Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 16

Planning the Glue-ing

It was THE assignment.
The one the teacher had been threatening promising since the beginning of the year.
That was worth 50% of my final mark.
Yes. THAT assignment.
She had handed it out shortly after the Christmas break.
We had three months to complete it.
Due Date: April 1.
Feverishly, I set to work.
Researched. (And just so you know, research was a lot harder back then. It involved such things as: books. Physically turning pages. Trips to the *gasp* library. Looking things up in the card catalog. Knowing the Dewey Decimal System. Becoming close friends with the librarian. Yikes.)
Drew up draft after draft.
Finalized.
Put on the finishing touches.
Slept soundly the night of March 31, wrapped warmly in the knowledge that I had completed the assignment to the best of my ability and that, surely, an 'A' was forthcoming.
Okay, now forget everything I wrote from the line "Due Date: April 1."
Because this is what really happened.
................................................................................................................................................
................................................................................................................................................
Then March 31 dawned.
And with it, the knowledge that I should . . . you know . . . make a start on the assignment.
What was it again?
A trip to the library was out of the question. We lived 20 miles from town and 'no way one of my parents was going to pay for my slothfulness' .
I'm quoting my father BTW.
I turned to the only resources available.
Dad.
Mom.
The cook.
The hired men.
The encyclopedia Britannica.
And the National Geographic.
With occasional queries to my siblings.
And my horse.
Just FYI, that last was a total waste of time. He didn't know anything.
If  Necessity is the Mother of invention, then Desperation is its Father.
And I was truly desperate. (Hence said query to my horse.)
I sifted purposefully through Dad's stack of National Geographics (see above).
Chose a topic at random.
And started in.
Now, just so you know, Dad had problems with us kids cutting up his precious magazines.
But if you hid said magazines really, really well . . .
I don't remember what topic I chose.
But I do remember that there were plenty of colourful pictures that supported it. And as long as I cut using the correct scissors (Diane! You'd better not be using my sewing scissors?!) my biggest decision remained: Do I use this picture? Or the one on the other side ?
Fortunately, Mom had a store of poster board. I'm not sure why. Maybe because she had dealt with Procrastinator #4 (ie. me) before.
But there was one thing she did not have.
A bottle of glue.
And no it wasn't because I had eaten said glue.
Nope.
This bottle, my smaller siblings had eaten.
True story.
No way you could get them to eat broccoli. But give them a bottle of processed horse hooves and they were on it!
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Glue.
Or the lack thereof.
Then Mom made the momentous announcement: "If you mix flour and water into a thick paste, it sticks really well."
The day is mine!
I mixed and slathered and pasted.
And slathered and pasted.
And pasted.
And . . . you know what? It didn't work at all!
But by now, March 31 had rapidly turned into April 1 and the bus was coming.
I packaged up my 'project' and headed out.
Kathy was proudly showing the culmination of months of preparation when I got on the bus. I don't remember her topic, but I think it had flashing neon lights and maybe an actual working model of a machine that turned lead into gold. Complete with lead. And gold.
Yeah, Kathy was amazing like that.
When she asked me about mine, I quickly changed the subject: "Oh my! Look! Balog's cows are out!"
Yeah, I was clever that way.
Shortly thereafter, I turned in my project along with the others and happily forgot about it.
I think I received a "Diane would have gotten a better grade if she'd spent more time on this assignment."
Who listened?
P.S. Years later, I discovered my assignment stuffed into a file in the back of Mom's file cabinet. And guess what? Those pictures were stuck so tight an act of God wouldn't have removed them.
Flour and water do work.
You just have to . . . plan ahead . . .

Mapped Out

Husby and I like to travel, it’s true,There’s so many things now to see…and to do,We’ve been known to travel by car or by air,But things have sure changed with this travel affair. Now when we go, we use cell phones and apps,In earlier days we relied on our maps,As he was the driver, most places, most times,I had to navigate—NOT so sublime. I’d figure out routes and mark them carefully,Then spy out the exits and stops we would need,“This is our exit!” I would say, all excited,It was just like the weather report I recited... Directing and pointing while guiding our missionA little bit louder with each repetition.Cause he of the steering control, he did notListen to me, despite how loud I got! But the most aggravating aspect of this,He drove us straight there, with nary a miss,I would find us 8 ways to reach our destination,But he simply drove with his ‘map aberration’! We learned we could travel, we just learned what worked,As long as the maps I did dutifully shirk,Oddly, we two never argued, or worse,The map simply stayed right there—tucked in my purse. But now when we travel, we use GPS,I type in the address with studied finesse,And he simply follows, doesn’t dispute his choiceHe never will argue with that sexy voice!

Years ago, I saw Foster Brooks at a roast for Jimmy Stewart.For those who don't know, Foster Brooks was a stand-up comedian whose 'schtick' was acting drunk.I thought he was hilarious.Here, he discusses being the navigator for Jimmy Stewart during the Second World War.

 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?

With the return of goose and loon...Golfing season's starting soon!
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!)...Maps (April 3) Today!Golf (April 10)Safety Pins (April 17)Pigs in Blankets (April 24)Rhinos (May 1)Socks (May 8)Chocolate Chip (May 15)Musical Instruments (May 22)Compost (May 29)

Syrup-y

 One of Daddy's stories...

Not sure about therest of you, but me? I would be scared,To haunted houses, I’dnot go. Not e’en if someone dared!But Jade was made oftougher stuff. She had no fear at all,And haunted houses she’dseek out—they had the girl enthralled!Jade paid no mind togoblins and for ghosts, she had no dread,Not even when wepointed out to her, “Girl, they’re all dead!”Sooo, let’s get back tohaunted homes, one in par-tic-u-lar,A creepy house theedge of town, t’was really quite bizarre!No one had ever stayedthe night, and long it’d stood alone,And only old folks couldrecall when it was someone’s home,Well, it was great forJade and, toting sleeping bag and stuff,Determined she wouldspend the night, prove she was ‘tough enough’,At first, she gotthings figured out, she found a place to sleep,Set up her bed, thensmiled as she envisaged slumber deep,But just as sunsetpassed and darkness settled all around,Jade stopped what shewas doing. Wait! Did she just hear a sound?And sure enough, rightthrough the door, a casket did appear,Filling Jade withunaccustomed nervousness and fear,She screamed and staredrunning t’ward the door just opposite,Concerned about her fearlessreputation? Not a bit!She darted through theopen doorway, slammed the door quite hard,Breathing better onlywhen the door was locked and barred,But did it stop thecasket? Didn’t even slow it down,And Jade found herselflooking for the far side of the town!And room-by-room sheand the casket (an unlikely pair),Ran together throughthe house from ‘here’ as far as ‘there’!And just like that,she reached the end, she'd truly given all,Watching as the casketslowly drifted through the wall,She found the room devoidof either furnishings or trim,With nothing there tohelp her, Jade was feeling rather grim,In the shadows, saw a flask.T’was all the room did show,She heaved it at thecasket just as hard as she could throw!And just like that,the casket stopped, as dead as dead could be,Jade stared at it. Nowwhat on earth? Moved forward cautiously,Again picked up thebottle, this time scrutinized it close,(Whilst keeping oneeye on the casket), set to diagnose,Jade was surprised atwhat she read—a thing you don’t see often,It was a bottle ofcough syrup. And sure, it stopped the coffin!

Once a month, we are issued a challenge to write a poem based on a theme.It is, in a word: fun!This month’s theme: SyrupHmmm...what to do with that?!

Want another serving?BakingIn A Tornado     Messymimi’sMeanderings

Happily Writing

 When I was young, my goals were: Marriage, children, writing.And I did it.Husby had a good job. I got to stay home with my Littles.And write.Marriage (check).Children (check).Writing (check).Well, my goals have changed somewhat now that Husby and I have achieved retirement age...plus.Now they look something like this: Marriage, children, grandchildren, writing.I'm still on track.I recently published three romances.And had such a lot of fun doing it!Thank you for coming along on this ride!

Devon: Self-exiled to the outrider's cabin of his family ranch following thedeath of his young wife, Devon struggles to find the will to live.When a young woman is thrown from a moving trainand into his world, he is forced to forget his own heartbreak as he attempts toprotect and care for her.Together, the two of them confront the demonsthat threaten them, their future happiness. Even their lives.
Melissa: Young and Innocent, Melissa escaped her old life and built a new one.Alone.Now everything she has worked so hard to create--her business, her very life--are threatened by a madman in a mindless search for revenge.And just when all appears lost, Cain emerges from her past.Is he here to help, as he says?Or has he returned to torture her one last time?
The Babysitter: A kidnapping ring is operating in Edmonton--targeting the very youngest and most vulnerable.Called in to help care for her sister's baby following a debilitating accident, J'Aime is concerned only with keeping her small niece safe.Then is snatched by the very kidnappers from whom she tried so desperately to protect her small charge.Now, J'Aime is locked in a battle to save herself as well as her niece.Will the two of them--and J'Aime's heart--survive?
I'm having fun!

P.S. All are available at Amazon.ca and Amazon.com!

Almost Struck

Still cold here. I'm getting nostalgic about summer.
Almost . . .
Blair in a less threatening situation. A bit less . . .The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a half mile from the ranch buildings.
Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.
But a marathon when you were pushing sick, weary stock.
Dad, always the thinker, came up with plan 'B'. Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.
Genius.
In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition. Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.
Heavy-duty. Solid.
And set up at a moment's notice.
The answer to all of our prayers.
Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.
Moving on . . .
We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.
All was going well.
Never say that when ranching. Because the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.
And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.
On this particular day, he sent Nature.
Capital 'N'.
Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.
But this storm was a bit different.
There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.
Or rain.
There was only lightning.
And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.
I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.
My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.
We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.
The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.
Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!
There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.
It exploded.
No, really. It was there one moment. Then gone the next.
A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been. Rather hard to ignore.
We all froze in our various positions. Dad and I outside the corral.
Blair stuck in the middle.
With several head of cattle.
Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.
“Freeze!” Dad barked.
Blair did.
The cattle weren't as obedient.
Now that I think about it, cattle never are.
Obedient, I mean.
But I digress . . .
Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?
They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.
“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”
Sometimes I hate it when people are right.
Again, the greenish colour.
Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!
Again the exploding.
But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral. That green lightning magnet.
Completely helpless.
I know I did do some praying then.
That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one. And then the storm moved away from us.
We started breathing again.
Moving.
I probably don't need to describe Blair's sprint across the corral. And vaulting of the fence.
Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.
For several minutes, we just stood there. Breathing.
Outside the corrals.
Thankful to be alive and safe.
It was some time before Dad could convince us to get back to work.
Not an unusual challenge.
But this time we had a good excuse. You get the idea...

Garden 101

 Since his retirement, Husby has taken over the gardening.After 45 years, I've been relegated from lead to occasional. I couldn't be happier. Yesterday, he planted his tomato seeds.In a little tray on my kitchen table.It reminded me of something... Mom. My gardening hero.In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to romance.

A young woman’s fancy turns to gardening.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it . . .

It’s warming up! Spring is on its way.

Even in northern Alberta, we have spring.

It just comes later and leaves earlier . . .

And spring means gardening!

My mom was a gardener.

One of those m-m-m-m-major gardeners.

Her patch of vegetables covered roughly two acres.

Give or take.

And was enough to provide the entire ranch population with food for much of the year.

I had been out in her garden from the time I could lift a hoe.

And even sooner (see here).

Not necessarily productive, but learning.

By the time I was married, I thought I knew everything there was to know about gardening.

Ha!

Did you know that those little plants don’t plant themselves in neat, tidy rows?

No.

They have to be painstakingly put there.

Oh, I admit that I watched Mom string a long piece of twine and follow it with a hoe to make sure her garden was aesthetically pleasing.

But it never occurred to me that her actions had a point.

But I was willing to learn.

My Husby rototilled a large patch of ground near our home.

Armed with a century’s worth of seeds, I started out.

Planting turned out to be quite easy.

Stretch the string.

Follow the line with a hoe.

Plant the seeds.

Cover them up.

Turn on the sprinkler.

Wait.

I should probably mention that while waiting, you have to keep an eye on things.

Otherwise, the weeds tend to overpower the plants.

In my first garden, I had planted a couple of rows of tomatoes.

I love tomatoes.

I had no idea that they needed to be started sometime in . . . December.

The little plants poked through the ground.

As did the weeds.

The interesting thing about weeds is the fact that they adapt themselves to fit perfectly with whatever vegetable plant they are near.

Thus, tomato weeds look like tomatoes.

Carrot weeds look like carrots.

And so on.

My tomatoes had emerged.

The weeds that accompanied them looked nearly identical.

They even smelled the same.

Which was which?

I studied the two plants.

Finally, I made a decision and started pulling.

Soon the rows were clean and tidy.

Happily, I turned the sprinkler on my garden and went back into the house.

A short time later, my mother-in-law, also a master gardener, came out for a visit.

She stood at the end of my garden.

“Why do you have two tidy rows of weeds, Diane?”

I stared at her.

Then turned to look at my tomatoes.

I had chosen . . . poorly.

Then she gave me a piece of advice that I’ve never forgotten.

“Diane. If you’re in doubt about a plant, pull it up. If it comes back, it was a weed.”

Good advice.

Doesn’t help much, but good advice all the same.

My Planet

Our planet’s quite important, it, we celebrate today,It gives us all we need to live and grow, (just by the way),Like food and water, air to breathe, and warmth (to name a few),Everything we need to help us drink or breathe or chew,I love the earth and I’ll do what I can to help it live,I will recycle and re-use, give all that I can give!One reason more I love this place and want to keep it sound?It is the only planet known where chocolate can be found!
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 come at little cost...With 'Maps' we will not get you lost!
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!)...Celebrating Earth Day (March 27) Today!Maps (April 3)Golf (April 10)Safety Pins (April 17)Pigs in Blankets (April 24)Rhinos (May 1)Socks (May 8)Chocolate Chip (May 15)Musical Instruments (May 22)Compost (May 29)Syrup (June 5)

A La Mud

All the talk about pie this past week has reminded me of something... The next generation starts in. Mmmmm...I've used many, many recipes in my life.

I started with simple: crackers and cheese.

And, believe me, you have to get that one just right . . .

To more complicated: hot dogs.

And I'm sure I don't have to explain the vital importance of the meat to bun ratio. And I won’t even go into the selection and/or serving size of condiments.

But my very first recipe was not nutritious.

Or even edible.

In fact, though it smelled rather good, I wouldn't have fed it to the dog.

Well, actually I did try.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was staying with my friend/cousin, Jean.

It was summer.

We had been playing in Aunt Grace's kitchen. Under Aunt Grace's feet.Till Aunt Grace finally had enough and kicked us outside to play.

Dutifully, we had played.

Then we started looking for something a little more . . . constructive.

“Let’s make mud pies!” Jean suggested.

Mmm. I like pie. “Okay.”

She found an old pot and we started adding ingredients.

I should mention here that, as we didn't have all of the ingredients for pie, and really weren't completely sure what those ingredients were, we . . . erm . . . substituted.

Back to my story . . .

Dirt. (For flour)

Water. (For water) And I should tell you that you have to get this ingredient just right. Too much and your mud pies are sloppy. Not enough and you can’t do a thing with them.  Just FYI.

Rocks. (Those were the raisins)

Two eggs that we stole from the hen house. (For eggs)

Grass. (For coconut)

We didn't mix any awful things into it, though I did find some dog doo that I was tempted to add.

For flavour.Jean stopped me. “Diane! If you put that in, no one could eat it!”

Important point.

Finally, we mixed our wondrous concoction and formed it carefully into little blobs on the wall of her mother’s flower garden. Right in the sunlight where our pies could cook and get nice and toasty.

Mmmm. They even smelled good.

I never got to taste our pies.

We were called in to dinner and my Mom picked me up just after that.

But I remember them. And how they would have tasted . . .

Our good friend, Shirley was over visiting.

She told us her ‘mud pie’ story.

How she and her sister found an old pail.

Added their ingredients.

Stirred well.

When it comes to the ‘cooking’ part, Shirley’s story takes a different turn from mine.

Her family had a chicken coop.

With a little wood stove inside to keep their feathered friends warm in the cooler months of the year.

Hmmm.

Why bother to set their mud concoction into the sun, where the actual ‘baking’ would be iffy, at best.

They would set their creation on the little wood stove.

And boil it.

Genius.

No sooner said than . . .

I probably don’t have to tell you that the flaws in their technique were almost immediately apparent.

In Shirley’s words . . . “It really stank!”

So, a note to all mud-pie enthusiasts out there.

Bake.

Don’t boil.

You heard it here first.

Very Guilty

In honour of National PUPPY Day...Husby and I are empty nesters.At that point in time, it was a fairly new experience. One that we were enjoying immensely. Maybe because we got all the perks (quiet evenings) with all the blessings (grandkids over daily).
But what we didn't have was a four-footed furry.
Maybe I should explain...
For over thirty years, we raised Old English Sheepdogs. (We love the breed. Smart, loyal, protective, easily trained.
And highly amusing.)
When our last puppy, Aldo, bid us farewell and crossed the rainbow bridge two years before, we decided our 'furry' days were over.
We were truly empty nesters.
Then, that March, our friends got a puppy. An OES cross.
And quite suddenly I knew my own dog days weren't done.
A week later, I was the proud owner of the newest generation of Old English Sheepdogs.
Pandora, but we called her Pandy. Among other things...
Ahem...
She was everything we've come to love about the breed.
And had settled into her own little corner of my heart.
Enough background...
That evening, Husby and I were in the family room, watching the movie 'Dragonslayer'. I was multi-tasking in that I was also working on a puzzle.
Pandy was rousting around, nose to the carpet.
A habit of hers, I must admit.
She rousted herself into Daddy's office.
Now, normally, this wasn't cause for concern as usually, Daddy was in there with her.
This time, he wasn't. (See above.)
I allowed the normal amount of time necessary to wander into the room, realize that your beloved person is not there, and wander out again.
That time had elapsed.
"Pandy!" I called.
She came out immediately.
But the reason for her tardiness became immediately-and painfully-apparent.
And yes, that's an Eat-More bar wrapper stuck to someone's furry face.
I've heard of wearing your guilt.
But never quite this accurately.

Goodbye, Please?

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 leave

The 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 to 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 so

Would 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.