On the Alberta/Montana Border

Friday, June 30, 2023

Unhelpful

The two men stood there, staring,

Their task quite beyond their ken,

It would have been so easy,

With a ladder. And a pen.

Tasked as they were with gauging

Just how tall the flag pole was,

But lacking proper tools, you know,

The task had given pause.

Then finally, a passerby,

She noticed how they stared,

She thought that she could help them both,

This girl had come prepared!

And taking wrench and muscle,

She loosed a bolt or three,

Then laid that pole upon the ground,

And got down on her knees…

Then carefully, she measured it,

T’was twenty-six feet, just,

She nodded to the men and left,

They stared back with disgust.

“She didn’t help at all, you know!”

One, to the other, said.

“What we needed what the flagpole’s height.

She gave the width, instead!”

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,

With FLAGS this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

Baking In A Tornado: Seeing Red

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Thursday, June 29, 2023

In honour of International Camera Day: Cameras

I received my first camera the Christmas I was nine.

Together with one film.

A twelve exposure.

I hoarded those pictures judiciously. Carefully.

Only taking pictures of very, very special occasions.

And then, only when conditions were especially perfect.

Not.

I used up that first film in 32 seconds flat.

We had pictures of wrapping paper.

Kids admiring just-opened gifts nestled in a pile of wrapping paper.

And Mom stuffing more of said wrapping paper into the trash.

Okay, I admit it. Wrapping paper was the most exciting thing I could come up with.

Which says something about my life.

I should also mention, here, that my camera also came with a packet of little bulbs that you could press, one by one, into the flash. After they had been used, you pressed a little button and they would be forcibly ejected. This was an especially handy feature when brothers were hanging about. It’s amazing just how fast a brother can move when he has been shot with a little bulb of flaming-hot, molten glass.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

For the next few years, I snapped pictures of friends.

Doing . . . stuff.

Of pets.

Mine and other people's.

And vacations.

Most of them blurry and unrecognizable.

“Okay, this is a shot of Great Aunt Maud. Or of Old Faithful. Take your pick.”

In college, I was handed a ‘real’ camera.

With dials and buttons and switches.

And sent forth into the hinterland to ‘take some shots’.

Yikes.

I will admit that my picture-taking had improved.

Vastly.

Now, people were easily differentiated from, say, cakes.

And my basketball players looked like basketball players.

Not the LCC square-dancing team they were usually mistaken for.

On or off the court.

*snort*

In fact, my picture-taking skills had improved so much that I was given the position of official photographer in our Journalism class.

A promotion that came with its own dark room.

Yessiree. On any given Tuesday evening, I could be found in my darkroom.

Developing.

Now why does everyone smile when I say that?

It’s true.

I was developing.

Okay, yes, I usually had a young man in there with me.

But, inevitably, their idea of what goes on in a darkroom and mine were vastly different.

Hmmm. I think I know now why they looked so surprised when I told them to, and I quote, “Sit over there and stay out of my way!”

Back to my story. . .

Following college, I was given a ‘point-and-shoot’. A camera that guaranteed perfect pictures. Without any input from me.

Perfect.

For several years, it faithfully recorded early years of marriage. Baby arrivals. And family life.

With one ore two side trips into ‘someplace green’.

Until that momentous occasion when it died.

Never to go again.

After a normal grieving period, I got another point-and-shoot.

Digital.

No more films.

No more trips to the store, picking up or dropping off.

That little camera and I were inseparable.

Until that day.

When I got my new phone.

This was why.

Edmonton, Alberta at sunset.

Of course things have continued to improve, but I will stop there for now.

I admit that I sometimes think back to my little flashbulbs.

And the ejector that was so effective.

But only fleetingly.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

On Being Vain

Ready to work.
If you look closely, you'll note the absence of glasses.
And the presence of the band-aid.

Before I get Started: 1. My new boyfriend had a medical condition I wasn’t aware of.

2. The world refused to coalesce into remotely recognizable shapes when I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

3. I was vain.

There. I think I’ve covered all of the bases.

Would you care to try to convene these statements into a story?

I’m almost sure it would be better than mine.

Fine . . .

My new boyfriend was ‘working’ for my Dad.

Which meant that he spent a lot of time on the ranch, following me around, and occasionally did some actual work.

On this bright summer afternoon, we had been assigned the arduous task of moving the milk cow from her pasture on the east side of the buildings to the more convenient pasture on the west side.

We were on foot.

He was heeling.

I was heading.

Which meant that I was in the front to get in the way if said cow decided to turn in the wrong direction.

He was behind in case she suddenly felt that she couldn’t bear to leave her former pasture.

I should probably mention here that I always wore glasses. There’s nothing more embarrassing than discovering after a lengthy, one-sided conversation, that the person you are talking to is actually the neighbour’s mule.

I will say only that he was a good listener.

Back to my story . . .

On this bright and sunny afternoon, I had removed my glasses because I was trying to improve my tan lines. Large, white, goggle-shaped circles on one’s face weren’t conducive to beauty.

Oh, I also had a band-aid on my nose for the same reason.

Let's not talk about this any more . . .

At first all went well.

Then, they didn’t.

I ran ahead to stand as a human shield when the cow crossed over the entrance to the ranch buildings.

Once I was in position, I turned to ascertain progress.

The cow had turned and was heading back to familiar ground.

Boyfriend had disappeared.

Whaaaat?

I quickly ran up the road, got around the retreating animal and turned her back in the right direction.

Then spent the next twenty minutes sweating, hollering and cursing.

Oh yes. I cursed. For the whole story, read here. It’s not a pretty tale, but we’ll wait till you get back . . .

Finally, I had the stupid, perverse, ornery, cantankerous, belligerent, of-questionable-heritage, stupid (I repeat the word, deliberately) animal where she needed to go.

Daddy picked me up for the short ride to the ranch buildings.

And that’s when I remarked that my boyfriend, he of the dubious intelligence, had abandoned me.

Had just disappeared.

Dad frowned.

He turned into the drive to the ranch.

Then stopped.

Shoved the truck into reverse.

And, tires squealing, sped back along the main road.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your boyfriend,” Dad said, coming to a skidding stop.

“Oh.”

And there he was. My boyfriend. Lying in the ditch.

How had I missed that?

Oh, right. Glasses.

Turns out that he had a medical condition that caused him, at times, to faint.

Who knew?

Fortunately, he had simply slid down into the soft, thick grass that lined the ditch and slept peacefully in the warm sun until we discovered him.

Dad got him up and we helped him make his woozy way to the truck.

By the time we reached the ranch buildings, he was well on his way back to normalcy.

After we had gotten him seated on the couch and supplied with drinks and eats, Dad turned to me. “Glasses,” he said simply.

I nodded sheepishly and went to fetch them.

I learned something from this:

1. When acquiring a new boyfriend, always ascertain possible health concerns.

2. Don’t ever try to outguess your optician.

3. Don’t be vain.

You learned it here.

Monday, June 26, 2023

A Monday Groaner

My surgeon loves canoeing,

He does it all he can,

He says it helps him with the stress

As surgeries, he plans.

I find his language peppered,

With ‘canoeist’ words and terms,

We’ve all come to expect it,

As he juggles knives and germs.

But now I’m having worries,

At the choice he’s offer-ing,

I wonder if the time has passed,

For changing everything.

Cause he gave me the option,

(I would call it a monition!)

The gas or canoe paddle…

It’s an ether/oar condition!

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's a time for deep reflection,

And mirrors! (If there's no objection!)

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!)...

Canoes (June 26) Today!

Mirrors (July 3)

Teddy Bears (July 10)

Emojis (July 17)

Cousins (July 24)

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Friday, June 23, 2023

Sister's Dolly

See? Adorable!

How come my sister had one?!

And why couldn’t I?!

Life wasn’t fair!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

For my first Christmas, my big sister got a doll.

Well, to be honest, so did I.

But hers was amazing.

Dressed in a gorgeous pink satin dress with tiny white socks

and adorable little shoes, she was the most beautiful thing

I had ever seen. She had Auburn hair, like my sister and a

cute little face with eyes that opened and shut.

AND SHE COULD WALK!!!

No word of a lie. If you held onto her hands, she could walk!

She was perfect.

Now, I must admit that I recognized none of this when the doll

first appeared in our household.

My recognition of her perfection happened a few years later.

When I discovered this treasure sitting in lonely glory on my

sister’s bed.

Did I mention lonely?

Now there’s something I should probably point out here: there

were two things I could not stand to see when I was little.

1. A naked doll. (Just imagine how cold they must be!)

2. A lonely doll. (Oh, the poor thing!)

Okay, yes, I had issues, but I was nothing if not sympathetic. A

lonely doll was just asking to be played with. Even if one had

been told – many times – to LEAVE MY DOLL ALONE IT'S JUST

TO LOOK AT!!!

Pfff. That was just silly. Why would anyone have a toy they

didn't play with?!

I scoped out the neighbourhood, than scooped the treasure

off the bed and proceeded to walk her all over.

Do you know how many baby steps it was from one side of

my sister’s room to the other?

A lot.

We played happily for some time.

Or at least until discovered by my sister.

Usually said discovery was in the form of: “Mom! Diane’s got

my doll again!”

Whereupon (good word) I would answer from somewhere

under the bed: “Do not!”

This went on for months.

Until I discovered that one could actually buy horse

models.

Of every colour and breed.

And in all different sizes.

After that, my sister’s little beauty remained in lonely glory

on the bed.

And the sisterly conversation in her room changed to: “Mom!

Diane’s got her horses all over my floor again!”

And me, again from under the bed: “Do not!”

Sigh.

Thursday, June 22, 2023

Mostly Magic

He looked at me. “So? What’s your wish?”

I scrunched up my face into my most impressive I’m-thinking-about-it form and . . . thought about it.

So many options.

So much to choose from.

I opened my mouth, expecting something of import to emerge. What came out was, “Ummmm . . .”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

He sighed heavily and started tapping on the palm of one hand with a . . . Rats! I knew what it was, but the word ducked around the corner before I could bring it forward. I finally settled for calling it a wand. He tapped on one hand with a wand. “C’mon, lady. Make a wish. I really don’t have all day!”

I blinked and gulped and nodded. Maybe I could try . . . or . . . no . . . what I really wanted . . . Suddenly a brilliant suggestion presented itself. “Could I have a combination? A mixture?” I whispered hopefully.

He shrugged. “Please keep in mind I’m not a wizard,” he said. He scratched his ear and glanced toward the window.

Not a wizard? But I thought . . . I looked toward the window, too. The streetlights had come on and were casting pools of gold on a black street; shining bravely in a dark and moonless night. It appeared that a wind was starting to kick up. I could see bits of litter being blown around. I shivered and turned back.

He was watching me. “Well . . .?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll have a Double Magic Burger with everything on it except the cheese. And a side order of Onion O’s and . . .” I again glanced outside “. . . a Wizard-size mug of chocolate.”

He dropped the spurtle (I finally remembered the name of it!) he had been fiddling with to the counter and punched some buttons in the cash register. “Fine. You’re order number 16.” He took the ten from me, efficiently made change and then nodded and looked past me.

I stuffed my change into my purse and quickly shuffled to one side.

“Welcome to Magic Burger,” he said to the person in line behind me. “What's your wish?”

Wednesday, June 21, 2023

That Season of the Year

Buffalo cocoons. Ready to hatch...

It is buffalo season.

I know this may come as a surprise to you. Certainly it did to our granddaughter.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were driving to Banff, Alberta. It was time for our annual week at the Banff Rocky Mountain Resort. The place that has been our summer home for nearly 30 years.

That year, it was our eldest granddaughter’s turn to spend the week with Grandma and Grandpa, a privilege hotly contested amongst several of the grandchildren. Okay . . . well . . . amongst two of them.

The drive was perfect. Slightly cloudy but not raining or stormy. So the sun wasn’t a problem, but neither were the road surfaces.

Now, I should explain that our route takes us invariably through farm country. Some of the richest in Alberta. Long stretches of rolling hills heavy with nearly-ripe grains. Swaths of luxurious green, newly-mown hay, drying in the late summer sun until it’s ready for baling.

Fields of cocoons.

Cocoons?

And finally, we’re to the point of our story . . .

In many of these fields, there were dozens—even hundreds—of buffalo cocoons. Great cylindrical shapes of uniform size, some covered in plastic or mesh, and all simply sitting there in the fields, waiting to hatch.

Yeah, my granddaughter didn’t believe her grandfather, either.

And he described the day of hatching to her so well. When the long-dormant cocoons burst apart and fully-grown buffalo appear.

“It is quite a sight. The great, shaggy beasts, hungry from their developmental slumber move off in a herd, grazing, Running in the sun. Happy to be alive . . .”

I’m quoting her grandfather, of course.

Our 14-year-old granddaughter stared at him, skeptically. Obviously she wasn’t about to swallow her grandfather’s ‘this-is-how-things-happen’ story whole like the rest of her siblings and cousins.

Skepticism turned vocal. “Grampa, that’s not right. That isn’t how buffalo are made!”

Her grandfather looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “It totally is! The mother buffalo weaves her cocoons out of grasses, then tenderly inserts a seed into each one. You should have paid attention in Biology class.”

She gave him a disgusted look. “I did.”

Oops. They’re on to us . . .

Newly-hatched. Isn't he magnificent?!

Tuesday, June 20, 2023

A Little Feather-Brained

She was supposed to be raking leaves.

But you know how an assigned job can be forgotten. An assigned worker…sidetracked.

It happens to me. Once…

Never mind.

Chicken Little Feathers (of the Merrywoods Feathers) was supposed to be working.

C. Little, as she preferred to be called, had been asked to rake the leaves in the front yard.

Now admittedly, the front yard could only be considered enormous, taking in, as it did, most of the Hinderley forest.

But C. Little, full of energy and good intentions started in with a will.

A full hour later, with several enormous piles of well-raked leaves behind her and several thousand more ahead, she decided to take a well-deserved break.

Any of us would have done it.

She flopped down into one of her heaps of crunchy, brightly-coloured leaves.

For a few seconds, she lay there happily, totally relaxed.

A small breeze sprang up, cooling her slightly over-heated self.

But this breeze, unbeknownst to her, also twirled cheerfully around the giant tree just over her head.

An oak tree.

With dozens of baby oaks—AKA: acorns—nestled snugly against their stalwart parent.

Well most of them were snug.

One or two, not so much.

You can probably guess what happened next.

One of them lost its grip and dropped straight down (Not far from the tree!) onto the head of the little would-be gardener thirty feet below.

Now I know there are often pithy comparisons made between mighty oaks and their tiny, little acorns.

And acorns are comparatively tiny.

But drop one from thirty feet onto your head and see how you feel.

Am I right?

C. Little gasped and straightened, one wing over the rapidly-swelling bruise on her little head. She looked up into the tree and came to the only conclusion possible. A piece of the sky, had somehow become detached and fallen.

That sky barely glimpsed between the thick branches of the towering oak. Okay, yes, there are other conclusions. Each of which would have been vastly superior to the one jumped to.

But we’re talking about a little, feather-headed chicken.

C. Little leaped to her feet and screamed.

Loud enough for one of her nearby friends, Goosy Loosy (don’t look at me. I didn’t name these people) to hear her. She hurried over.

“What is it, Lit? What’s wrong?”

“Loos! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” C. Little pointed in the general direction of up.

Goosy Loosy tipped her feathery head, peered basically along the trajectory of the pointing feather and frowned a rather goosy frown.

She then looked back at C. Little. “I don’t see...”

It was at that precise moment the second of the not-so-snug acorns lost its not-so-powerful hold on its parent.

Hitting Miss Loosy on top of that aforementioned goosy head.

“Gahhh!” she screamed. “It’s true! It’s true!”

Okay, say what you will about panic. It has been known to motivate people to do amazing things.

Most of them bad.

“We must go and warn the king!” C. Little screamed.

“The entire kingdom is at risk!” she added.

Just like that, the two of them were off.

I won’t bore you with the details of their encounters with several other members of the feather-headed variety that ‘peopled’ the forest.

Suffice it to say their hysteria was contagious and leave it there.

Soon there was a panicky, but determined group of would-be saviours on their way to warn the king of the imminent danger to/probable destruction of, his kingdom.

Partway there, they stumbled upon a rather shifty, conniving fellow by the name of Loxy. First name Foxy.

Who, quite notably (and unlike the others) wasn’t panicking.

“Wooah, Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

Now, normally, when one has a mob situation, the individuals in it have ceased to think as individuals.

This was far from a normal situation.

But part of it, notably the not-thinking-for-themselves part, was still very much in effect.

Moving on…

“You might not have noticed it yet,” C. Little started out…

“BUT THE SKY IS FALLING!” The rest of the group chimed in.

Mr. Loxy looked up at the cloudless, blue sky, then back to them. “Seriously?”

Several feathered heads nodded.

He raised a rather foxy eyebrow. “Huh!”

“We’re on our way to warn the king!” C. Little said importantly.

“I bow to your selflessness and industry,” Mr. Loxy said. Again he looked at the sky.

“It’s funny how serene everything looks,” he added. “You’d never know there was a problem.”

“Hah! Remember the Titanic! And how serene everything appeared in the early minutes after striking the iceberg!”

Everyone turned to look at Miss Loosy.

“Say what?” Mr. Loxy said. “Ti-…”

Goosy Loosy’s eyes shifted away. Then back. “…-tanic. It was a ship. That…you know what? Never mind.”

Mr. Loxy stared. “Ahem. Back to our discussion. You’re on your way to warn the king?”

C. Little nodded. “Yes. It’s our civic duty.”

“It’s a long way to the palace from here,” Mr. Loxy said. “Look. Why don’t you come to my apartment and just post things on Forestbook. Everyone will get the message.”

He went on, “And of course they will believe it. And share it millions of times. The king is sure to hear.”

“Oooh! That sounds so much easier,” Ducky Lucky said. He held out one of his little, duck feet.

“All this walking is making my arches fall,” he added tearfully.

Everyone looked and nodded. Indeed those arches had fallen.

The feather-headed group thought Mr. Loxy made sense (see above vis-à-vis mob mentality) and followed him toward his apartment/lair.

It will probably not come as a surprise to learn that Mr. Loxy, contrary to what he said and what the others believed, had absolutely no intention of helping them out.

Admit it. Are any of you surprised here?

In fact, he was more concerned with what was going into his stomach than what may be falling out of the sky.

I’m sure you’ve guessed that none of the good-hearted but woefully-ignorant citizens emerged from Mr. Loxy’s lair.

There are several lessons here.

1. When the world around you is panicking, don’t.

2. Seek credible sources.

3. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.

4. Troubles bring out the good/bad in people.

5. Be one of the good..

Today’s post is a word challenge!