Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 137

Tiny Bubbles

See? Parents have the best parties.
Mom and Dad were having a bridge party.Bridge is a card game.Now you know as much as I do.Moving on . . .The cards tables were being set out.Lacy, white cloths arranged.Bowls of nuts and fancy dishes of bridge mix placed. (Note: Pertaining to the bridge mix . . . some of those little balls of chocolate delicious-ness aren’t. Delicious, that is. The chocolate is there to fool unsuspecting children who may or may not be snitching. True story.)Adults had the best parties.Daddy was arranging the bar.Now you have to know that my parents were teetotalers. But most of their friends weren’t. So they (my parents) got very creative with the drinks they served their guests so they (the guests) wouldn’t miss their normal imbibe-age-ness (Sigh. Okay, you’re right, I don’t know what to call it. Sheesh.).Usually, their beverages of choice were fruit juices mixed with an assortment of fizzy soft drinks.And all were kid approved.I know because I was the kid.And I approved.“What’s that?” I’d ask Daddy.“That is orange juice mixed with Cream Soda.”“Can I have a sip?”“Yes. Just a little sip.” Pours some into my glass.Sippage. “Mmmm. I like that one!”“Good.”“Daddy. What’s that one?”“That one is lemonade.”“Can I have a sip?”“Yes. Just a little sip.” Pours some into my glass.Sippage. “Mmmm. I like that one.”“Good.”“Daddy . . .”You can see where this is going.So did my dad.And we’ve come to the point of my story . . .Now there were always guests that didn’t want their drinks so sweet. And for these, my parents stocked something called ‘Soda Water’.And cut up lemons and limes.Which looked intriguing.Till Daddy let me suck on one.Suckage. “Yuck! I don’t like that one!”“Good.”“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to another drink he was preparing.“That’s Soda Water.”“Can I have a sip?”“Sure.” Pours some into my glass.Sippage. “Blah! Daddy that’s yucky stuff!”Quiet laughter as Diane disappears.The memory of that awful stuff stayed with me for decades. Yes, I have a very long memory. For anything unimportant.This Christmas, Husby bought me a soda machine. Now I pour clear water into a bottle and attach it to the spigot. Push the button allowing lovely bubbles to be shot through the water, resulting in . . . soda water.Sippage. Mmmm. I like that one!How far I’ve come . . .

The Legs of Winter

Daddy at Work: Winter Daddy at work: Summer Daddy at church.
Daddy at leisure Daddy at play. I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I just spent six whole weeks dressed in shorts.
In the middle of the Great Canadian Winter.I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t experienced it.Of course I was nowhere near Canada when it happened.Still . . .On the last day of our holiday I was lamenting to Husby about having to put on long pants to go home. And it reminded me suddenly of my dad . . .Daddy dressed pretty much the same every work day.Neatly creased blue jeans. Tough but tidy work shirt.Laced up work boots.Gloves. Hat.On Sundays, he wore neatly pressed dress pants and crisp, white shirt and tie. Or a full suit.Polished boots.No gloves. Dress Sunday cowboy hat.When the rest of us swam, he watched and guarded, fully clothed.My point in telling you this is: I saw Daddy’s bare legs maybe half-a-dozen times in my life.In. My. Life.Daddy didn’t go for shorts.Even in the towering heat (it does happen) of a three-week Canadian summer. Maybe he was self-conscious about the colour of his legs? Glistening white, as would be expected of the skin of a redhead that never, ever sees the light of day.Skinny? Oh, they were well-muscled. But riding horseback all day, every day, makes wiry muscles as opposed to massive ones.Hairy. Okay, this one goes without saying. Everyone’s legs are hairy.Ahem . . .Whatever the reason, he was never seen in shorts.Until that day . . . (cue music: Dun Dun Duuuuun!)Daddy was living in a senior’s apartment complex in Taber, Alberta.It had been near his sweetheart when she was confined to a nursing home in her last years.He stayed on after she was called Home.He liked it there.Enjoyed the activities. The amenities.The peace and quiet.Liked the people.His neighbours were affable, social people. He and they got along well. Mostly.On that day, he and his neighbour stepped into the hallway at the same time.His neighbour stopped. Stared.Daddy was wearing shorts.Exposed were about 16 inches of unnaturally white skinny-ness.The neighbour grinned. “Mark!” he said. “Are those your legs? Or are you riding a chicken?”Yeah, I’m pretty sure those shorts went right back into hibernation.P.S. Those skinny ‘Stringam’ legs have been passed down. My youngest sister got them. And the other day, I was watching a group of my grandkids running along, draped in a sheet that covered all but their lower legs and feet.There, in the middle was a pair of skinny, white legs.When we pulled off the sheet and matched legs with owners, I realized that my #3 grandson is all his grandfather ever was.And more.

A Dicey Situation

A group of dice. Also know as a 'Gamble' of Dice.
Our family was playing a dice game.For those of you who are unfamiliar with this concept, it is a game.Played with dice.Okay. Now that we’re all on the same page . . .It seemed like a good Sunday afternoon activity. Cold outside. Family inside. Warm. Fed.Yep. Time for a dice game.I wasn’t doing well.That’s the thing about dice. They’re fickle. There’s really no planning.Okay, I know it’s possible for experienced dice-players to cheat.But in our family something is missing from that scenario. Two somethings, actually.First, experience. (No explanation needed.)And second, the desire to win.We don’t keep score.Ever.We just play. No one gets mad. No thrown knives or nasty looks.Perfect.So, back to what I was saying . . .Dice game.Doing poorly.Now my SIL was seated next to me. And he was doing well.A little too well.I accused him of using up all the dice’s luck before he handed said dice on to me.Not my finest hour, but I still think he was draining them somehow.It was then we came up with a creative and possibly effective scenario for those reluctant dice.Threats.My daughter suggested buying some cheap dice. Then, in plain sight of our actual dice, smashing one of the cheap ones with a hammer.Brilliant, you say?I agree.The actual dice would be so horrified at the possibility of being next, they would flood me with their good luck.Genius.My other daughter also offered this. “If that doesn’t work, we take some little dice, hold them up and say, ‘The kids are next!’”You might want to think twice about playing games with our family.Just FYI.

Ernest's Winter

The walks were nearly bare! Then, this morning . . . November 8th. They squealed with glee,
They ran outside, both he and she.For glistening, glorious, flakes of snow,Upon the ground in drifts did go.
Almost too lovely to believe,They praised the Lord that they did leaveThe desert dry for such a place,With snow-wet cheeks, they did embrace.
Our Ernest went to shovel, then,And soon their walks were clean again,Till the snowplow trundled through,And on their sidewalk, snow did strew.
He laughed. “I get to shovel more!”And finished this delightful chore.Then back inside watch it all,The white snow unrelenting, fall.
Next day the sun arose and shone,Soon all their precious snow was gone,They sadly groused to neighbour, Bill,“Don’t fret,” he said. “You’ll get your fill!”
And he was right. A week or soWould scurry past, then winds would blow,And with them came eight inches more,All piled so nicely there. Outdoors.
With scoop in hand, he headed out,And finished just in time to scout,The snowplow coming up the road,And dumping, once again, his load.
He shook his head. “That goofy guy!”“He must not see as he goes by.”Then, with a grimace, he did bend,And shoveled up the snow again.
Next day another foot or so,Upon their neighbourhood, did go,It took two hours before he saw,The sidewalk bare, the snow withdrawn.
Until the driver of the truck,Deposited his load of muck.He shook his fist and nearly swore,Then sighing, started in once more.
I probably don’t have to say,The snow fell day by day by day,Poor Ernest and his mighty scoop,Understandably, were pooped.
Then came that day and the last straw,Another foot or so he saw,His shovel broke, he nearly cried,He threw it at the snowplow guy.
He stomped inside and told his wife,That he no longer liked this life.He said, “It’s May. For Heaven’s sake!Who knows how much more I can take.”
“Before I have a heart attack.Or I beat someone blue and black!Go grab your bags and pack your things,We’re moving back to Desert Springs!”
So If you’re thinking of the snow,How jolly and how fun to go,It is as sweet as you perceive,But in Canada, it never leaves! Sigh.Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.
And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
And next week, we three will write for you, A story that is 'mostly' true!

Hair Wars

See? And yes, Daddy's winking at you.
 I am the daughter of a Swedish-Canadian mother.
Her parents emigrated from Sweden and she and her brothers were all born here.Let’s just say the ‘blonde’ gene is alive and well among my extended family.I inherited it.Throughout my childhood and into my teens, I had ultra-blonde, fine, soft, ‘candy-fluff’ hair.The kind that looks good in a picture.Or on a kewpie doll.But is impractical.And painful to look after.Especially if anyone but me was doing the combing and arranging.Now I know this would suggest that I actually did said combing and arranging.I didn’t.Mom did her best. Chasing me about. Holding me down.Issuing such statements as: “Diane! You look like a wild girl!” or “Hold still, I can’t let this go another minute!” or “I think there’s monkeys living in here!”.Followed by the producing of a (Dun-dun-duuuuun!) comb.And/or hair ornaments.Ugh.I will say that I liked it when mom washed my mane in the bathroom sink.And then allowed me to play for a few minutes with my soaped-up tresses.Just FYI: Soaped-up hair can be sculpted into the most amazing shapes.True story.But the inevitable ‘washing out’ and ‘arranging’ followed.Sigh.To this day the sound of an elastic being twisted into hair makes my head hurt.It . . . remembers. After the battle. Notice the curlers . . .

The Nose in a Book Generation

I guess it comes as no surprise that I love to read.I started early.Miss Woronoski's Grade One class. Milk River Elementary School.Milk River, Alberta.I had the first seat, first row on the left. Next to the windows.And sitting on the cupboard beside me, my very. First. Book. Ever.The Cat in the Hat. By Dr. Seuss.I loved that book.Though I highly disapproved of Mr. Cat's antics.If you haven't read this classic, you just have to know: he was very disobedient.And made a HUGE mess.My little six-year-old heart nearly failed me.I could just see my Mom's reaction.Let's just say fur would be flying and leave it at that.It took me days to read it through the first time.I’m sure my gasps of shock and awe were notable throughout the entire room.And my thirty-plus schoolmates.Moving forward two years.For my eighth birthday, I received the amazing new invention, Lego.But that has nothing to do with this story.Ahem . . .I also received a book.Nancy Drew: The Hidden Staircase.And the world of ‘chapter books’ suddenly exploded in my life.In a totally non-violent, un-dynomitish way.Like the Cat in the Hat had two years before, it took me days to read it through the first time.And it changed my life.Suddenly I wanted to READ.I saved my allowance and the next time we went to the city, made my very first purchase of a book.Nancy Drew: The Ghost of Blackwood Hall. 
Chosen from among the vast selection because it had ‘ghost’ in the title.Yeah. It was pretty much a no-brainer.And it cost a whopping 49 cents.From that day forward, I was perpetually nose-deep in a book.Every waking minute.And stolen from a lot of my ‘should-be-sleeping’ ones.Because of me, Mom had to coin new phrases. “Diane! Get your nose out of that book and come and set the table!” “Diane! Put the book down and finish the vacuuming!”Or the ever popular, “Diane, it’s four in the morning! Go! To! SLEEP!”Yeah. It was a problem.Why am I telling you all this?Because my eldest grandson has discovered my hoard of Nancy Drew (and Hardy Boys, but that is a whole other story). He is at present working his way through the lot.Gramma is so proud.

Marble(d) Dough

A couple of days ago, I spoke of finding a prize in my cake.Turns out similar things have happened to others as well . . .Husby comes from a large family. Five boys.One girl.The boys were . . . eaters.Need I say more?Fortunately, their mother was a fabulous cook and well capable of producing the large quantities of food needed with amazing regularity.She was most famous for her bread. Something that had to emerge from her fragrant kitchen eight loaves at a time at least twice a week. And she did it ‘Old School’.Mixing the ingredients with a cakespoon in a large, ceramic bowl until the dough was too stiff, then dropping said spoon and kneading with the hands.I know you know what I’m talking about.The entire process fascinated her boys. And they were often close observers. Just not for the reasons you might think . . .Now, I probably don’t have to tell you that young boys are composed primarily (85% or so) of mischief.With a goodly dose of ‘clever-little-monkey’.And that those same boys have toys.So: Boys-mischief-cleverness and toys. See where I’m going with this?Keeping careful watch on their beloved parent’s actions, they would wait for just the right moment and, when she turned away for something or other they would . . .. . . drop a marble into the bread dough.Which was then kneaded in along with the deliciousness.At which point they would run away.Giggling maniacally.Hey. I’m telling the story. I’ll tell it how I want.Their mother knew, when she heard the laughter and the footsteps that ‘something’ had happened.And, knowing her boys, had a pretty good idea of what.She would search for whatever had just been dropped into her dough.Occasionally, she would find it.More often, not.On those days, she would sigh and mold and bake and pray.And just FYI, no teeth were broken in the making of this story.It’s a good thing. Like this. Only baked...

For Those Who Doze

I think I’m in trouble.Let’s face it, when one is seated, warm, and comfortable, it’s inevitable.Okay, I admit, it didn’t used to be. But as I grow older, definitely.I’m talking about those of us who habitually doze off.In public places.Movies. Concerts. Classes. Meetings.Church.It is this last that most concerns me.And the date, February 28, has something to do with it.Let me explain . . .On February 28, 1646, one Roger Scott, of Lynn, Massachusetts was rudely awakened from a deep and restful slumber.By the business end of a tithingman’s long, knobbed staff.Being energetically applied to Goodman Scott’s head.I don’t know about you, but being roused by being rapped in the head by a heavy wooden cane wouldn’t bring out the best in me.Heck, I used to get mad when my dad called to me gently from my bedroom doorway.It didn’t in Roger, either.Bring out the best, I mean.Obviously forgetting he wasn’t in his own warm bed, and just a trifle annoyed at being knocked awake (so to speak), he woke up flailing.Oops.Mistake number one: Dozing (gasp) in a publick place.And number two: Protesting the meted-out punishment.This second mistake only caused further punishment.Sigh.Roger, for his actions was sentenced to a public(k) whipping.And the dark designation of: “A common sleeper at the publick exercise.”(I wonder if they have T-shirts?)

The Prize on the Bottom

See? Dresses. Pfff . . .Birthdays are magic.
Truly.
Oh, and chew your cake carefully. You never know what's in it.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My friend was turning six.
And I was invited to her birthday party!
A whole year away.
Okay, it probably wasn't a year. Likely only a few days, but time mooooves reeeaaalllyyy slooowllly when one is six and waiting for a birthday party.
Finally, it was time.
I not-so-patiently submitted to being scrubbed shiny.
Then scampered across the hallway to my bedroom and dug out my favourite jeans and western shirt.
Mom followed me, laying a frilly dress on my bed while I donned the requisite undies.
Wait. What? I have to wear a dress?!
I stared at her, my six-year-old face the picture of dismay.
I'm remembering this how I want . . .
Mom insisted, so I again submitted, this time under protest. I'm sure my arguments included some or all of: "I can't play in that!" or "I look like a freak!" or "It's too squishy!" or my patented "None of the other kids will be wearing dresses!"
A note here: All the other girls were wearing dresses. Traitors.
A short time later, I appeared in the front hallway pressed, dressed and combed (Incidentally another thing I hated.) and ready for excitement.
Just so you know, I can't remember whose birthday it was, or what we did.
I'm quite sure it was fun. And featured the requisite games, gift opening and ooh-ing and aah-ing.
There is one thing that really stands out in my mind.
The cake.
Angel food.
We were each given a large slice on a fancy plate.
And that's when the magic happened.
In the bottom of my piece was a little toy.
I'm not making this up.
There really was a toy in the bottom of everyone's piece. Wrapped in a tiny piece of waxed paper and baked right into the cake!
Genius!
I carefully released my toy, and ate the cake.
Then spent the rest of the party playing with my little trinket.
Now looking back on this with adult eyes, I realize that the toy was probably made of metal, otherwise it would have melted.
And maybe painted with lead-based paint, which none of us knew about in 1961.
Yikes.
All I knew was that there was a toy baked into my piece of cake and that was the coolest thing ever.
Ever.
And just so you know, I still look at the bottom of my piece of cake.
Every time.
Even when I've made it.
You never know when the magic will happen.

Poetry Monday Re-Visited

I've been remiss.And away.Those two things have added up to my missing Poetry Monday!I apologize.And hope this belated valentine poem makes up for my absence.

Oh, Valentine, my Valentine,Toward your kitchen, I incline.What ecstasy again is mine,Your bread is great, your cakes, divine.At night upon my bed, recline,For gastronomic Heaven pineAnd toss my head, all leonine,And think of trips so clandestine.I’m lost in hunger’s great ravine,Until I hear the bread machine.And know perfection will be mine,My engine fueled by food sublime.Though my figure trends toward ‘bovine’.Your name upon the stove enshrine.And write in letters nine-by-nine,My heart is yours, my Valentine!
Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.
And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
And next week, from my friends, and me, A Winter poem for all to see!