Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 108

Spilt Milk

This post may or may not be described as 'icky'.Sorry. Yummy deliciousness. Not.Milk. That commodity touted as one of the world’s most perfect foods. So important to growing bones and teeth. Or so it was described in the 50’s.
Like other ranching families, the Stringams had their own milk production system.
Bossy.
Not an original name, but at least it gave her a slight distinctive edge over 53. And 175. And 92. And . . . you get the picture.
Bossy was gentle. Quiet. Dependable. Everything a milk cow should be. Her milk production was high. Higher than most dairy cows. For that reason, she had been a family fixture for many years.
She also had a problem. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Every morning Dad, or one of the hired men, would carry home a galvanized steel pail filled with warm, rich, frothy milk, compliments of Bossy. This milk was then poured through a straining cloth into another pail and ‘purified’, then poured into sterilized jars.
The jars of still-warm milk were distributed to the various households on the ranch. Bossy was truly a remarkable cow to fill the needs of so many.
In the evening, the same procedure was repeated, only the captured milk was poured through the separator and the resultant thick, rich cream used for such remarkable things as ice cream, cream puffs, pastries, and many other treats aptly designed to satisfy the sweet tooth of every child - and most of the adults - living there.
The milk from which the cream had been removed, or ‘blue’ (skim) milk was given to the pigs, who thought they were in heaven.
It was a prefect system. Not a drop wasted.
Then the milk . . . changed.
At first, Dad thought the cow had gotten into a patch of weeds. Not an unknown thing on any ranch. The result of such a change in diet usually reflected, quickly but briefly, in the milk.
Onions make for a really . . . interesting . . . milk flavour. But I digress . . .
For some time, the milk continued to taste strange. But the processes remained the same. The milk was distributed. Separated. Consumed.
Then the rebellions started. Small at first.
“Mom, this milk tastes icky (real word)!”
“You’re imagining things, dear. Drink it.”
“Mom, it stinks!”
“Drink!”
Then larger.
“Mom if I have to drink one more glass of that milk, I’m going to be sick!”
“You need the calcium! Now drink!”
Mom was not unaware that the milk was distinctly off. But she was very concerned about giving her growing family the nutrition they needed.
Occasionally, she would bring home a container of milk from the store.
Which disappeared. Magically.
And also coined another phrase. “I’m going to stop buying this milk! You kids just drink it!”
Ummmm . . .
Finally, Mom got to the point where, if anyone complained about the milk, she would taste it, smack her lips appreciatively and say, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
As time passed, she got more and more creative in trying to get the horrible stuff past our pre-adolescent taste buds. She put it into puddings. Soups. Desserts.
And still we whined.
Then that glorious day. Dad went out to milk . . . and found the cow dead.
Really dead.
Hardware disease. Not uncommon and distinctly nasty.
Poor Bossy.
Our celebrations could be heard in Lethbridge.
An autopsy revealed what the rest of us had suspected for three long years. That the cow had something seriously wrong.
She had, some time while grazing, ingested a piece of metal and it had become lodged in her system, affecting her milk production. Eventually, it had worked its way through something important internally, and had been the cause of her death. Now you have to know that my Dad was a vet and, through the years, had given her every available test to see just what was wrong. And she remained bright-eyed and shiny-coated right to the bitter (I use this word intentionally) end.
Some things you just can't see...
There was no grieving.
Dad bought a new cow. A healthy, young one. And the ‘milk distribution system’ resumed as though it had never been interrupted.
With one important change. Whenever any of us was given a glass of milk, we would sniff it suspiciously. Even forty-five years after the described events.
Old habits die hard.
Kind of like our cow.


There is a codicil.
Years later, when my family and I were attending my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my children and I performed a skit. They were seated around a picnic table and I poured each of them an imaginary glass of milk, which they then ‘drank’.
Clutching their throats, each then succumbed to the terrible poison that had been ingested. Gasping out their last breaths, one by one, they collapsed onto the grass beneath the table, twitched a few times, then lay still. I picked up one of the imaginary glasses, pretended to take a drink, smacked my lips and said, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
At which point my eldest brother leaped to his feet and shouted, “IT DID! IT TASTED THAT BAD!!!”
Spill this milk. Please.

Planting Panties

Mom, Chris and JerryMom was a gardener. One of those . . . mmmajor gardeners. I’m almost certain that her garden produced enough to feed the entire country of England . . . or Russia . . . or the entire southern hemisphere . . . or . . . someone stop me! And because Mom was a gardener, her kids were gardeners, albeit reluctant ones. On any given day, you could find one bonneted head and several younger heads bent over the various plants, being more or less productive. We all had our assignments.I was four. My job was to lose interest and wander aimlessly about.
Oh, and eat peas.
Our family produce patch covered about 2 acres, give or take. The rows were probably about 40 feet long, but to a four-year-old, they stretched to Argentina. (I didn’t exactly know where that was, but it had a sort of far away-ish sound to it.) The patch was surrounded by pine trees. Tall, lush, they had been planted by my father in his youth – now that is a story – and now provided perfect shade for a small body who wanted to be out with the others but suffered from a short attention span.
So there I sat, whiling away the hours. Mostly, I lay on the cool grass and made life miserable for the ants and other small, harmless creatures. But deep beneath the overhanging branches of the towering pines were patches of dirt. And I discovered that it was fun to dig in that dirt and – don’t tell my mother – plant things.
But what would a four-year-old have to plant? All pea seeds had gone into the mouth. Hmmm. The pods were there. No sooner thought than done. What else? Shoes? Those had been kicked off when I had first hit the garden and were now lying abandoned in one of the rows, waiting to be discovered by the roto-tiller. Taking stock, I discovered that my feet were at least partially covered by . . . ahem . . . formerly white socks. They slipped off easily. A little furrow in the dirt and voila! A perfect place for a future ‘sock tree’. What else. The gardening bug had hit. I just had to plant! I just had to plant!
My mother had tried to instill in me the need for modesty, so removing anything obvious, like blouse or skirt was not even considered. What else did I have that I really didn’t need? I had it! Panties. Now I probably don't have to tell you that panties and me already had a history.But I'll save that for another day.These panties were the cute, blue ones, with little darker blue flowers. They would produce something lovely, I was sure! Off they came, and into the little trench dug specifically for them. I patted the dirt into place. Perfect. Job completed, I crawled out from under the tree. Mom was down the row of beans just in front of me, sitting back on her heels and waving her bonnet in front of a flushed face. She turned and smiled at me. Obviously, she had noticed nothing.
Feeling giddy with a sense of accomplishment, I joined her, offering to help pick the beans. She nodded gratefully and I squatted in my abbreviated skirts to begin.
I remember a gasp followed by a short period of 'question and answer'. Then strong hands propelling me unceremoniously back to my ‘garden’. I was ordered to dig up every article buried there. I stared up at her, aghast. The whole garden? Socks AND panties?
With an aggrieved air, I began to half-heartedly push at the dirt, only to uncover . . . nothing. I dug deeper. Still nothing. Where could they be? I crawled out from under the tree and stared up at it. Was I in the right place? I looked at the tree next to it. Surely. How could I be mistaken? Back into my ‘hidden garden’ which, incidentally, was becoming more hidden by the minute. We never did recover the things I had buried, though my mother turned up the dirt beneath every tree surrounding the garden. Where could they have gone? We’ll never know, now, but if being a successful gardener means planting things, I am an expert. If it also means that something is supposed to grow? I’m not.

Barnyard Lull-aby

The Stringam Wagon TrainI suppose it will come as no surprise that I love horses.
All horses.
And therein hangs a tail. (Did you see what I did there?)
On the ranch, everything ran like clockwork. Cows were milked. Cattle, horses, chickens and pigs fed, eggs gathered, meals served. One never had to look at a clock to know what time it was. You could tell merely by observing the natural rhythm of the operations that were an integral part of ranch life.
But that has only a peripheral connection to this story.
I loved horses. And I was a natural with them. I could climb on the back of the most dastardly villain the corral had to offer and handle him with ease.
I spent most of my waking hours with the horses.
And some of my sleeping ones, as you will learn . . .
During the day, my four-year-old self was fairly useless. I wandered here and there, usually sticking close to the barn, but occasionally breaking with tradition and getting into trouble in some other area.
(Chickens and I have a history, but that is another story.)
On this particular day, mealtime was fast approaching.Okay, we're back to that 'rhythm' thingy.Now I could always be counted on to appear for meals.
The bell (from a genuine for-reals steam engine) would ring and inform all and sundry – including total strangers living in Timbuktu – that it was time for everyone on the Stringam Ranch to head to the house because something truly wonderful was waiting there.
My Mom was a terrific cook.
The bell rang.
People assembled.
No Diane.
How could this be? She was always underfoot. Particularly at mealtimes.
Dad began to worry. He questioned the men.
Had any of them seen her?
Bud had shooed her away from the cow he was milking by singing ‘Danny Boy’. A guaranteed ‘Diane repellent’.
Al thought he had seen her going into the shed behind the barn, where the horses were.
Dad got to his feet. This was serious.
He headed for the barn.
The horses could come and go at will on the Stringam ranch. Mostly they preferred 'go'. But occasionally, when it was too hot or too cold, and because they were--basically--wussies, and lazy, they would hang around under the shed beside the barn and eat the hay that they didn’t have to stalk and kill themselves.
It was to this intrepid group that Dad went. He could see tails swishing as he approached. Usually, that meant that they were there.
He approached quietly, careful not to spook them.
A spooked horse is a stupid horse . . . well, actually most horses are st . . . oh, never mind.
He slipped carefully in under the shade. He patted one horse and slid between two others, and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
Then he saw it. Back in the corner.
Something peculiar.
A horse with . . . something on its back.
He patted another rump and moved a little closer.
The horses started to shift a bit.
Dad had finally moved far enough through the herd that he could see into the corner.
See the smallest pony, drooping in front of the manger, with a little girl turned backward on his back, her head on the wide, soft rump.
The rest of her in dreamland.
He had found me, but now for the tricky part. How to wake me without spooking the herd. If he spoke, the horses would surely work out the fact that it was a man standing among them and use that excuse to start running.
Or dancing.
Or playing chess.
You never know with horses.
He would have to take the chance. “Diane,” he whispered.
“Mmm?”
“Diane,” he said again, a little louder.
My eyes opened.
“Diane.” A third time.
I sat up and frowned at him. “What.”
“Time for dinner.”
Success. And who knew a four-year-old could move that fast?

Woe-Hawk

Hair is a renewable resource.
Dyed. Cut. Whatever.
Within a few weeks, whatever outrageous style had been conceived and achieved, is vastly changed.
For these reasons, I never balked when my kids wanted something new. Hair-wise. I dyed my son's hair blue when he asked. And I gave my sons Mohawks--ditto.
When we arrived at Daddy's apartment for a visit, he was less than...enthusiastic about their choice of style.
Until I dragged out the ol' photo album and pointed to the above picture. Taken when Daddy was sixteen. (He's the one on the right.) And leaving him without the proverbial ‘leg to stand on’.
Now I'll let my dear cousin, Anne Stringam Tingle take over the story...Diane -
I knew enough when I was a little girl to find this story funny. I was a little scared of Grandpa - he was quite stern, but I knew that what Mark had done was hilarious to everyone, except probably Grandpa. Certainly, Mark thought it was a huge kick.
I loved your Dad very much.
Anne 

I was a little girl living on the Milk River Ranch with my parents when my Uncle Mark was a cool cocky college student working on the ranch for the summer.
Grandpa and Grandma Stringam spent a lot of time at the ranch: Grandpa teaching my dad how to run a complex ranch operation and Grandma teaching my mum how to be a ranch wife and how to cook for hay and harvest crews as well as a bunkhouse full of hungry cowboys.
One lunchtime, after Mark had been sent into town for some baler parts, he trooped into the kitchen with the other ranch hands. They all knew the routine - wash hands and hang up your hat on the hooks in the entrance.
Mark swept off his hat to reveal a sassy, fresh mohawk hair cut.
There was complete silence as Grandpa slowly surveyed the desecrated cranium. Finally, he spoke: “The house rule and common courtesy requires that men remove their hats at the table. Mark, in your case, we will make an exception. Go get your hat.”
Later that summer, after the mohawk grew out, it wasn’t quite as sensational when Mark got a reverse mohawk (with the middle strip shaved and sides left long).
However, Grandpa reinstated the hat rule at the table - every man bare-headed, except Mark.There is a codicil: Dad told my brother that the reason he and Roule Gilchrist (in the picture with Dad) got a Mohawk in the first place was because Aunt Mary (Anne's mom) bet Dad 5 bucks that he wouldn't.
Ha!

In the Trees

I'm cheating a little for this week's Poetry Monday.The topic is camping.And I'm reusing a poem I published a couple of years ago.It's even more poignant to me today . . . Each summer, since the dawn of time,We’d pack our kids and dogs and gearWith plans to spend a week, sublimeAnd frolic with the bears and deer.
For camping was our family ‘thing’,Anticipated through the year,And, oh, what praises they would singWhen finally, the time was here.
We parents’d sit beside the fireAnd eat and laugh and shoot the breeze,While younger legs who’d never tireWould charge together through the trees.
With shouts and laughter as they ran,Or giggles, hopefully suppressed.‘Hide and Seek’ and ‘Kick the Can’And ‘Find the Flag’ and all the rest.
When daylight waned, called back to campTo spend a moment round the flames.And crown the glowing, happy champs,Then plan for the Tomorrow's games.
What fun to hear those voices shout,And watch their progress through the trees.To see them scurrying aboutOn fleetest feet; or hands and knees.
Time’s gone by. It’s what it does.And still, we’re camping in the trees.But something’s missing now, becauseThere’s silence floating on the breeze.
We parent’s camp, as we have done,With tales to tell and wood to hew,But in the trees, there is no one,No voices yelling, “I’ve found you!”
We tell ourselves it’s peaceful, true,As restful as someone could wish,We do the things we want to do,Like eat and nap and swim and fish.
At night, we stare into the flamesAnd talk about the times long past.When woods would ring with noisy gamesAnd summer days forever last.
But now our kids are raising theirs.And time’s a thing that’s hard to find,And spending days with deer and bear’sA priority that’s far behind.
Oh, what I’d give for one more day,When simple fun brought endless joy,When games would pass the time away,And woods would echo with the noise.

Mondays do 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 posted poems for you to see.Now go and see what they have doneI'm sure it will be lots of fun!JennyDeloresMotherOwlMimiAnd now you've seen what we have brought . . .Did we help?Or did we not?

Olé

Old Ranch. The barnyard is out there.
Near the  . . . ummm . . . barn.My very first ranch memory occurred when I was two. I had my new little red cowboy boots on. I was ready for anything. Dad was out in the blacksmith shop and I knew he would be happy to see me. Certainly, I would be happy to see him and though there were a fence and a large barnyard between us, I decided to make the journey. I'm afraid I rather discounted the importance of . . . the Cow.Oh, I knew she was there. I just didn't think it was important.
It was the custom in those days to take the calf away from the milk cow and only put the two of them together morning and evening, after the cow had been milked. That way, the cow’s production stayed very high, we were assured a constant supply of milk, and the calf received enough to ensure its proper growth.A good system all around.Except that one usually ended up with a rather irate, over-protective full-grown mama cow wandering at will in the barnyard. No problem. If you were an adult, or very fast.
I probably don't have to tell you - I was neither . . .I approached the gate.I don't know what it is about little children. But cows seem to think they are something dangerous. A dog, perhaps. Or a coyote or wolf.I do know that this particular cow spotted me the moment I came into view.And went into instant I-must-watch-this-creature-because-I-have-a-baby-and-who-knows-what-said-creature-may-do mode.I stood just inside the gate and watched her. She looked . . . nervous. Twitchy.Perhaps what she needed was some conversation!Having been raised to nearly three on a ranch, I was fully confident of my ability to speak cow. I walked over to the fence, put my face against the bars of the gate and proceeded to bellow impressively. I don’t know what I said, but it must have been interesting because the cow began to make noises of her own. And then she started running feints at the gate. Being two, I thought she was merely trying to amaze me. I continued to ‘talk’. She continued to react.
We were communicating.Finally, in a positive froth, she pounded over to the barn to make sure that her baby was still in his pen, unharmed. The way was clear for me to climb the fence and cross the no-man’s (or children's) land that was the barnyard. I proceeded to do so. I probably made it a few yards before she hit me. I don’t remember much about that part.My mother takes over the story from there.
She had been working in the kitchen and keeping an eye on me through the window. She had seen me standing beside the gate. Suddenly, as with any toddler, I disappeared. She didn't waste time in searching. She knew instinctively where I had gone. She started out on the run, spotting me just as I dropped down from the fence in triumph.
On the cow side.
Mom’s sight was obscured for a few moments as she ran. Trees. Sweat. Whatever. By the time she again had me in her sights, I was down and the cow was turning for a second engagement.
Mom leaped the fence at a single bound (maybe she opened the gate and ran through, but this sounds better) reaching me just ahead of the black and white frenzy. She scooped me up and screamed for my Dad, while the cow tried to knock me out of her arms. For a few seconds, Mom avoided the angry, gesticulating cow by spinning, pirouetting gracefully.
There was some real ‘bull-fighter’ potential there.
But soon, the cow tired of the performance and changed tactics. She decided that the best way to the child was through the mother. Fortunately, this new ‘barn(yard) dance’ with me at the centre was cut short by the arrival of my enraged father.
When anyone, or anything, was threatening one of his children, my dad would . . . well let me put it this way. Mount Vesuvius. In work boots. Needless to say, in short order, the cow forgot all about her ongoing problems with me and headed for the nearest far-away place with her tail tucked–figuratively speaking–between her legs, while a tear-stained toddler was being closely examined by two anxious parents. My only injuries were a couple of bruises and a red cowboy boot crushed flat. My sense of adventure remained unscathed.My poor parents. Me. Cow wrestling is hard work!

House H(a)unting

“Now this little gem is truly a diamond in the rough!”One thing I’ll say about our real estate agent, Mr. Gregory Gorman, he knows his clichés.In a little train, Mom, Sally and I followed him through the front door of the small, white, decades-old clapboard house.Sally leaned close to my ear. “It looks like something out of the fifties, but old,” she whispered. “I almost expect to see that what’s-his-name come in the front door and holler, ‘I’m home!’”I stared at her a moment.
“Who?”“You know. That guy in Father Knows Best.”“Father Knows what now?”“Oh, I forgot. You haven’t been watching with Mort and me. It’s a TV show. Started in the fifties. Father Knows Best. Mort says it reminds him of us.”Again I looked at her. “A pair of goofballs who end up together and destroy the world?”“What? No!” Sally flounced off.And in case you wondered: I read. I know what a ‘flounce’ is. Back to my story . . .“As you can see, this is the sweetest little living room/ dining room combination.” Mr. Gorman walked over to the large picture window and threw back the curtains, disclosing a wall of green. “With loads of privacy provided by the natural wonder of mature trees . . .”Natural wonder of mature trees? This guy should have been designing billboards somewhere. Or selling real estate. Oh, wait . . .“Dark as a pocket in here!” Sally was back. “I just peeked into the kitchen. It’s just as dark!” She looked at the large picture window. “I think the trees are about ready to move in!” She spun around. “In my opinion, this house is ghastly. A complete wreck!”“Sally! Shhh!” Mom was looking at us.“Yeah, Sally! Shhh!” I whispered. Secretly, I agreed with her.“Come look at these drapes . . .” Sally disappeared into the next room.I glanced at Mr. Gorman, who was waxing eloquent on things like 'rock-solid-foundation' and ‘they-don’t-build-them-like-this-anymore’. I wouldn’t be missed. I followed Sally.“Have you ever seen anything like them?” Sally’s voice came from the far side of the dark little room.I felt around for the light switch and flipped it on. A single bulb lit up, disclosing damp-stained wallpaper, a warped and rather rickety table and a single chair.And Sally, holding out a fold of the kitchen curtains and pointing at them with her other hand.I moved closer. “What’s the . . . oh . . .” I saw what she had seen. On what must have once been a brilliant pink background were slices of red watermelon. And widely-smiling, white-toothed African American faces. “What on earth . . .”“Right?” Sally dropped the curtain. “It always amazes me what people thought was acceptable back in the fifties.”I blinked. When Sally comes out with something reasonable, it always takes me by surprise.My eyelid began to twitch. I rubbed it.“Come on! Let’s see what else there is!” Sally headed for a door to one side of the small room and wrenched it open, disclosing a narrow stairway. “Ooh! Stairs!” She darted inside.“Sally, maybe we should wait for Mr. Gorman. And Mom.”But I was talking to empty space. Sally had disappeared.“Wow, Gwen! Look at this!” Her muffled voice drifted down the stairs.I started forward rather reluctantly and peered up the stairway.Just then, there was a creak overhead. The sound of snapping and cracking. And, with a mighty crash, Sally dropped into the room behind me, accompanied by half of the upper story. And all of the dust.Fortunately, she landed on the table, which then buckled slowly under her weight and dropped her, almost gently, onto the kitchen floor.Most of the debris rained around her, missing her entirely but completely covering the lower floor.A last, errant chunk of lath and plaster hit her squarely in the head.“Ow.” Sally rubbed the spot and glared at the offending piece of rubbish.“Sally! Are you all right?” I started to make my way toward her.Just then, Mom and Mr. Gorman appeared in the doorway. “Sally!” Mom shrieked. She, too started forward.The two of us pulled Sally from the wreckage and started brushing decades’ worth of plaster dust from her hair and shoulders. Sally sneezed a couple of times, then pushed our hands away. “Don’t worry. I’m all right!” She turned and stared at the rubble behind her, then peered up at the gaping hole that had once been the kitchen ceiling/front bedroom floor. “Wow.”She turned to Mr. Gorman. “So,” she asked brightly. “Have you any other houses to show us?”
Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornadoreceives lists of words from us, her loyal fans. Which she then distributes back to those same fans.But never to the same person who sent them.It’s totally fun. And no one knows whose words they will be getting.This month, my words: diamond ~ twitch ~ foundation ~ wreck ~ ghastlywere submitted by my friend, Jules at: https://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com
Now go and see what the others have done with their lists!
Baking in a Tornado Wandering Web Designer
Spatulas on Parade
The Bergham Chronicles
Bookworm in the Kitchen
Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Climaxed 

Small Differences

I know this will come as no small surprise.So I’ll just put it out there . . .Boys and girls are different.I’m not talking the obvious, physical differences.I’m talking the subtle ‘how-our-brains-work’ differences. Even at a very early age.And yes, I have a case in point . . .My daughter teaches three-year-olds. It is an exhausting, aggravating . . . utterly glorious job. Where the rewards are slim.But totally, totally worth it.And sometimes realized in unexpected ways.This past week, her tiny group of little learners was visited by a former class who had now reached the grand and mature age of five.All of whom were looking forward to their first year of school, beginning this fall. Thus, the topic of future schooling came up. Often.One of the three-year-olds (I’ll call her Daisy) joined the conversation . . .Daisy: “I’m going to school this fall, too!”Teacher: “That’s exciting, Daisy! It’s fun to go to school!”Daisy: “Yeah! I’ll learn lots of stuff!”Teacher: “Yes you will, honey!”Then the teacher turned to the other student in her class, a small boy (how about we call him Gary).Teacher: “And what about you, Gary? Are you going to school this fall?”Gary: “Bok! Bok! Bok! Bok!”Little girl thinking ahead. Little boy totally in the moment. See? Different.And this also illustrates one of the greatest rewards of working with small children.The things they say.

Training My Lazy

That Mike, he was a quiet man,A family benefactor.He buoyed a large posterityBy sitting on a tractor.
One day, his wife, I’ll call her Jean,Was working in the yard,The day was warm, the sun was hot,The task she’d set was hard.
Her Mike had finished for the dayRelaxing in his hammock,When she called out to him, “Hon, please!“I need someone dynamic!”
“I want some help here, if you could,“This job is problematic.“And while you’re up, please also check“That roof leak in the attic.”
He looked at her and said, “Sweet Jean,“I’d help with all that’s taxing,“But I can’t do two things at once,“And right now, I’m relaxing.”
She didn’t murder him right there,I know you all were worried,But from this tale, I gained a truthFor when life’s getting flurried.
When myriad tasks beset me,And everything is crazy,I simply can’t do two at once,So I’m working on my lazy!
Each month we write upon a themeSome folks think we're clever!And we have such a lot of fun,We'll do this thing forever! 
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Lazy Isn’t What It Once Was Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Lazy no More
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Lazy

Cart-Wheeled

It started out innocently enough.
Twenty of us spread in haphazard rows across the gym with our trusty little yoga mats beside us.
The lights were bright. The music lively—almost drowning out the grunts and gasps of the aforementioned twenty.
My youngest daughter and I had taken up a position on one side of the gym where we had a clear view of our faithful leader . . . erm . . . leading.
With a big smile permanently spread across her face, she was enthusiastically and effortlessly taking us through all kinds of exercises.
Working our non-existent abs and biceps in the plank and pushups. Testing creaking knees in lunges and squats.
Introducing things like the ‘inchworm’ and the ‘mountaineer’.
Yikes.
But, teeth gritted in determination, we were having fun.
We had been at it for about 20 minutes.
And many of us (okay, me) were starting to see a real sweat glow.
Then, that fateful command. “Okay everyone! I want you to try a cartwheel!”
A cartwheel? Had we heard correctly?
My daughter and I looked at each other.
She shrugged. “Well, here goes,” she said.
Now I have to tell you that, in a bygone day, I was actually able to do a cartwheel. A credible one.
I even taught others how to do them.
Did I still have it in me?
Only one way to find out.
I leaned over, my hands reaching for the floor . . .
And did a perfect round-off.
I kid you not. I did. A perfect one!
Now a round-off differs from a cartwheel in that once one’s hands are on the floor, the legs come up and rather than continue over in a spread-eagled, look-at-me-I’m-a-starfish sort of fashion, are clapped together and the body turned so the feet touch the ground together in a 180 degree turn from where they left off.
Got it?
Well I did it.
A perfect one.
And yes, I was as surprised as everyone else there.
Now did I gloat over my triumph and calmly move on to the next exercise?
I did not.
Oh, I gloated all right. I gloated myself right into another cartwheel.
I mean, if I could do it once, I could do it again, right?
Wrong.
This time, I tried a regular cartwheel. The spread eagle one.
Where one’s limbs are expected to be . . . spread-eagled.
Only mine don’t do that anymore.
There was a distinct ‘pop’.
And instant pain.
Now you have to know that our instructor is the sweetest, gentlest girl ever born. No way I was going to let her know I had injured myself. She would probably bathe me with her tears.
So to speak.
Instead, I gasped and somehow maintained a smile through the rest of the exercises.
Then limped home.
And kept on limping.
For two months.
I’m telling you all this in case any of you ever want to include me in your exercise regimen. Please know this:
I've discovered I’m a one-cartwheel woman. And that cartwheel has passed.
Ouch.