’s become a father and graduated medical school.

He is a plastic surgeon now.

All grown up.

But in my mind, he will always be that little boy.

Clutching the soft grey hair of his short-term furry best friend. . .

Backed Up

Ah. The good old days . . .

I had to take a couple of horses to auction.

One of the more painful aspects of ranching . . .

In the old days, when I was ranching with my parents, a truck and trailer (chosen from the selection on hand) would appear magically outside the ranch house, loaded and ready to go compliments of my dad or my next older brother.

Oh, the good old days.

This new ranching-on-my-own required much more forethought.

I had the horses.

And the pickup.

What I needed was a trailer.

A rental was indicated.

As an absolute neophyte in this area, I did what one did back then.

Went to the Yellow Pages.

Huh. Did you know there were dozens of companies whose sole purpose was to supply one with the best, biggest, lightest, heaviest, sleekest, cleanest, most-efficient, strongest, easiest-to-pull, prettiest (okay, I added that one), most-amazing trailer in the area?

Well there are.

I chose the nearest dealer.

And a trailer that looked like one of Dad’s.

Better the evil you know . . .

I drove over and, trying to look like I had done this all my life, hooked up to my newly-borrowed piece of equipment.

Okay, that part was easy. Back up the truck as near to the trailer hitch as possible.

Or until the attendant hollered, “Whoa!”

And hook up.

Okay. From that point I was more-or-less comfortable. I had pulled a trailer many times in my life. My real problems arose when I tried something new.

Like backing up with said trailer attached.

This is where I admit that my brother or Dad had always done the ‘intricate’ work.

Have you ever tried this?

Backing up a trailer, I mean.

It’s perverse.

You have to turn the controller vehicle in the complete opposite direction you want the trailer to go.

All the while looking backward over your shoulder.

It’s like trying to write something on a wall behind you by looking in a mirror.

Everything screams at you to turn the other way.

Usually while your spotter/attendant is screaming at you to do it right.

Sigh.

I did make it to the auction.

Horses, truck and trailer intact.

And, after much, MUCH backing up and re-backing up and adjusting and backing up again, and attendants sweating and swearing, finally moved the trailer close enough to the ramp to off-load two confused and rather dizzy horses.

Then I got the heck out of there.

I stopped at the ranch to clean out the trailer.

A nervous horse is a poopy horse.

Just FYI.

And I took the trailer back.

Now, when I had picked up the behemoth, it had been parked among its fellows in a neat line.

Second from the end.

When collecting it, I had only needed to back the truck, hook on, and leave.

Simple.

Returning the trailer wasn’t going to be as easy.

I would need to maneuver it, without scarring its fellows on either side, back into its home.

The key word here is ‘back’. 

I was sweating before I even drove into the yard.

The attendant cheerfully indicated my parking spot.

Yep. Right where I expected.

Cue the Hitchcock violin music . . .Eeee! Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!

I pulled ahead and shoved the truck into reverse.

Then, taking a deep breath, pressed down on the gas.

And slid in as neatly and perfectly as any trailer-jockey out there.

On my first try.

Huh.

The trick then was to try to not look as surprised as the attendant.

And to keep the swagger (mostly caused by relief) out of my walk as I helped unhook.

And to suppress the desire to turn hand-springs on my way back to the truck.

Yep. Sometimes, the planets align.

All things work together.

And one is allowed to feel that sense of accomplishment that goes with a job well (and perfectly) done.

Not often.

But sometimes.

Enjoy it while it lasts . . .

Planning the Glue-ing

It was THE assignment.
The one the teacher had been threatening promising since the beginning of the year.
That was worth 50% of my final mark.
Yes. THAT assignment.
She had handed it out shortly after the Christmas break.
We had three months to complete it.
Due Date: April 1.
Feverishly, I set to work.
Researched. (And just so you know, research was a lot harder back then. It involved such things as: books. Physically turning pages. Trips to the *gasp* library. Looking things up in the card catalog. Knowing the Dewey Decimal System. Becoming close friends with the librarian. Yikes.)
Drew up draft after draft.
Finalized.
Put on the finishing touches.
Slept soundly the night of March 31, wrapped warmly in the knowledge that I had completed the assignment to the best of my ability and that, surely, an 'A' was forthcoming.
Okay, now forget everything I wrote from the line "Due Date: April 1."
Because this is what really happened.
................................................................................................................................................
................................................................................................................................................
Then March 31 dawned.
And with it, the knowledge that I should . . . you know . . . make a start on the assignment.
What was it again?
A trip to the library was out of the question. We lived 20 miles from town and 'no way one of my parents was going to pay for my slothfulness' .
I'm quoting my father BTW.
I turned to the only resources available.
Dad.
Mom.
The cook.
The hired men.
The encyclopedia Britannica.
And the National Geographic.
With occasional queries to my siblings.
And my horse.
Just FYI, that last was a total waste of time. He didn't know anything.
If  Necessity is the Mother of invention, then Desperation is its Father.
And I was truly desperate. (Hence said query to my horse.)
I sifted purposefully through Dad's stack of National Geographics (see above).
Chose a topic at random.
And started in.
Now, just so you know, Dad had problems with us kids cutting up his precious magazines.
But if you hid said magazines really, really well . . .
I don't remember what topic I chose.
But I do remember that there were plenty of colourful pictures that supported it. And as long as I cut using the correct scissors (Diane! You'd better not be using my sewing scissors?!) my biggest decision remained: Do I use this picture? Or the one on the other side ?
Fortunately, Mom had a store of poster board. I'm not sure why. Maybe because she had dealt with Procrastinator #4 (ie. me) before.
But there was one thing she did not have.
A bottle of glue.
And no it wasn't because I had eaten said glue.
Nope.
This bottle, my smaller siblings had eaten.
True story.
No way you could get them to eat broccoli. But give them a bottle of processed horse hooves and they were on it!
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Glue.
Or the lack thereof.
Then Mom made the momentous announcement: "If you mix flour and water into a thick paste, it sticks really well."
The day is mine!
I mixed and slathered and pasted.
And slathered and pasted.
And pasted.
And . . . you know what? It didn't work at all!
But by now, March 31 had rapidly turned into April 1 and the bus was coming.
I packaged up my 'project' and headed out.
Kathy was proudly showing the culmination of months of preparation when I got on the bus. I don't remember her topic, but I think it had flashing neon lights and maybe an actual working model of a machine that turned lead into gold. Complete with lead. And gold.
Yeah, Kathy was amazing like that.
When she asked me about mine, I quickly changed the subject: "Oh my! Look! Balog's cows are out!"
Yeah, I was clever that way.
Shortly thereafter, I turned in my project along with the others and happily forgot about it.
I think I received a "Diane would have gotten a better grade if she'd spent more time on this assignment."
Who listened?
P.S. Years later, I discovered my assignment stuffed into a file in the back of Mom's file cabinet. And guess what? Those pictures were stuck so tight an act of God wouldn't have removed them.
Flour and water do work.
You just have to . . . plan ahead . . .

Mapped Out

Husby and I like to travel, it’s true,

There’s so many things now to see…and to do,

We’ve been known to travel by car or by air,

But things have sure changed with this travel affair.

 

Now when we go, we use cell phones and apps,

In earlier days we relied on our maps,

As he was the driver, most places, most times,

I had to navigate—NOT so sublime.

 

I’d figure out routes and mark them carefully,

Then spy out the exits and stops we would need,

“This is our exit!” I would say, all excited,

It was just like the weather report I recited...

 

Directing and pointing while guiding our mission

A little bit louder with each repetition.

Cause he of the steering control, he did not

Listen to me, despite how loud I got!

 

But the most aggravating aspect of this,

He drove us straight there, with nary a miss,

I would find us 8 ways to reach our destination,

But he simply drove with his ‘map aberration’!

 

We learned we could travel, we just learned what worked,

As long as the maps I did dutifully shirk,

Oddly, we two never argued, or worse,

The map simply stayed right there—tucked in my purse.

 

But now when we travel, we use GPS,

I type in the address with studied finesse,

And he simply follows, doesn’t dispute his choice

He never will argue with that sexy voice!

Years ago, I saw Foster Brooks at a roast for Jimmy Stewart.

For those who don't know, Foster Brooks was a stand-up comedian whose 'schtick' was acting drunk.

I thought he was hilarious.

Here, he discusses being the navigator for Jimmy Stewart during the Second World War.

 

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?

With the return of goose and loon...

Golfing season's starting soon!

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!)...

Maps (April 3) Today!

Golf (April 10)

Safety Pins (April 17)

Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

Rhinos (May 1)

Socks (May 8)

Chocolate Chip (May 15)

Musical Instruments (May 22)

Compost (May 29)