Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 14

Getting It Wrong

 For International Jazz Day, a bit of fiction...

Clara studied her only daughter’s face.

Emma was lit up from the inside, delicate features a dynamic play of barely-contained emotion. It was like watching a still pool of pure, clear water breaking into soft ripples of movement. Unconstrained and uncontainable. Like the only thing keeping her together was her rose-tinted skin.

Her girl was in love.

Clara’s eyes turned to the young man seated at her daughter’s right. This stiff and stalwart-looking individual with his mortician’s hands and his thin, aesthetic face. Could her daughter – hers and Reggie’s – possibly have made this colossal a . . . mistake?

She turned toward the stage, where Reggie and his troupe were just finishing up their 9:00 set. What would her husband’s reaction be? Would he treat this proposed addition to their little family with courtesy? Or, more probably, would he rear back at the unintentioned insult and explode in artistically unsuppressed emotion. Then drag what could have been their future son-in-law out to the blacktop and toss him into the first available taxi bound for Timbuktu?

She sighed again as her daughter chattered endlessly, ceaselessly, enthusiastically on. Should she say something? Try to turn this particular ship before it hit the great reef looming before them? Should she interfere?

She tuned in to what Emma was saying. “. . . and I was so excited when I met Alphonse.” She linked hands with the sober young man beside her. “He loves jazz! Why he listens to it every day in the mortuary! He is exactly what Daddy told me to look for in a husband!”

Clara put out a hand and touched her daughter’s shoulder gently. “Oh, honey,” she said. She glanced down at the musicians on the stage. Heard the smooth, perfect notes of ‘Take Five’ pouring from Reggie’s Sax and sighed. Then she turned back to her daughter. “Honey, what your father told you to bring home was a Jazz MUSICIAN!”

Com-Posting

 THE VICTOR was a quarterback way back in college days,And, though the years had passed, his neighbours still couldbe amazed,Remembering his triumphs and the victories he’d won,And grateful just to label him their city’s favourite son!By THE VICTOR he was known and though he really didn’t press,His neighbours bragged a lot to anyone I do confess…THE VIC as he grew older, became somewhat conscious ofJust doing what he could for this old world that he loved,Began a compost pit behind his house where he would addThe food scraps from his kitchen and any trimmings that hehad,But living by himself, he really didn’t produce much,So he’d canvass the neighbourhood and take their scraps andsuch,Each Saturday at 9, there’d be The VICTOR with his pail,And folks would toss in spoiled scraps from meat to bread tokale…A newly moved-in neighbour saw all this for the first time,And asked the guy next door why folks would give a man theirslime!The man explained the offerings of the former braised or boiled,One final thing he added, “To THE VICTOR goes the spoiled!”(SNORT!)
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week will be my favourite things,Hot Air Balloons will give us wings!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...
Compost (May 29) Today!Hot Air Balloons (June 5)Red Roses (June 12)Kissing (June 19)Canoes (June 26)Mirrors (July 3)Teddy Bears (July 10)Emojis (July 17)Cousins (July 24)Avocados (July 31)Moonshine (August 7)Roses (August 14)Sea Monsters (August 21)At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

The Happy Place

WhenI was younger, I’d lean nearer,Myreflection in the mirror,Andstudy (not what you’d assume…)Thethings behind me in that room. BecauseI thought that other place, Moreintriguing than my space,Andgolly, wouldn’t it be swell,Togo there and bid home farewell?
Justthink of all the fun I’d find,Adventuresof the heart and mind,Why,I could almost picture it,Asthrough the looking glass, I’d flit.
Idid not know, I could not tell,‘Twasa reflection, just a shell,That‘other room’ did not exist,Withmy face floating in the midst.
Andeven if I managed it,(Goingthere for just a bit)Well,backward everything would be,AndI’d have trouble being me!
Andso I put that dream away,Butbrought it out just yesterday,Agreat deal older now, I look,Thingsstill look good in that Mirror nook.
Icouldn’t see the dust and litter,No noise to make me squirm or skitter,Andbackward everything may be,Butno more backward, now, than me! 
I wouldn't have to cook or clean,I'd go in and come out lean!So Through a Looking Glass you see,Sounds like a perfect place for me!

This poem is part of a Monthly Poetry Challenge.Each month a new theme is chosen.This month's theme?Through a Looking Glass!


Care to see what the others have done with the theme?Look here! BakingIn A Tornado: Look AgainMessymimi’sMeanderings 

 

Bossy's Drawers

In the days before email...As a landowner, employer and community leader, my Dad received a lot of correspondence.A lot. I know. He used to send me or one of the other kids uptown with A PILLOWCASE to retrieve it.True Story: I would dump the pile on his desk, wait while he went through it, then ask, "Anything for me?"To which he invariably answered, "What's your name?"To which I invariably replied, "Diane."To which he invariab... you get the point.Back to my main point. Daddy (not me) got a lot of mail. From all sorts of people.One letter stands out...One day, he came into the kitchen holding a piece of paper.Mom looked at him. "What is that?""Oh, something interesting."She looked at him expectantly.He grinned, then beckoned her to the table.I came too because... 'something interesting'.Daddy: "This is a letter from a woman protesting the naked state of the animals in the fields."Mom, frowning: "Do tell!"Daddy: "She proposes that we start a push to clothe said animals."Mom: "Sooo...cows and stuff."He nodded.Mom: "Ummm...."Daddy: "My thoughts exactly."Mom: "So what are you going to tell her?"Daddy: "Oh, I'll think of something."Mom: "But you aren't going to encourage her?"Daddy, waggling his eyebrows: "What do you think?"Mom: "Mark!"Daddy did respond.His reply was somewhere along the lines of, "Dear Madame. What you propose would be interesting, indeed. But sadly impossible from both a logistical and a practical sense.For example, once Bossy has dropped her bloomers out there in the field to 'take care of business', how, exactly is she going to get them back up again?"Yours, truly, Mark R. Stringam DVMShe did reply, somewhat put out by his response.But the whole matter was dropped there.Kind of like Ol' Bossy's drawers. Daily Mail

Potty Consonants

In our early days, there is just so much to learn.One of the most important of which is ‘language’.And getting those pesky consonants to say what theyare supposed to say.This will become evident further along.Ahem…Tiny Daughter (hereinafter TD) had just passed thetime of DIAPERS.She was now in big girl pants.But the toilet ‘procedures’ were ongoing.Mostly successful.At times…downright humourous…Mom: “Now remember to wipe from front to back…”TD: “Bagina to bum. Bagina to bum!”(Remember where I mentioned ‘consonants’? That wouldapply here.)Mom: Va…Va… Va gina. Like V ... V olcano.”Silence for a moment…TD: “Volcano to Bum. Volcano to Bum.”Training is ongoing…

Broke Baroque

A museum planned aconcert with their Baroque instruments,But then they saw the gadgetsneeded care for the event,A great Vivaldi violinand a harpsicord of Bach’s,The keyboard neededtuning and the violin had pox.And all the others neededeven more of urgent care,And so they called thespecialist to help with the repairs,The man looked them allover (and there really were a bunch),He said, “Where shouldI start? And know, I won’t be done by lunch!”Director looked at himand said, “When you’re making all your picks…”“Our rule for thisconcert? If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix!”
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week's post might smell a bit,But 'Compost', sure, will be a hit!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...
Musical Instruments (May 22) Today!Compost (May 29)Hot Air Balloons (June 5)Red Roses (June 12)Kissing (June 19)Canoes (June 26)Mirrors (July 3)Teddy Bears (July 10)Emojis (July 17)Cousins (July 24)Avocados (July 31)Moonshine (August 7)Roses (August 14)Sea Monsters (August 21)At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Bringing Up Gramma

My sometimes ride. And chauffeur.Looking forward to school’s end and the start of the summer holiday. Because...For many of you, the statement: ‘The Tolley family tends to spend a lot of their summer outside on bicycles’ will come as no surprise.

I’m almost sure I’ve mentioned it before.

And it's true.Every morning, weather permitting, we saddle-up—Grampa, Gramma and as many of the chicks and chicklets as are out of bed and/or conscious.

With 27 members of our family living within town limits, at times it’s quite a group.

But the fact that we live in a community riddled with small lakes and a veritable web of biking trails makes the whole thing . . . in a word . . . easy.

Even taking into account that our town crowns the highest hill for miles and there is, of necessity, a lot of up-ing and down-ing.

With such a trail of cyclists, it’s a blessing that we have to cross only the occasional major street.

Our mishaps have been relatively few.

In fact, the only people who have pitched off their bikes are Granddaughter #4 (our newest little rider) . . . and Grandma.

And guess which one holds the record?And yet I still insist on going.

Sigh. 

Finally, sitting on a park bench, putting yet another band-aid on Grandma's much-abused knee, and while the kids played at that day’s choice of park, Daughter #1 came up with an ingenious solution. One, I should point out, that would still allow Grandma to continue on the rides, but would be marginally safer and include two-wheeled death traps only peripherally.

Ahem . . .

Her answer? Pump Grandma full of helium, tie a string to her ankle, and float her along behind one of the bikes.

Like a balloon.Can’t you just see it?

Her idea sparked all kinds of responses: “Ahhhh Reel me in! Low bridge! Low brid . . .!” and “Kids! Power li . . .zzzzaaaap!” and the ever popular: “I told you not to untie Grandma! Now we’ll never get her back!” That little beauty was also followed closely by: “Good thing we wrote her address on her forehead!”

There were suggestions of “Old Air/Wind/Gas bag” and something to do with “being full of hot air”. But by that point, I was already on my bike and halfway out of the parking lot.

My family’s for sale if you want them.

 You get the idea . . .

Entertained at the Old Watering Hole

Or you could do it that way . . .There was no lawnmower in the early days on the Berg Ranch.

When the grass got long, the hay mower could be used, but in smaller areas, this proved impossible.

One had to get creative.

The four-footed lawnmowers were brought out.

Usually, the well-trained saddlehorses would take care of the problem—filling their bellies and tidying the area at the same time.

But one year, three Angus bulls were given the job. They spent their days tethered out among the trees, contentedly munching the long grass and growing fat in the cool shade.

For water, someone would untie them, lead them across the yard to the trough by the barn, then take them back to continue their ‘work’.

It worked well. Till the ‘incident’.

Anyone who has lived on (or near) a farm can tell you that there is no such thing as a ‘normal’ day.

Usually, the dust-ups and uh-ohs are just something to laugh at.

And, fortunately, that was the case here.

One evening, several of my Berg uncles were leading the three members of their lawn maintenance crew to water. Grampa Berg happened to be standing there beside the trough as they approached.

Meanwhile, across the barnyard, two salesmen in a car slid to a stop. Seeing Grampa out in the yard, they started toward him.

All went well to this point. Bulls. Uncles. Grampa. Salesmen.

Now the bulls were used to their Berg attendants. And knew all of them by sight.

But these salesmen were new and strange.The bulls decided they were worth investigating.

At a run.

Towing the boys.

The salesmen were understandably alarmed. And decided, individually and collectively, that their best course was to run.

Which they did.

Right into each other.

Resulting in two stunned salesmen trying to crawl away along the ground.

The bulls stopped short and stared. Yep. Here was definitely something new . . .

I know you'll agree with me that there is all kinds of entertainment for us humans at our local ‘watering holes’.Turns out it’s the same for the four-footed variety as well.

A Frog-ly Prince

Okay, yes, I’m taking a little bit of ‘poetic license’ here.Even though this couldn’t remotely be considered a poem. Ahem… Remember the story of SnowWhite? Wherein a girl lived withseven men, married an eighth and no one thought it remarkable? Well SnowWhite’s ‘happily-ever-after’ included a teenaged daughterwho loved to play with a golden ball her father gave her.
I am not making this up (though someone obviously did…).Nope. Beautiful Princess Penelope had a golden ball—her favourite toy.
Now one day whilst happily playing in the garden, she lost theaforementioned ball of golden. You know how these happen.
You throw something into the air and it lands…elsewhere.Husby does it all the time with garbage and the trash receptacle.
Well it happened this time vis-à-vis ball and the nearby stupidly-deep(Penelope’s description) well. Tears ensued. And a princess-ly tantrum.
Stemmed only when a very small voice at Penelope’s feetspoke up. “Princess. I can get your ball for you!”
Admittedly, it took a while for our sweet princess to evenhear the voice, openly and vocally aggrieved as she was.
But finally, she began to pay attention to the large frog ather feet. The one…you know…speaking. Human words.
Now I’ve caught a lot of frogs, what with my riverside upbringing,and never have any of them talked to me.
And, trust me, I’ve coaxed. But this one did. He toldPenelope he could fetch her precious ball. For a price.
She was definitely listening now. If he didn’t have her at ‘Hello,Princess’, he definitely had her at ‘Pay me!’
The price? She had to let him eat from her plate at everymeal and sleep on her pillow at bedtime.
She agreed. Because…ball. But let’s face it, she probablydidn’t really think things through. A frog at bed, bath and beyond?
I know what my parents would have said. DID say. I can stillhear their loudly-voiced veto from the distance of decades.
But her tearful pleas and/or her convincing story of familyhonour resting on the fulfillment of a contract did the trick.
She suddenly had a very entertaining and talkative newroommate. One who was with her morning, noon and night. Quite literally.
The two grew to be friends. The princess even graduated thefrog from pocket to pillow transportation. A big leap. (Snort.)
Then the frog’s next request was voiced. (That’s the thingabout frogs. Give them an inch; they swim all over you.)
An itty bitty kiss. I’m quite sure the princess at least…blinked.That’s quite a request. Even from a best-friend talking frog.
But, hey. I mean, they’d been friends for days now. And what’sa kiss between friends? She considered it a moment.
Then shrugged, held the frog up…and kissed it. Right on the bigol’ ‘kisser’. Can anyone say ‘Ew?’ Oh, yeah. Me.
Immediately, or maybe sooner, the frog began to shimmer. Thenshiver. Then change from a…frog…into something a heck-of-a-lot more human-ish.
Before she knew it, Penelope was staring at a full-grownman. In her bedroom. All sorts of alarms went off.
A small voice from the bottom of the dogpile featuring everysingle one of Penelope’s body-guards finally garnered some attention.
Slowly the guards got to their feet and pulled the frog-manto his. And then the whole sordid story came out.
He was actually a prince who had been enchanted by a jealous,overly-amorous and unrequited witch. A terrible combination, you’ll agree…
The spell she had placed upon him was keyed, ironically, tothe act of kissing. Only a smooch would save him.
Once the furor had died down the two, girl and former frog,discovered that their budding friendship was actually something more.
Marriage followed. And yadda, yadda, yadda…happily everafter. It’s amazing how often that happens. Fact or fiction, it makes me happy.
Today’s post is a word challenge! Each month one of us chooses a number between 12 and 50 and the rest craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.
This month’s number is: 21It was chosen by Mimi of Messymimi'smeanderings!


Now go and see what my friends have created!Baking In ATornadoMessymimi’sMeanderings

Making It Up

I've been away, you may have seen That on my blog I have not been, Some catching up, I have to do, So here're some poems from me to you!
April 17: Safety Pins:
Most pins are sharp, I’m sure you know,It helps them go where they need to go,I’ve used a few, I will admit,To fasten things that needed it,I’m always cautious, those things hurt!And I will not with danger flirt,So ‘safety pins’ I choose to use,Thusly named, I cannot lose,But something more I must submit…They all still have a pointy bit!
April 24: Pigs in Blankets
I love blankets, yes, I do,To cuddle, and the cold eschew,It isn’t rare to find me rolled,Encapsulated ‘gainst the cold.You would imagine I’d support,Giving wraps to weaker sorts,Most everyone would benefit,From having blankets, sewn or knit,But there’s one group I won’t acceptTheir needing blankets while they slept,And that group is the pigs, you see,There’s no need. They’re not like me,But there are other ways that they‘Go together’ as they say…Cause Pigs in Blankets as a treat?There are few things have them beat!
May 1: Rhino
Sometimes in nature, we will see,A crossing of an “A” and “B”,Like lion with a tiger, whew!A ‘Liger’s’ what you get. It’s true.A donkey and a horse result,In one big mule. It’s no one’s fault,A donkey also features withA zebra. Zonkey’s not a myth!There’s Jaglions and Grolar Bears,Coywolfs, Camas, (please don’t stare!)Beefalos, Narlugas, too,And Hinny’s (Just to name a few)…But cross and elephant and rhino?What do you get? Ellefino!
May 8: Socks (For this, I cheated--sorry, peers--This is a po-em from last year...)
“Please tell us of your problem, sir,

We're here to give you aid.

Supporting is how we get through,

Speak up! Don't be afraid!”“Just look around the circle, Sir,

There’s not but friends you’ll see.

Get the whole thing off your chest,

Then Madge will serve us tea...”

“It started much as any day,”

He said. And then he sighed,

“A run together in the dawn,

I was so proud, I cried.”“Then changing for the workday, but

A load of laundry first.

Who knew that act would be her last?

‘Twas like we both were cursed!”

“So innocent as soap went in,

Naive as buttons pressed,

Then watched as clothes began to swirl,

And tumble with the rest.”“All was well until the load,

Was moved into the drier.

And watching it together as

The heat was getting higher.”

“Then she was gone, t’was just that fast,

My love was there no more.

And all I had was memories

Of what we had before.”“I’ve tossed it round within my mind,

There really is no doubt

As a pair of socks, we two went in,

As a single, I came out.”
So that is it, I've caught right up, All that's left's today's poem. (Yup.) I'll not abandon you, and hey! I'm happy that you came to play!

May 15 (Today!): Chocolate Chip
It started as a cookie, yes!T’was better, far, than all the rest,An enterprising tollhouse wife,A small idea. Got a knife,And chopped a ‘something’ into bits,And to her dough, she added it,Then her idea just took off,And, trust me, no one teased or scoffed,Cause people came for miles around,To taste that treat. And soon all foundThat it surpassed all those that were,And caused more than a little stir…Today we add her ‘something’ toThe things we bake and cook and chew,Deliciousness from plate to lip…What did she make? The CHOCOLATE CHIP!
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, we'll all get musical,Of INSTRUMENTS, you'll get your fill!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...
Chocolate Chip (May 15) Today!Musical Instruments (May 22)Compost (May 29)Hot Air Balloons (June 5)Red Roses (June 12)Kissing (June 19)Canoes (June 26)Mirrors (July 3)Teddy Bears (July 10)Emojis (July 17)Cousins (July 24)Avocados (July 31)