Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 160

Blink

In happier times...
My Dad was in the blacksmith shop.And wherever Dad went, we kids trailed after.Because.Why is it that everything Dad does is interesting?For the first couple of minutes.After that, one's short attention span rather gets in the way.But I'm getting ahead of myself . . .Two-year-old Blair had followed Dad to the shop. Mom was in hospital with newborn sister, Anita, and Gramma was babysitting.But Dad did such interesting things . . .For a short time, Blair had been fascinated with simply watching as Dad puttered.Then, other interesting sights caught his attention.Tools.Horseshoes.Old paint cans filled with stuff.He began to explore.Dad kept an eye on him as he toddled about.Then, Dad turned on the air compressor.Its roar filled the old, log-built room and drew every kid in the vicinity.Blair.He watched, fascinated as the wheel spun."Now you stay back, son," Dad told him firmly.And he did. For a very, very long time. He was two. Thirty seconds is a very, very long time when you're two.Dad turned his back for a moment.Blair saw his chance. He moved forward and reached out to touch the spinning wheel. For a moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened.Then the pain started.He screamed.Dad spun around to see Blair shaking his hand and spraying blood everywhere.He grabbed him, pulled out his every-ready handkerchief to wrap around the wounded hand and headed for the house.Dad made the trip to the hospital in record time.And that is something when you are traveling on uncertain dirt roads.Soon, Blair was home again, with a neat glove bandage around his pointer finger.Which now was missing part of the first joint.Dad figures that the spinning belt caught it and nipped it off against the flywheel.A terrible wound.Leaving a scar. And a story to impress girls with twenty years later.Ahem . . .But a fixable wound.And a solemn reminder that turning your back for a second is all it takes.Ranches can be dangerous.

Wings of Death

Does this scare you?
Debbie's family lived on a ranch not far from ours. Her father had worked for my parents as a young man, before he had married.
They had remained good friends.
As had Debbie and I, once we had made our respective appearances (ie. born).
In our senior year, I stayed with them for a semester. They were kind, wonderful people. Very clever and full of fun.
Debbie and I had a room in the basement. Lovely twin beds and assorted other furniture.
With the lamp hanging over her bed.
This is an important point.
She was also terrified of moths.
Another important point.
And I liked to read at night after climbing into bed.
These all tie together.
Let me explain . . .
It was late. Debbie had long been trying to sleep.
I was reading.
It never occurred to me that I was being inconsiderate, though I knew full well the room's only light hung directly over her.
She tossed and turned and finally huffed and, throwing back the covers, got out of bed.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Bathroom,” she mumbled.
Just then, a moth that had been fluttering around in the light for the past half-hour, made the mistake of appearing where Debbie could see him. “Screech!” In a blur, she headed towards the door.
For some inexplicable reason, the moth followed her out into the dark hall.
You never can tell with moths.
There was another horrendous screech and Debbie darted back into the room, jumped into her bed and pulled the covers over her head.
The moth fluttered in happily behind her and was soon once more dancing in the light.
“STUPID MOTH! SHUT OFF THAT STUPID LIGHT!” Debbie shouted, through the covers.
I stared at the quivering lump that was my friend. “How on earth did you know the moth followed you into the hall?”
“HE TOUCHED MY FACE! SHUT OFF THE LIGHT!”
I complied.
Imagine. Frightened of a silly moth.
Now if it had been something truly scary. Like a spider . . .

Baby Words

Husby and I spent the last weekend in Provo, Utah.He, walking, relaxing and catching-up-on-sleep in the Marriott.Me, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Ally Condie, Brandon Sanderson, James Dashner and Jennifer Nielsen at the Storymakers Conference.Yep. Just me (and over 700 other writers) were all sharing with and learning from the best and brightest, including several New York Times bestselling authors.What a weekend!But, as with any good thing, it ended. And now I have the long months to wait until Storymakers 2018.But, after we had packed up and checked out, something happened that made the joyous weekend of books and words last just a teensy bit longer . . .Husby and I decided to attend Church a short distance from the hotel. We walked in as the congregation was singing a hymn. (Yes, we were late.)We took a seat near the back, where many of the families with small children had taken up residence. (And yes, I was missing my grandchildren, so this was the perfect place for us.)A tiny girl—just shy of actually walking—was in the pew just across the aisle from us. For the first few seconds, she stared steadily at Husby’s bearded face.Yeah, he gets that a lot.Then another couple walked in (We weren’t the latest arrivals. Whew!) with a tinier baby in a carrier. They took a seat a few rows back from us and set the carrier down on the floor in the aisle right next to their bench.The little girl’s attention was immediately diverted. “OOOH!” she said, pointing to the baby. Getting down on her hands and knees, she quickly closed the distance between her and her soon-to-be-best-friend.Her parents watched her go.Did they jump up and retrieve their wandering daughter?Nope.Instead, her father quietly took out a board book and propped it up on the floor in the aisle beside their family’s pew where it would be in plain sight of their little explorer.The tiny girl sat down beside the baby carrier, then spied the book.“OOOH!” she said again. She started crawling back toward her family. And her book.Halfway back, she again sat down, her head swiveling between the baby and the book. Hmmm . . . which to pursue?Finally, decision made, she closed the distance between her and her reading material. Happily, she grabbed the book. Her dad grabbed her and the two of them proceeded to make their way through something brightly-coloured and catchy.The baby in the carrier slept on, unaware that her friend had abandoned her for an adventure of the printed kind.And I realized how important it is that we are readers. That we are raising future readers.And the thought struck: If more children chose reading over hanging with friends, what kind of world would we live in?Just wondering . . .

Honey Bun

My husby and I went to dinner today.It’s something we both like to do.(Let’s face it, I love it when someone else cooks,Then tidies and does dishes, too.)
Talk drifted through topics both varied and wide,Like politics, family and pain,(With short bouts of silence to fork in some food,)Then starting the talk once again.
We studied our fellow restaurant customers,And yes. All our comments were nice.(I know it was something you wondered about,We were tempted at least once or twice.)
Then the dialogue turned, as it oftentimes does,To topics light-hearted, amusing,(I admit I prefer it when talk turns that wayI find it to be less confusing.)
We were talking of heroes and who we thought great,Of qualities never found lacking,And whom should be honored. Whom we should retain,And which should just be sent packing.
My Husby’s my hero, I’ll freely admit.Though, compared to the others, he’s…round.His kindness and his generosity shine,And with many good things, he abounds.
But Husby decided as the talking went on,My Stud Muffin he just couldn’t be.Instead he’d consider himself something more,He’d be my Stud Bun now. To me.
So know as your reading this, Husby and me,Are having some wonderful fun,Exploring and wandering throughout the world,Just me and my honey(stud)bun.
Monday needed help.So Delores, Jenny and I decided that a little poetry would liven things up a bit.This is my attempt. Hurry over to see what they’ve done!

Something Scary

“Norma, have you seen—?” I stopped in the doorway.
My sister was standing atop a chair.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Standing on a chair doesn’t seem so strange.
What makes it unique in this case is that the chair was atop a table. With that table perched rather precariously on the couch.
So my rather cumbersome and less-than-svelte sister was on a chair. On a table. On a couch. With her white head a mere inch from the very, very tall ceiling in our front room.
Yeah. That was my reaction, too.
I hurried over to her. “Norma, are you insane?!”
She peered down at me and grinned. “Ummm—probably.”
I gazed up at her. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
She looked around, still with that large grin on her face. “Just—seeing.”
I frowned at her. “Seeing?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Seeing—what?”
“What she sees. She must float around up here—our ghost—looking down on us.” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s quite a view!”
I stepped back. “You are insane!”
“I know it’s kind of a roundabout way of doing it.”
I made a face. “You think?”
“And I know what you’re going to say.”
“I’ve already said it.”
She laughed. “You’re going to say, ‘Back in my day, people didn’t hearken to insidious voices that told them to stand on chairs.”
I stared at her. “I’ve never talked that way in my life.”
“Oh. Well. Someone would say it.”
I rolled my eyes. “And we both know who that someone is.”
Norma suddenly squeaked loudly and quickly began to lower herself to her knees.
“What?” I looked around. “What did you see?”
“Oh, Sis! I saw—” She stopped talking as the pile upon which she perched rocked dangerously. Norma stopped moving. When it settled a moment later, she finished climbing down from the precarious stack.
“What?! What did you see?” I repeated.
“Oh, you simply wouldn’t believe it! It was the scariest—” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway into the kitchen.
Whatever scary thing I wouldn’t believe was lost as the door swung shut between us, blocking all sound.
What had she seen? Was our friendly neighbourhood ghost back in residence? Had Elvis returned? Had they invited friends? I walked over to the couch and looked up at the ceiling but could see nothing. Maybe if I stood a little taller.
I stepped up onto the couch and looked up again. Still nothing. Maybe a bit higher?
In a moment, I was standing atop Norma’s chair. I probably don’t have to tell you it was still perched on the table. On the couch. And yes, I did feel a bit foolish.  I put my hands on the ceiling and peered around.
What on earth had Norma been looking at?
Just then she came back through the kitchen door. “What are you doing up there?”
I looked down at her. “Ummm—seeing?”
“Well, while you’re seeing, could you please get that cobweb?” She handed me the duster and pointed. “We can’t have that in the house. It’s downright scary!”

Once a month, Karen issues a challenge. A word challenge. Words from each of her followers are distributed among the rest of her followers.
It’s fun.
This month, my words were: Insidious ~ Hearken ~ Back in my day ~ Roundabout
And were submitted by: The Bergham Cronicles

Here are the rest of Karen’s writers:
Baking In A Tornado                        http://www.bakinginatornado.com
Spatulas on Parade                         http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/
The Blogging 911                         https://theblogging911.com/blog/
Bookworm in the Kitchen      http://www.bookwormkitchen.com/
The Bergham Chronicles                  http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com
Simply Shannon                           http://shannonbutler.org  
Southern Belle Charm                    http://www.southernbellecharm.com  
Part-time Working Hockey Mom         http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/
Climaxed                                       http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

The Hood

My life has been spent in one gang or another.My first was quite innocent: sisters and brothers.From there, I moved up a bit: toddler who dared,With my nursery gang, all of my exploits, I shared.Later, my friends and I played in the street,Our gang was the best and the fleetest of feet.In school, I discovered a super new bunch,We hung out together at recess and lunch.In junior high, ‘cool’ was the group to be in.And you’d do almost anything just to begin.My friends in high school were the brightest and best,Better, I thought, than were all of the rest.And then finally, in college, the group I locatedWas a gang who chased stories and issues debated.But now I’ve discovered the best gang of all,Yes, sometimes, they’re noisy and like to start brawls.They messy, untidy. I do most of the work.I feel like a cook, driver, cleaner. Or jerk.But I love every one of them, I’ll not withdraw,I’m in this gang forever, ‘cause they call me ‘Ma’!I know in the world, there is stuff that is good,But I’ll hang with my gang. We’ll be here in the ‘hood’.
Every month about this time, my good friend Karen of Baking in a Tornado give us a chance to contribute a poem on a theme.May’s? Motherhood. My favourite topic!See what the others have done!Karen of Baking in a TornadoLydia of Cluttered GeniusDawn of Spatulas on ParadeSarah of Not That Sarah MichelleKristina Hammer, The Angrivated Mom

Cow Prophets

It's Poetry Monday again!
My favourite day of the week! Ha! I KNEW it was going to snow!“Look to the cows,” said Dad, the wise,
“And you will come to realize,
That by their actions, you can tell,
The weather patterns, fair or fell.”

And so I watched, and so I saw
That he was right, my smart ol' Pa.
And he knew what he talked about,
If you're predicting rain. Or drought.

The cows, they crowd together tight
And you know cold will be the night.
They seek the shed and shelter warm
If rain or snow will be the norm.

Then turn their tail and duck their head,
When wind is shrieking round the shed.
But stand out grazing peacefully,
If sun and warmth are meant to be.

But just today, I got a scare,
From cows around me everywhere,
For when I stepped outside my door
And glanced towards the purple moor . . .

(Oops, Alberta's where I live, you see,
And so I meant the wide prairie.)
My cows weren't where they're s'posed to be,
They sat on branches. In the trees.

So now I have to figure out,
Just what they're telling me about.
Delores and Jenny are the other participants in Poetry Monday.Skip over and see what they're up to today!

P.S. I know I've been largely in absentia these past few weeks. Battling illness and/or travelling. I'm afraid it will continue. (The travelling. Hopefully not the illness!) I'll check in when I can! :)

Forty-One

What can I say of the sum: Forty-One?How to describe it? Just what can be done?That it follows Forty, well that is just true,Though many things added together accrue,You won’t find it contained in a times-table match,Won’t cleanly divide, despite how hard you scratch.So what can I say of that number? It’s fine?It’s solid? It’s pretty? It’s stately? Divine?Well, to Husby and me it’s the aforesaid,‘Cause today, it’s the years that we two have been wed!
Happy Anniversary, my love!

It's poetry Monday!Hop on over to Delores and Jenny and see how their day is going!

Another New View

The view from my window this morning.
What you can't see behind the cloud layer--mountains.
Yes, we are on the road again, Husby and me.
Jasper, Alberta this time.
Library conference/writing retreat.
I'll be swimming soaking hiking shopping working madly on my newest manuscript and thinking of you!
Back Monday for Poetry!
I love you all!
Diane

Nail(ed) Clippers

This is a confession.
Yeah. It was me . . .
Mom had a pair of toenail clippers.
Large.
Effective.
Those suckers could cut through anything.
Well almost anything.
They had sat atop her dresser in lonely glory for all of my life.
I had watched Mom use them on numerous occasions. Seated on a chair, one ankle cross over the other knee for convenience and leverage.
Always with a garbage pail beneath in case of accidental drop-age/escape-age.
There would be the steady sound of clip-age.
Then mom would get to her feet, restoring the garbage to its rightful corner, and returning those great, heavy clippers back to their place.
Until next time.
And there they sat.
Now, I had borrowed these clippers from time to time.
Usually when I had misplaced my own.
Because mine didn't have a place of honour on my dresser.
Or anywhere, for that matter . . .
Now, that day:
 I was somewhere far out in the pasture. Doing the things I was supposed to be doing.
Not in my parents room snooping around for Christmas presents.
Or at least that's the story I always told my mom.
Ahem.
And it wasn't me who took a straight pin from the pincushion which also resided atop Mom's dresser and tried to clip it with her clippers.
Just to see what would happen.
Resulting in a gap in the very center of the smooth edge of said clippers.
Because--just FYI--in a contest between straight pins and clippers, straight pins win.
But now, I'm changing my story.
A little late, but there you are.
I'm telling you this so you don't have to watch your mom, to the end of her days, clip her toenails with a defective set of clippers.
Sigh.