Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 119

Blowing My Own Horn

Yet another Diane Stringam Tolley novel has hit the shelves (so to speak!).
Tom, Becoming, my first romance in over a decade,  has . . . become.

Thomas Burroughs is a vicious businessman.Measuring himself only by his financial successes and his overweening ambitions, Thomas eschews friendships and family to feed this one desire.To his business associates, he is a force to follow. At a discrete distance.To his family, someone to be avoided.Then a simple wooden award, tossed unheeding into the trash, sets Thomas on a different path.Can someone who has lived his life only for gain . . . change?Truly change?Then, faced with the decision to live as he was or die as he has become . . .Well, what would you choose?
My first review is in and what a sweet one!5 stars!Thomas has everything and it's not enough. Mean and petty just because he can be, Thomas has so much he doesn't have the capacity to know he doesn't have what matters most. A beautifully written story, an easy read but you'll want to savor every word. Perfect for Book Club because there is much to explore. Keep a box of tissues near by and be prepared to feel your heart swell. As Thomas Becomes, you will be moved in ways only very special stories have the power to do. Treat yourself and read this, slowly.
Tom, Becoming is a piece of my heart and my soul. My take on whether or not a man can change.I hope you'll give Tom a read!Tom, Becoming (Amazon.ca)Tom, Becoming (Amazon.com)

Bread or Chocolate

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.
Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.
The subject of bread came up.
And the best places to get the least expensive.
“We never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter told me. “That’s far too expensive!”
“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”
I stared at him.
Okay. I admit it. It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.
We’re a homemade kind of family.
So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.
Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.
Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.
Moving on . . .
As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.
(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)
We were in Ellert's Red and White grocery store in Milk River.
Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.
I was perusing the candy display.
Also important.
Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.
“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”
I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.
Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?
 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.
There were, maybe, six aisles.
With the bakery being two aisles away.
I could do it if I scurried.
“Okay!” I shouted.
Then scurried.
There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.
‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.
I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.
“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.
Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”
Sigh.
I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.
Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.
Whew.
Mom started toward the front of the store.
It was now or never.
“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”
Chocolate bars were ten cents.
Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .
“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”
. . . stupid bread.

Game-y

The theme for Poetry today, Is Games our family liked to play.I'm not sure if they're games or not,But skiing and riding's what we got! 
My Sister. She only looks tough.In youth, I was a daring sort,A heedless, reckless charge-right-in.In games, activities and sports,In all events, through thick or thin.
My sister, she of softer mien,Would often follow where I led.On dusty trails or tracks unseen,The paths where ‘Angels fear to tread’ . . .
Upon Montana’s ski slopes there,A smooth trail beckoned through the woods.A path, the incandescent air,Promised everything that’s good.
But I’m a cowgirl to my toes,Even up upon the mountain side,I had one speed and t’wasn’t slow.My sister’s caution, I’d deride.
Spectacular and fast, my run,I made a final, breathless stop.Then waited for my Chris to come,And happily scanned the mountain top.
She didn’t show, I’m sure you’ve guessed.She’d fallen, twisted up her knee.And now her holiday was messedCause she’d been trying to catch me.
One summer, as we headed home,Bedecked in prairie dust and grime,From checking through the herds that roam,(And it was nearing supper time).
The lot fell to my sister there,To man the gate so we’d get through.She finished the small task with flair,Re-mount was all she had to do.
But as she slipped her foot intoThe stirrup, something went awry,Impatient me had spurred my horseAnd off t’ward home this goose did fly.
My sister’s horse did start to runAnd spilled her owner in the dirtA badly injured knee (not fun),And for my Sis, a world of hurt.
The message that I’ve tried to frameIn my telescopic, silly way,Is: We all know the one to blameAnd who the piper is we pay.
If adventure’s what you crave,If, into sports, you plow headfirst,Remember: Though they may seem brave,Avoid the cowgirls. They’re the worst!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?
Next week, because it's harvest time,We'll talk of harvest. All in rhyme!           

One More Horse

The Depression gave us many sad stories.But there are also stories of service and sacrifice that are truly inspiring . . .My Grampa Stringam was a rancher.He also served as an MLA in the provincial legislature.It kept him busy.And gave him a much broader scope in which to help those in need.One morning, he announced to Grandma that he was heading over to the neighbours.When Grandma asked why, he told her that the neighbour had a horse to sell.“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know we needed another horse.”Her response? A cryptic, “We don’t.”Grampa disappeared, returning some time later. Without the horse.When Grandma asked him if his business had been concluded satisfactorily, he nodded and smiled.Fixing him with her best frown, she asked him what was going on.His smiled widened. “I bought the neighbour’s horse.”“But why? When you admitted that we didn’t need another.”“Well, his wife needs medical help and he needs the money to pay for it.”Enough said.There is a codicil . . .Grampa paid the man for the horse.A fair sum for the times.The man’s wife got the medical help she needed.And all was well.But there is one other point to this story.An important one.Grampa never did go and get the horse he had paid for.Grandma was right.He didn’t need another horse.
Today is Ancestor Sunday.Tell me about yours!

A Crime of Coffin

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.Husby has a scar on his chin.A long scar from a large wound.A wound that took several stitches to close.And I gave it to him.Well, me and a coffin.You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.An almost endless round of ‘ing’.For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.Ugh.At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.Back to my story . . .Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.Hefted the coffin.And started in.And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.Literally.Husby, on the front end, tripped.Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.The bedroom of several more.And at least ten living rooms.A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.And blood was dripping through his fingers.Don’t you hate it when that happens?After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.Ewwww.A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.And a sexy scar.Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.Sigh.P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

Carpent(h)er

See?Her Mama (Daughter #2) is a carpenter.
Has been for over a decade. Soooo . . . since long before Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as GD6) was born.Mama is remarkably talented at building stage sets. In the dark backstages of Edmonton Alberta’s theatrical world, she is considered a tech bright light.So to speak.Ahem . . . Yes. That is a kitchen...Her mother was building sets and props in their kitchen when GD6 was only a week old.I have a picture of Mama painting the floor of a set with GD6 snug as a bug in a carrier.At the age of five months, GD6 and Grandma took up residence in one of the change rooms at one of the theatres while Mama was building down the hall in the shop. It was fairly entertaining to watch Mama blow the sawdust of herself when it was time to come and nurse the baby!But I digress . . .To say that GD6 has grown up with it is probably an understatement.In her little world, Mama is a carpenter. The end.A couple of days ago, GD6 got a bit of a shock.Let me tell you about it . . .They were out and about. Mama collecting materials for the building of a set for the soon-to-open Pinocchio by Alberta Opera.Then working on said set in the bowels of yet another Edmonton theatre.GD6 had been tagging along. Watching the fabrication.Playing on her IPad.Doing those things she has been doing for much of her six years.As they drove home, they passed some building construction.A fairly common sight in the always-growing city of Edmonton.They had stopped for traffic. There outside the window was a house currently being assembled.GD6 sat, looking at it. Then she noticed something. “Mama! There’s men carpenters!” She pointed.Her Mama nodded. “Yep.”“Huh! I didn’t know there could be men carpenters!”Truly the world is a place of surprises.

One of many.

Pocket Prizes

Mom (seated in the light-colored dress)
And her parents. And her eight brothers...My Mom had eight brothers.
And each of them had a sister.
Most of the time, this was a good thing.
They played together.
Worked together.
And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, the boys 'protected' her.
It was a good balance.
Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.
Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.
Cooking, cleaning, dishes.
Laundry.
Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.
Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.
You never knew what you would find . . .
There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.
You cleaned your plate at mealtime.
Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.
Each of the sons and the daughter had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.
If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.
Or get creative.
Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, took the second option.
He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.
Just not inside of him.
What to do?
Hmmm.
No dog or pet was allowed inside the house so one couldn't slip food to them under the table and his parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.
His options were definitely limited.
But he would think of something . . .
When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.
Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.
Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.
Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes and that while he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear. He was wearing trousers. And they had . . . pockets.
What followed was inevitable.
Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.
Clever.
And, as I said, entertaining.
And that was just the laundry.
Imagine what he could do with such things as chores.
Livestock.
But that is another story.

More Than Talk

Because today is, in many parts of the world, Talk Like A Pirate Day, I am re-introducing the Tolley Pirate Ship!From a post of July 2, 2012:

For several months, my Husby's health wasn't . . . very good. In fact, we were quite worried about him.But, with excellent medical care and ongoing treatment, he has stepped back from the brink. I'll bless forever the Canadian Health Care system!Ahem . . .The conception and planning for a new project completed the cure.I present his 'cure'. The New Tolley Grandchildren Playhouse

We now have a pirate ship in our backyard.Or as my Husby prefers to call it, a 'Pie-Rat' ship.I won't mention the looks we have been getting from the neighbours.Or the speculation over whether 'we know something they should know'.And the watching of the sky for the threat of heavy rains.Moving on . . .Our ship is built completely out of recycled and scavenged materials.It consists of three levels.Spiral staircase.Rope ladders.A plank, ideal for walking into the family pool.A slide.Swings.And a flag picturing a pie and crossed forks.I should probably mention that we rather like pie.Hence the renaming of all grandchildren, 'Pie-Rats'.
Looking forward
The spiral
Looking back
Photos by: Kallie TolleyWe opened it to the grandchildren - ahem - Pie-Rats, on Saturday (June 30, 2012).Following very brief speeches.The tossing of a pie.And the equipping of grandchildren with the necessities.Pirate headscarves.Swords.And lots and lots of food.I think it is a hit.Who says the Tolleys don't know how to party?!
P.S. This story was picked up and broadcast worldwide a few months after the 'launch'. Enjoy!https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/video?cli...

Identified

Okay, they look a little funny, but we love them.A couple of years ago, our youngest daughter and her daughter moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.They had been away for far too long.It was cause for celebration.So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.toI should probably explain here that, at that time, when all of our kids and their families gathered, we numbered twenty-five people.Twelve of whom were under the age of ten.Organized confusion.Generally, the parents and very youngest members gathered in the front room upstairs to chat.The oldest of the grandkids fled to the basement.Where the toys were.Now, these kids were used to being together.And treated each other like siblings.treatedGetting along fabulously for the most part.With occasional bouts of tears and irritation . . .It was a fairly normal evening.Adults – visiting.Kids downstairs – playing.Someone started to cry.Our six-year-old came running up the stairs.“Someone’s crying!” he announced. Needlessly, I might point out.I looked at him. “Who is crying?”Now, my daughter’s daughter hadn't been around for some time. And when she was here last, she had been a babe in arms. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, this little girl was not.He handled the confusion well.“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”Ah. Identification complete.Maybe we should put that on her passport.

The Baker

Then
My blonde-haired son with eyes of brown,Who rode his bike all over town,He’d reached the grand old age of nine,Had learned so much in all that time.
But mostly, how he loved to eat,My cookies were a special treat,He’d lick a beater, taste the dough,Then grab a handful, off he’d go.
But soon, my boy just wanted toFind out how he could make them. True.And so he watched and so discovered,His baking soon surpassed his mothers.
Tonight he joined us in our home,He brought his wife and kids along,We sat and talked and had such fun,‘Twas hard to think it'd soon be done.
The grandkids said they had a yenOur boy went in the kitchen then,And set the oven, got some ‘stuff’,Then added till he had enough.
It only took a moment, till,He, all his kids’ dreams, he’d fulfilled,And cookies warm were on the tray,Enough to last till end of day.
And now, it was his mom. T’was so!Who licked the beaters, tasted dough,Then, as the cookies, warm, emergedStole a few, by hunger urged.
We gathered them (Just one more bite!),To send with folks into the night,I watched him pack up kids and then,I thought of ‘now’ and thought of ‘when’.
It’s not so long since he was nine,And still so young and still all mine,Where did the years all pass away?Did this not happen yesterday?
Today is his, it’s his turn now,
I wouldn’t change things anyhow,
I wave to them from on the porch.I’m happy now. I’ve passed the torch.

Now
Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?
Next week, us three, both me and they,We'll talk of games we liked to play!