A Little Unexpected

First of all, I should tell you that, following a home invasion a few months ago, Mom insisted Sally have an alarm system installed. A loud one.

With buttons in every room of the house.

Which, when pressed, can signal Arcturus.

Well, that’s what it seems like.

Actually, I was fairly enthusiastic about said alarm system, being intimately involved in said invasion.

On with our story…

Okay, I admit it.

I overreacted.

But when one lives with Sally…

Sally and Mort have returned. She was away, filming some sort of thriller—a departure for her. Mostly she’s been cast in adventures.

She doesn’t have to act for those. (snort!)

Ahem…

Anyways, this film featured Sally (in the starring role) as a girl who ends up staying in some sort of haunted castle. They were filming at a genuine castle somewhere in Romania. Where, apparently, the ‘spookiness’ didn’t have to be enhanced in any way.

‘Nuff said.

But since they’ve been back, Sally has been…anxious. You know, nightmares. Sleepwalking.

Like we didn’t have enough to contend with when she is just ‘normal’.

What am I saying?!

It’s been strange because, up until now, there hasn’t been anything that seems to disturb our girl. She has handled her usually self-inflicted chaotic life—including kidnapping—with equanimity (look it up) and courage.

Anyways, at about 11 pm I kissed Peter goodnight at the front door and waved him off, then headed to bed.

Everyone else had already retired and the house was blessedly quiet.

It remained so for a couple of hours.

Then there was a horrendous scream next to my bed.

I am not making this up. The scream was right there beside me!

Of course, it was Sally, on one of her new sleep-walking dream tours. Something I figured out later. After my brain actually caught up.

Of course, I sat straight up from my sound sleep.

Of course, I slapped the button on the night table next to my bed.

And the aforementioned alarm system?

Well, just know that there are emergency workers enroute from Arcturus as we speak.

The ones closer by—ie. the police—arrived within a couple of minutes.

Confusion, shouting and milling by partially-awake people along with the screaming of a very upset baby added to the confusion.

Let’s just face it—if anyone in our neighbourhood—in our city—had been asleep, they weren’t any longer.

By the time the police had shut off the klaxon, ascertained (Ooo! Good word!) that no one had broken in and Sally et al were safe and accounted for, every light in the neighborhood was on with most of the neighbours standing out on their lawns. Or ours.

Sleep was probably banned forever.

Sigh.

The police finally left.

Mom and Dad took Ivy Jean up to their suite to calm her down.

Even Sally and Mort disappeared downstairs into their apartment.

With stern admonitions for Sally to stay there.

And never work on another scary picture.

Ever.

I was sitting on the front step, enjoying the newfound peace when Peter appeared on his bicycle.

In his PJ’s.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the alarm also goes off at his house—something he insisted on after that home invasion wherein I…never mind. You understand.

“Gwen!” he gasped out. He dropped the bike on the lawn and scooped me up off the step. “Are you all right?”

I felt my face grow hot. “Yeah. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, man! I’ve never been so worried. I couldn’t get you on your phone—or anyone else either.”

“Oh, sorry. Things were a little—”

He didn’t wait for me to finish. “Then my stupid car wouldn’t start!” His hold on me tightened. “The distance from your house to mine might as well have been from here to the moon!”

“Yeah, I think they heard the alarm there—”

Again he interrupted. “I can’t stand this a moment longer!” He set me down, then dropped to one knee. “Gwen, will you marry me? Please?”

Use Your Words is a writing challenge!

Each month, I exchange words with my friend and intrepid leader, Karen of Baking in a Tornado 

Neither of us knows what the other will do with her words.

This month, Karen gave me: 

found ~ where ~ people ~ return ~ dream

Thank you, my friend!

Now go see what Karen did with my words!

BakingIn ATornado 

Motivated

What we wanted.

What we got.

Debbie and I had spent the morning dreaming about the big ‘B’.

Boys.

All of whom were fascinating and none of whom were interested.

Sigh.

We were drooling over yet another male lead in a long line-up of romantic movies.

This one was a Western. My personal favourite.

Mmmmm . . .

Suddenly, Debbie jumped up and shut off the TV right in the middle of our current favourite doing...erm...cowboy things.

Who does that?!

“I want to do something,” she announced.

I glowered at her and briefly considered pointing out that we were doing something. Her whole demeanour suggested . . . action. Which probably meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to get off the couch.

Ugh.

“I want to build a birdbath.”

I stared. Had I heard her correctly?

“I’m serious!” Her voice started to gain in pitch and enthusiasm. “I saw one in a magazine article. It was made of cement and had an all ‘harmonious-with-nature’ theme. It started with a little pool up top, then plunging down a waterfall  to the bottom!”

In her eagerness, she began to pace.

I hated it when she did that.

“We could make a little thatched roof to limit weather-ly interference.” She spun around to face me. “So what do you think?!”

I should point out here that her asking me that was merely a magnanimous gesture. We were doing it. She just wanted me to feel included.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. Let’s get this over with . . .

Pulling her little brother’s wagon, the two of us walked downtown to the hardware store. Then followed a frenzied rush to grab anything she thought would help. And the expenditure of two months of allowance.

As we toted her baggage home, she talked endlessly about the indelible impression her creation would make. About how the town gentry would stroll past, abandoning their normally impartial opinions in their excitement over this brush with the . . . wet and bird-like.

Yeah, she dreamt big, that Debbie.

What followed could only be considered inhumane – which is really ironic, considering we were creating something to benefit nature.

Because I was a farm girl – with muscles - I hauled cement. Mixed cement. Formed cement in a great hole which I had also helped dig.

Then I collapsed.

Debbie looked at the mass of grey glop in the bottom of our hole and then at her exhausted friend.

“It’s perfect!” she said.

I, too, looked into the hole. At the plop of cement in the bottom. Seriously?

Debbie got the garden hose and filled the little indent in the top of her creation. “See? Perfect!”

I blinked. Then turned to look at the paraphernalia strewn about. “What about . . .?” I got no further.

“Perfect!” Debbie nodded decisively, then gathered everything else up and packed it away.

After that, when the weather cooperated, Debbie happily filled her birdbath. Her beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing work of art.

Well, to her . . .

Debbie’s family moved away from Milk River decades ago.

But I think her birdbath sits there to this day.

A monument to what can be accomplished by the lazy and unmotivated. 

Or of an afternoon spent with a friend.

Take your pick.

Mom Advice

Twenty-five of her sayings . . .
Plus one.

Treasure Trove.

1. At forty, a man knows almost half of what he knew at twenty.
2. How do Mothers ever learn about all the things they warn their daughters not to do?
3. We do not live by bread alone, though dough plays a very important part.
4. Beware of salesman with 'Pie in the Sky' ideas--They plan to use your dough.
5. Happiness can be thought, sought or caught. Never bought.
6. Little wonder today's teenager gets mixed up--half the adults are telling him to find himself. The other half are telling him to get lost.
7. What's the difference between a teacher and a train? A train says Choo, choo, choo. A teacher says, "Spit out your gum!"
8. A wife with horse sense never becomes a nag.
9. The best thing about some popular songs is they don't stay popular long.
10. A man owes it to himself to become successful. Once successful, he owes it to internal revenue.
11.The horse and buggy are disappearing, but not the waggin tongue.
12. Sometimes my Dad takes things apart when they don't go. You'd better go.
13. This is the land of opportunity. Where else could you afford to spend so much for so little?
14. Half of your troubles come from wanting your own way. The other half from getting it.
15. Tact is the art of making company feel at home when you wish they were!
16. Life begins at 40. But that's also when everything begins to wear out, fall out or spread out.
17. Middle age is when actions creak louder than words.
18. A flood is a river that's grown too big for its bridges.
19. Political bed fellows not only share the same bed but also the same bunk.
20. A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject.
21. All a youngster wants out of school is himself.
22. By the time a man gets to green pastures, he can't climb the fence.
23. The worst place to live in the world is beyond your income.
24. The best night spot is a comfortable bed.
25. No wishbone ever took the place of a backbone.

And bonus--My personal favourite:
Smokey the Bear and his wife could never have kids. Whenever she got fire in her eyes, he'd hit her in the head with a shovel.

The Therapy of Thwimming

Okay, it was scary.

But it turned out all right . . .

Our family have always been swimmers.

Our children are introduced to the water soon after they arrive.

And spend copious amounts of time there.

When we take a holiday, our choice of hotel is always based on whether or not it has a pool.

On to my story . . .

We were in Great Falls with my Husby's eldest brother and his family.

We had a favourite hotel there.

With *gasp* two pools.

The main pool was popular.

And usually busy.

We had decided to gather beside the smaller pool.

Adults, visiting.

Kids, playing.

Because we grown-ups hadn't planned on swimming, my Husby put on his suit under protest.

But I insisted.

At least one adult needed to be prepared.

We went down.

And spent a pleasant half-hour talking and laughing.

Now I should explain, here, that this smaller pool had one major draw-back.

It really wasn't made with children in mind.

It was roughly circular in shape.

And was shallow at the outer edges.

And deep in the middle.

I know. Weird.

Moving on . . .

Our oldest boy, aged four, was playing happily with his cousins in the shallows.

The kids were shouting and giggling and generally making 'happy' sounds and our oldest nephew, aged six, was keeping up a continuous dialogue of, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!”

His parents had tuned him out.

Something I simply couldn't do.

And for which I am eternally grateful.

“Mom!” he shouted.

I turned and looked at him.

“Mark's down there!” he said, pointing toward the centre of the pool.

My Husby looked at me.

“Get him!” I shouted.

He jumped in and an instant later, came up with our little boy.

For a few seconds, Mark coughed and gasped.

Then cried.

And just like that, our swim was over for the day.

We left the next morning, everyone well and happy, and completely unaware of the psychological damage that had been done.

A few days later, we took our family down to the river to our favourite swimming hole.

Though the water came no higher than his ankles, Mark refused to put one foot into the river.

Odd.

Later, we went to the local swimming pool for what had always been our favourite Saturday evening activity.

Mark, our fish, clung to the ladder and screamed.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

For the next few months, every time we tried to go swimming, it was the same.

People splashing around.

Mark sitting as far from the water as he could get.

Hmmmm.

A year passed.

Without much change.

Then our family moved to Edmonton.

Within hours of getting settled, my Husby discovered the local rec centre.

And their 'wave pool'.

Sounded intriguing.

What on earth was a wave pool?

We packed up the kids and went to investigate.

It turned out that a wave pool was just that.

A pool.

With waves.

For fifteen minutes, the water was calm.

Smooth.

Then a horn would blow and the waves would start.

Small, at first, then growing in size until they were . . . significant.

Mark had been paddling in the ankle-deep water at the shallow end.

A big step for him.

The horn sounded.

He looked up.

And stared at the wall of water coming toward him.

Okay, it wasn't a wall.

Maybe more of a . . . fence?

Well, maybe a median.

But it was definitely coming toward him.

We watched as he considered his options.

Then, to our surprise, he dropped to his knees and . . . let the wave roll over him.

And just like that, his fear was gone.

Our fish was back.

There is a codicil:

Mark is married now, and the father of six.

Several times a week, he takes his family swimming.

It is their favourite activity.

Every time they appear with wet hair and faces glowing with exercise and happiness, I give thanks for the disaster that wasn't.

And for the therapeutic properties of waves.

Ahhh! Therapy!

GUI

The Alexander Bros were sipping moonshine on the deck,

They’d been sipping for a while and both were feeling rather wrecked,

It was their newest batch and had been left a little long,

And—let’s just face it—one word to describe it now was ‘strong’!

Well, as they sat and sipped a truck went past with rolls of sod,

And Archie spat across the rail and gave that truck a nod,

Said sadly to his brother, Lenny, “What I wouldn’t do…

To live life like rich people can when they can hire a crew!”

Then Lenny looked at him, said, “Archie, what you on about?

What is it ‘bout that truck that’s gotten you in such a pout?”

Said Archie, “I just want to get the things that I am owed…

When I win the lottery, I’ll send my lawn out to git mowed!

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?

Roses are red, or sometimes they're blue,

Come join us next week, we'll have roses for you!

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!)...

Moonshine (August 7) Today!

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Newspapers (September 4)

Remembering (September 11)

Cheeseburgers (September 18)

Dreams (September 25)

Birthdays (October 2)

Family (October 9)

Dictionary (October 16)

Talk Shows (October 23)

Mischief (October 30)

Not Forgotten

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Loud music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw. He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

The Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an ironer.

A Demon ironer.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine. No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing. Everything had to be done just so. I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron. She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Once in a while.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there that's a women's size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

Collared

Dad on Shaker.
This really has nothing to do with the story.
I just like the picture!

Ranching is an adventure.

Sometimes a tad uncomfortable.

But always entertaining...

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a coupled pair of calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

He flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.

His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. An adventure.

You get the picture . . .

Dishters

My older sister and me.
Oh, and George.
And part of Dad
And a little bit of Jerry and Blair.

The food had been, as per Mom’s usual standard, delicious.

The conversation had flowed, eddying around such topics as - the day. School. Ranch work. Friends. Town politics.

I was sitting in a contented stupor.

Well fed.

My favourite people in the world around me.

Life was better than fabulous.

“Chris and Diane,” Mom said, smiling at us. “You girls are on dishes tonight.”

And, just like that, my euphoric bubble burst. I could almost hear the ‘snap’ of its passing.

We looked at each other.

“Okay!” Chris said, bouncing to her feet.

Have I mentioned that my older sister is one of those people who is always willing and cheerful?

She is.

Most of the time, I liked it.

Just not tonight.

My reaction to Mom’s announcement was anything but enthusiastic. “Dishes?! Mooom!”

Okay, I admit that my reaction was purely for selfish reasons. I was in the middle of a good book and my plan had been to drop straight back into it after supper.

But Mom’s word was law and I dragged myself to my feet and helped my perky sister scrape and stack the mountain of dishes.

We did fine to that point.

Now here is where the differences between her way of accomplishing the task, and mine, met.

And clashed.

When she washed, Chris liked to leave the tap on just a tiny trickle. Then she could wash, rinse the item by passing it through the stream, and set the dish into the draining board.

I, on the other hand, preferred the ‘turn-the-tap-on’ method.

Wherein one would turn on the tap each time one was ready to rinse.

In my opinion, it wasted less water.

Here is where I admit that Mom simply put some rinse water into the second sink and . . . dipped.

But who wanted to do it Mom’s way?

I was washing. So I got to choose.

Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Why don’t you just leave it on a trickle?” Chris asked. “It saves time.”

Already feeling disgruntled, I mumbled, “I prefer it this way!”

Big sigh from older sister.

Wash. Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Diane, this is really starting to bug me! Just leave the tap on!”

“Fine!” I turned on the tap and let it trickle.

Chris smiled and continued to dry dishes.

I washed something. Then, out of habit, turned the tap, forgetting that it was already on.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Another dish.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Right.”

Another dish.

This time, I turned the tap a little more forcefully than usual.

Not a problem if it wasn’t already on.

Which it was.

The water splashed out, soaking every available surface.

And my sister.

“Diane!”

Oops. “Umm . . . sorry?”

“Ugh. Get out of here and just let me do it!” She reached for the wash cloth and, just like that, I was out of a job.

I stood there for a moment and watched her.

Then I shrugged and went to find my book.

Sisters.

Pffff.                                              

Avoca-do

 I love avocados. Yes, you know I truly do,

Eaten peeled and sliced or simply smashed into a goo,

They are my go-to nibble when I’m needing just a nosh,

Or added to my salads when I’m wanting to look posh!

They grow in lots of places round the world—both north and south,

And all will taste delicious when you get them in your mouth,

But there is something ‘bout them which I’ll bet you do not know,

And that is how those avocados got to where they’d grow…

A giant ground sloth, Lestodon, he lived in olden days,

He, too, loved avocados and upon them, he would graze,

He (and his buddies), all of them, would then walk all about,

And then they’d give new meaning to the graphic words: ‘pooped out’!

So everywhere they went, they would ‘deposit’ avo stones,

And that is why we find the fruit in many different zones!

So know that as you eat them, how it was they came to be,

One of those good things ‘coming from within’ for you and me! 

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?

In the sky or bottle, we will (all of us) be fine,

Because next week our topic will be all about moonshine

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!)...

Avocados (July 31) Today!

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Newspapers (September 4)

Remembering (September 11)

Cheeseburgers (September 18)

Dreams (September 25)

Birthdays (October 2)

Family (October 9)

Dictionary (October 16)

Talk Shows (October 23)

Mischief (October 30)

A Little Bug-gy

The family had gathered for their evening meal that night,

Mom and Dad and siblings, and the youngest—small and slight,

Partway through the meal, that little boy said—from his seat,

“Dad, I was just wondering if bugs are good to eat?”

His father shook his head said,”Son, let’s not discuss that now,

No need to talk of icky things when we are eating chow,

After we are done’s the perfect time for us to talk,

Now eat your supper, Son,” he said. “And after, we’ll take stock.”

“But, Dad!” the boy protested. Said his father, “Son, stop there,

“I’m not discussing bugs while we are eating tasty fare,

“So tuck into you dinner, son, I promise afterward…

“We’ll talk of bugs forever—till your eyes start going blurred!”

They ate their meal in silence; cleaned and tidied up the room,

The boy forgot his question as he swept round with the broom,

And after all was finished, Dad gave his young boy a hug,

And told him, “Son, now is the time to ask about your bugs!”

The boy just shrugged and told his Dad, “It really matters not,

“Cause I’m no longer focused on the answer that I sought…

“There was a reason that I asked that question while we supped…

“You had a bug there in your soup, but you just ate it up!”

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 BUGS this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too!

Baking In A Tornado: Bug Me 

Messymimi’s Meanderings

 

 

 

 

Talking Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.