Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 101

Chirpy T. Cricket: Part One

My newest short story. In two parts.Part one:
First of all, I should probably tell you this story takes place in a barrel. In a barn. On a farm.A farm pretty much like any farm you drive past on your way to Grandma’s house.A barn that is big and delightfully shadowy with just the right mix of smells like hay and animals.And a barrel once fine and strong. Oak. Well-seasoned and sturdy.But now with a bottom well-rotted and non-existent.Okay, normally, this would render a barrel pretty much useless.But in this case, its bottomless state made it just the right home for the tunnels and burrows of a little orchestra of crickets.And that’s where our story starts . . .Chirpy was a cricket.A sweet, little fellow. Full of good humour and kindness.Very popular with all of his relatives and friends.  And much in demand when music was required.Because Chirpy was the finest musician in the entire orchestra. Why, when he rubbed his wings together, pure magic was born.No party or get-together was complete without the little magician of a musician on a stage or at least somewhere in the crowd.Ready to provide entertainment.With all of this popularity, you’d imagine that Chirpy was pretty pleased with life.And Chirpy was pleased. For the most part.But occasionally, he would feel down.Because Chirpy, he of the sweet temperament and exceptional musical skill was . . . how shall I say this tactfully . . . less notable in the whole ‘jumping’ department.In fact, his attempts at jumping were quite laughable.Certainly the other young, male crickets in his age group thought so.In particular, Chester (or Chet, as he was often, and affectionately, called) was quick to point it out.Chet was the highest jumper of them all. Why, when he jumped, he nearly attained orbit.Okay, I’m exaggerating, but you get the picture.Yep. Whenever Chet’s group got together, strength was what mattered.Who could jump furthest. Highest. Best.Let’s face it, in this crowd, the guy with music in his wings, no matter how angelic and perfect simply wasn’t taken seriously.It probably wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you that, though Chirpy was lauded from one end of the orchestra to the other for his music, what he really wanted was to be recognized for his jumping prowess.I know. Weird.To this end, Chirpy spent hours every day—practicing. He would go to his quiet little spot, over behind the little dirt mound on the far side of the barrel, and jump.And jump.And jump.Till his jumpers were sore.But still, when the guys, and particularly Chet, got together to show off their moves, Chirpy finished a distant—and disappointing—last.Sadly, the other young crickets began to make fun of his lack of ability in this regard.“Hey, Chirpy. We’re taking the girls up to watch the sunset. Hop on up here to the rim and join . . . oh, wait . . .”“Hey, Chirpy. Here’s a pebble. Let’s see you clear it!”And, “Chirp, old man! A bunch of us are going over to impress the girls. Maybe you could come along. And play us some theme music.”Each of these comments were always richly accompanied by derisive laughter. You know. The kind where not everyone is laughing.Yeah. That.Things got so bad that the ‘jumpers’ of the orchestra began to seek Chirpy out.Just to make fun of him.Chirpy got really, really good at . . . not being where they were.His mom tried to sympathize and encourage, but she just couldn’t compete with that little voice in Chirpy’s head telling him he simply wasn’t good enough.So Chirpy kept on practicing.He got better. He did. Still, when the young crickets gathered, Chirpy just couldn’t compete.One day, when Chirpy was sitting in his room, half-heartedly rehearsing for an upcoming concert, his sister, Chirly, burst in. “Hey, Chirp! They’ve announced a contest!”Chirpy looked at her. “Contest?”“Yeah! A big jumping contest! All of the crickets in the orchestra will be competing!”“Oh, goody.”Can’t you just feel his enthusiasm?“Think about it, Chirp! If you can win this contest, you will finally be accepted by all the Jumpers in the orchestra!”Chirpy’s face got just a little bit flushed—a real feat for someone who is one basic colour—shrugged a tiny, little cricket shrug and turned back to his music. “Why would I want to, Chirl?”For a moment, she was stumped for an answer. “Well . . . because.”Hmmm. Not much of an answer.“Won’t happen, Chirl.”“But . . . but . . . it’s what you’ve always wanted!”“Close the door when you leave.”Chirly shrugged and turned to go. “I just thought you’d be interested.”“Well, I’m not!!!”Okay, show of hands. Who thinks he really, really wasn’t interested in competing in the big jumping contest?Yeah, me, neither.

Tomorrow: The Conclusion
Will Chirpy enter the contest?
Will he *gasp* win the contest?
All will be revealed in the stunning conclusion to Chirpy T. Cricket.
Don't miss it!

Decorating Different-ly

Wraith - His usual locationWe are a theatrical family.And by that, I mean that we are deeply involved in theatre.Not that we are prone to theatrics in the home.Ahem . . .The Tolleys are known for things like – bursting into song spontaneously.With everyone knowing the words.Launching into long quotes at the mention of a single phrase.Dressing up.Our family was, quite literally, raised on the stage. (I can remember, on more than one occasion, saying to one of my kids, "Put your homework down! That was your cue!")To anyone not so inclined, we're weird.We do weird things.We direct/perform in/produce plays.We host Medieval feasts for no reason.We dress up on a theme and invite the neighbourhood to come in and eat pie to celebrate . . . whatever.To our neighbours, we are that family who doesn't do anything normally.Even our Christmas decorating is a bit . . . I'm going to stay with the 'PC' term and call it . . . different.We don't do lights.We did, but we've gotten lazy.Now our Christmas decorating consists of our Halloween decorating, plus a small addition.Yep. Weird. Wraith at Christmas
And, yes, that's a Humbug hat.
It's a Tolley thing...Years ago, for her Theatre Production graduation project, our youngest daughter sculpted a wraith.You heard correctly.A wraith.Nine feet tall and rather spooky looking.We love it.It comes out of our back yard every Halloween and is prominently displayed next to the front door.
Where it can scare the cookies out of the little 'trick-or-treaters'.And where it usually freezes so solidly to the grass that it must remain through Christmas and into the spring thaw.Sigh.
How do you hide a nine-foot-tall behemoth?
In plain sight.You can see what I mean.Yep. Christmas at the Tolleys.Everyone welcome!

Hum-ming

A hummingbird’s a tiny chap,Whose minute wings, like lightning flap,The smallest of the birding world,Some like a bee with wings unfurled,Their home is The Americas,As good a place as ever was,Specialized nectarivores,They pollinate the plants by scores.With wing beats up to 80 beats Per second as each deftly eats,And, holy smoke, their top-est speedCan 34 miles-per-hour exceed!And one more thing you'd like to know,Only they can backward, go.From Trochilidae family,Wow! Now you’ve learned a lot from me.But this is what I’m ‘bout to say,In my us-u-al long-winded way,The reason that they’re HUMming birds,(And this is really quite absurd,)But according to the reference books,S’the sound their wingbeats make. Gadzooks!You have to know, my dad told me,The actual truth and you’ll agree,The real reason that they hum,(And Dad knew everything. And some.)They hum because those silly birds,They simply do not know the words!
Cause Mondays to get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besought,To try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So all of us, together, we,Have crafted poems for you to see.And know you’ve read what we have brought…Did we help?Or did we not?JennyMother OwlMimiMerry Mae
Next week, we'll tell you (from our homes)
Our love/hate deal with wretched PHONES.

Crimeful-ness

Caitlin Age 3Nine o'clock pm.
Six happy, grubby little bodies scrubbed clean and clothed in freshly-laundered pajamas.
Six sets of shiny, white teeth brushed.
Six heads of hair neatly brushed.
Six stories read.
Six songs sung.
Six sweet, heartfelt prayers.
Six (times six) hugs and kisses.
And six children finally tucked up between fresh, clean sheets.
All are asleep.
Whew!
And now, their parents can relax, knowing that their happy, healthy and very active children have been properly prepared for a much-needed night's rest.
They can put their feet up and rejoice in a few stolen minutes of peace and calm. To visit together and catch up on the day's events.
All is well.
Then . . .
Little footsteps. Crossing the bedroom. Coming up the hall. Going into the kitchen.
The squeak of a refrigerator door.
Talk in the front room ceases. Two semi-alert parents are listening to the clandestine sounds.
Finally, the suspense is too much.
"Who's in the kitchen?"
Silence. A three-year-old intellect is working frantically.
"Who's there?"
"Ummm . . . not me!"
Healthy and clean and ready for bed? Yes.
Sneaky and clandestine and ready for a life of prevarication and/or crime? Not so much.

The First 25

Yes, it's blurry.
Photographing children and wildlife. It's the same . . .For two weeks, we had our youngest son’s (then) two children (ages 3 years and 16 months) in our home while their parents were exploring places warm and sunny.I should probably mention that, at the time, our home already housed four adults and one resident three-year-old.It was, for the most part, a marvelous time!
Twenty-five things we learned:1. Children are like the ocean. You never want to turn your back.2. The decibels reached by the average toddler during normal conversation cannot be measured by normal means.3. Enthusiasm and unhappiness are often expressed with the same ear-piercing wail.4. Also hunger, I’m-not-tired, and he-took-my-toy.5. Three-year-olds and scissors should never make even a passing acquaintance.6. Just because they’re approximately the same size, two three-year-olds don’t always see eye-to-eye.7. The definition of a toddler is someone two feet tall with an arm reach of eight feet.8. The head is equipped with a solid bone for a reason.9. Bike helmets should be a standard component of every outfit (see #8).10. Just because someone is looking at you, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are also listening.11. Hiding places turn easily into finding places. A little too easily. Sooo . . .12. Nothing is safe.13. A toddler can – and will – eat their weight in food.14. And, conversely, can live on air for an inordinate amount of time.15. If you turn on the TV, the only time they notice is for the first three minutes.16. And when you shut it off.17. The bathtub is an excellent place to play. 18. With or without water in it.19. If one wakes up in the middle of the night, one needs the company of a sibling.20. And/or at least two grandparents.21. If a diaper says 8 to 10 pounds, that really is all it will hold.22. The amount of time one needs to hurry a toddler to the potty is proportionate to the amount of time it takes for them to realize they have to go. And telling you.23. There's nothing quite like a small herd of children greeting you enthusiastically at the door when you get home.24. A toddler hug makes anything better.25. A toddler kiss, ditto.
Their parents returned home from a wonderful trip. Everyone was happily reunited.And Grandma went back to bed.

Mr. Scary

Me at 15 (red and white striped shirt).
And three of my amazing cousins.
My head was learning stuff. Who knew?!I learned a few things as I was growing up.
Okay, I know that comes as a surprise to many, but it's true.
Some lessons were fairly severe, but a few, and even some of the most life-changing were quite (for want of a better term) painless.
I was fifteen. And had been staying with my best friend and nearest neighbour at her parent's ranch, fifteen miles from my own.
It was a glorious week of riding, playing, getting into her parents' hair.
Oh, yes, a glorious week.
It was time to go home. Her parents needed the break.
It was a fairly easy trip when one was merely negotiating the fifteen miles of dirt roads between our ranches.
But my parents had moved, for the winter, to our town home in Milk River a further twenty miles away.
A trip of approximately an hour, if the road conditions were favourable. Which they often weren't.
Originally, my Dad had planned to pick me up when he came out to do a vet call.
His plans had changed.
And now, so had mine.
Sigh.
I would be riding with my best friend's uncle.
The scary one.
For an hour.
Just the two of us.
I suddenly didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I wanted to stay with my friend.
Or die.
Neither choice was given to me, however.
Amidst much hugging and goodbye-ing, I was pushed out the door and parked in the uncle's truck.
Doomed.
I curled into a little ball in my corner and tried to pretend I didn't exist.
We started out, the silence thick about us.
After a while, the uncle reached out and turned on the radio. A short time later, he turned it up.
Now, at least, we had music to fill the emptiness.
But I found myself getting more and more uncomfortable. My parents always claimed that visiting made the time go by faster. I definitely wanted that to happen.
Finally, I thought of a question about his ranching. I asked it.
He answered. Quite politely, I might add.
I asked another.
Again, he answered. With even more detail than the last.
This went on for some time. He turned the radio down. Then down again.
Then finally shut it off completely.
And it was then I realized that we were . . . visiting. And that he was funny. And not nearly as scary as when we got into the truck.
Huh. Who knew?
The trip turned out to be infinitely shorter than I had anticipated. In fact, we got so animated in our conversation that we were parked in my family's driveway before I even realized that we had reached the town.
And I learned that all you need to do to get a conversation going is to ask a question about whoever you're with. If you are genuinely interested, they like to talk about themselves.
I also learned that, when you are visiting, no one is as scary as they first appear.
Even someone else's uncle.

Kids of the City

City Kids!My cousin was visiting.For two whole glorious weeks.She was a city girl but the only difference between a city girl and a ranch girl was location.Right?I took her swimming in the river.She got sand in her suit.She taught me ballet.I fell over a lot.I taught her how to swing from a rope in the hay loft.She got a rope burn on her hands.She taught me how to act out stories.I . . . actually, I liked that. A lot.I tried to get her to ride the pigs.She stood outside the fence and made a face.And held her nose.She taught me gymnastics.I fell and knocked the air out of me.I decided it was time to teach her my most favourite thing.Horseback riding.I dragged her out to the corral and pushed her up to the top rail. Kicking and screaming.Her, not me.Looking back, I can see the differences between the two of us as we perched up on that fence.The country and the city girl.Me, in my inevitable shirt and jeans.She in her white slacks and blouse and light blue sweater.Even a fool would have found it obvious.I wasn't a fool.Well, actually . . . never mind.The horses were drowsing in the corral.She eyed them suspiciously.“They're okay,” I reassured her. “C'mon.”Trustingly, she followed me down and into the corral.I picked out the nearest horse, Coco. “Here. This is a good one.”“But she's so huge!” Her eyes got bigger as she drew closer.“She's gentle!” I gave the large, coco-brown mare a reassuring pat. The horse reached out and lipped my hair. “See?”My cousin moved beside me. “Okay. What do I do?”I showed her how to stand beside the horse and grab a handful of mane. Then I cupped my hands, told her to step into them and boosted her up. At the proper time, she swung her leg.She was aboard.The excitement must be coursing through her! She must be palpitating with accomplishment and eagerness and a sense of 'the world is mine'!I stepped back.I must admit that everything my cousin did was graceful. Her walking. Her dancing.Her falling off a horse.It should have been all right. The horse wasn't even moving, after all.But she didn't land on the ground.Instead, she fell onto something much . . . softer.I don't think she was pleased.I guess some people have a problem with large, steaming piles of horse buns. Road apples. Horse puckies.To the uninitiated, manure.But then people are so weird.She got to her feet. And looked down at her light blue sweater.Her heretofore pristine light blue sweater.Then she looked at me.Uh-oh.I never got my cousin back up on one of our horses.Instead we spent the rest of her stay dancing. Doing plays and gymnastics.Reading.While Mom got the marks out of her sweater.Before her mom saw them.Yep. City girls.

Light

The prairies are a wondrous sweepOf golden grains or grasses, deep,And there, on any clear-ish nights,A vast and velvet space—no lights,Where darkness is so deep and soft,And none but stars up there. Aloft.But when the work has kept me late,Out in that dark, as I relate,And when I’m finally headed home,Determined nevermore to roam,There’s not a sight so sweet to me,As lighted windows that I see.And as I move from dark to light,From cool to warm and blind to sight,I know that family will be there,And warmth and love and daily fare...
The years have passed, the city now,Embraces all. My needs endow.But still on darkish nights when I,Must be about, our needs supply,There’s nothing quite like heading home,Determined nevermore to roam,And not a sight more sweet to me,Than lighted windows that I see.
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?To Mother Owl, Jenny and Mimi,Have crafted poems for you to see,And now you've read what we have brought,Did we help?Or did we not?

Mine

You can look, but remember who it belongs to . . .Mountains. Beautiful. Majestic. Snow-capped. Towering.
Noticeable.
I love the mountains. Maybe not as much as my husband, who is a true connoisseur, but why quibble over details?
All my life, I have lived in the 'shadow' of the great Rockies. They were the immovable, dependable wall immediately to the west of us.
Our friends.
Companions.
Source of direction.
One distinctive peak, in particular, was familiar to us on the ranch. It was our nearest neighbour in the immense range. A huge block of stone, standing alone, with a large, rather squared-off top.
Boy scout troops had been know to clamber to its very summit. Of course, that was in the early days, before danger was invented.
I loved it.
It was my mountain.
I just couldn't remember what it was called . . .
Mom and I were heading toward the ranch.
She was driving.
I was bouncing around in the back seat.
This was before such safety measures as . . . seat belts. Shoulder harnesses.
Discipline.
I had been laying on the back seat, staring up at the roof. Suddenly, I thought of my mountain. I don't know why.
Because.
I sat up and leaned over the front seat. “Mom?”
“Mmm?”
That was her usual response. It didn't necessarily mean that her attention was yours, but it was a start.
“Mom!”
“What, dear.”
Okay, the line was open.
“Where's the Old Indian Hill?”
“The what?”
“The Old Indian Hill.”
She laughed. “Do you mean Old Chief Mountain?”
“Umm, okay.” Whatever. I just knew that the name had something to do with the Aboriginals.
“It's right there, Sweetheart. Straight ahead. When we're driving to the ranch, it's right in front of the road.”
“Oh.”
She was right. There it was. Rising before us in all its purple glory.
Cool.
I stared at it. My mountain.
From then on, whenever we were traveling home, I would look out the windshield for my stalwart, immovable beacon.
My guardian. My defender and protector.
The Blackfoot Tribe called it, Ninastiko.
The Peigans, Minnow Stahkoo.
The white man named it many things.
But, to me, it would always be my beloved 'Old Indian Hill'.

Read the legend! http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Leg...

Low Flying

Add a dashboard, seat, steering wheel, and dust and this is our  steed!Marty had a dune buggy.
Actually, it had once been a car. But it had been stripped down to the basics. Wheels. Frame. Seats. Motor. And a steering wheel.
Now it was a dune buggy.
That baby could go.
Just not on any conventional roads.
Marty would take us flying across the prairie at speeds beyond . . . what we should have been travelling.
But we were safe.
Marty had firm hands on the wheel.
As long as there was ground beneath us, all was well.
And that's where my story gets interesting . . .
It was a beautiful ssummer day.
The sun was high and hot. The air shimmered. The crickets and bugs were sending up a steady chorus. There was a haze of dust hanging in the still, dry air.
Perfect 'low flying' weather.
Marty had piled Michelle and I into his buggy for a ride.
Okay, I have to admit that the use of the word 'into' is a bit of a misnomer.
'Onto' would probably be more accurate.
I was in the middle. Marty on my left, steering wheel firmly in hand. Michelle on my right, casually slumped back in the seat, one foot propped up on the dashboard.
Oh, right. We also had a dashboard.
Back to my story . . .
We were flying across the prairie just to the west and north of Marty's family farm, talking and laughing and generally enjoying the wind in our faces.
The field stretched out smooth and green in front of us.
Marty stepped on the gas and we all felt the exhilaration of speed.
Then, quite suddenly, a . . . ditch . . . opened up in front of us.
Oh, not just a little ditch.
An irrigation ditch. 30 feet across and a good 20 feet deep.
More of a canal than a ditch, really.
Huh. Where did that come from? And, more importantly, how were we going to avoid it when it carved its way straight across the field before us from fence to fence.
And when we were travelling at upwards of 45 miles per hour.
You're right.
We couldn't.
We didn't.
We launched off the west bank in a graceful arc.
Now the Dukes of Hazzard would have made it.
Evel Kinevel would have made it.
Even Barney Oldfield would have made it.
But three farm kids in a souped-up, stripped-down 'dune buggy'?
Not a chance.
We hit the opposite bank just below the lip still doing 45 miles per hour.
It's funny just how many thoughts can race through your head in the split seconds between launch and land. I remember thinking that Marty really was taking us flying.
Cool.
Then . . . crunch.
The buggy stopped instantly, of course, and slid down to the bottom of the canal.
We sat there, stunned for a moment.
And then the moaning started.
I was fine. I just thought I should point that out.
Something to note - when getting involved in an accident in a dune buggy, the middle position is the safest.
Moving on . . .
Marty and Michelle . . . weren't.
Fine, I mean.
Marty had broken his beloved steering wheel with his chin, splitting it open to the bone.
His chin, I mean.
Michelle was even worse off.
The foot that had been so casually propped up on the dashboard had been driven back by the force of our crash and dislocated her hip.
She was in . . . considerable . . . pain.
Marty put a hand over his chin and ran to the farmhouse a quarter of a mile away for help.
It was up to me to pull Michelle up out of the ditch.
Okay, it probably would have been easier . . . and wiser . . . to call an ambulance and wait for professional help, but we were kids of the country, raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.
We acted first.
And thought after.
Slowly and painstakingly, I turned Michelle onto her uninjured side. Then I pulled her up the steep bank. One step at a time.
Step, step. Pull.
Step, step. Pull.
She must have suffered agony throughout the entire ordeal, but she said little.
As we were nearing the top, Marty pulled up in his family's car.
Between the two of us, he and I managed to pull Michelle into the back seat. Then, Marty drove us to the hospital.
Funny that it never occurred to any of us to feel alarm when we again saw Marty with a steering wheel in his hands.
Go figure.
He got us there safely.
This time, professionals maneuvered Michelle out of the car and onto a stretcher.
By this point, I'm quite sure she appreciated their expertise.
And their drugs.
Her hip was restored, though she had to suffer through traction and treatments for months afterwards.
Marty was sewn back together and sports a sexy scar on his chin to this day.
I emerged unscathed.
A few days later, I was flying across the prairie with Dennis in his dune buggy.
Some people never learn.