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

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.

Green Hand

It came out of the blue.
Or green, as you will soon see . . .
Mommy was working at her desk in her office.
Little Girl (hereinafter known as LG) was playing at her little craft table in the next room.
Now, I should probably mention, here, that LG is not one of those children who get into things. Nope. She is a 'rules' sort of person. She likes to know them.
And, on occasion, reinforce them.
Especially to any other children in the vicinity.
Also, as an only child, she entertains herself with admirable skill.
Sooo . . . back to my story.
Mommy: Desk.
LG: Standing in the doorway.
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"Mommy?"
"What is it?"
Okay, now she's got mommy's attention. "Mommy, this happened."
Mommy turns around.
LG is holding up her left hand.
Which has been covered, wrist to fingertips, in green marker.
"LG (not her real name) what did you do?!"
"I'm sorry. It just happened."
"Your entire hand got coloured in green marker."
"Ummm . . . yeah."
"How did it happen?"
"I did it."
"Why?"
A shrug. "I just . . . wanted to."
"You wanted to colour your entire hand."
"Yeah."
Mommy was getting a little lost. "But . . . why?"
Another shrug.
"What has Mommy said about drawing on yourself?"
"Not to do it."
"So . . . why did you do it?"
A third shrug.
"Let's go and wash, shall we. Then I think we'll have to put the markers away for a while so we can think about this."
"Okay!"
And here's what we take away from this:
So you know--out in the world when people do seemingly inexplicable things. Things that make you stare at them and think to yourself: Really? You're going to go with that? Did you even think about this at all?!
Those things?
Yeah, it's still inexplicable.

Soggy, But Triumphant

Front to back: George, Me, Chris, Jerry, Dad and Blair.
Look closely. Can you pick out the intrepid swimmer?I had never taken swimming lessons.
We simply lived too far from the city (Lethbridge) for it to be a priority. Or even possible.
But I loved to swim.
And, with the river in such close proximity, did it a lot.
In the summer.
In winter, for obvious reasons, we were pretty much shut out.
Then, someone of great intelligence from the town came up with a fantastic idea.
Why not hire a schoolbus and cart a load of kids to Lethbridge once a week?
It was genius!
Swimming lessons had become a reality.
I was going!
The bus ride was a treat. I wasn't confined to my usual fourth row back and Kathy had a portable record-player, which she kept going the entire trip.
Do you have any idea how many times you can listen to the Surfaris 'Wipe-Out' in a fifty-mile bus ride? Answer: A few.
The bus deposited us safely in front of the Civic Center and we scrambled madly for the door and the change rooms, then poured out into the main pool room.
We were ready.
The teachers began to sort us into groups, using a list of highly-specialized criteria.
How old are you? Are you afraid of the water? Have you ever taken swimming lessons before? What colour is your swimsuit?
Do you like boys?
Finally they had us, more or less, categorized.
I had never taken swimming lessons, so I was inserted into the beginners class.
“Okay, kids. See if you can put your face into the water.”
Woohoo! Compliance! I took off like a seal.
“Okay. You! Little girl in the blue swimsuit!” Sigh. “Would someone please fish her out?”
Have I mentioned that I like water?
“Are you sure you've never had lessons?”
Head shake.
“Well, I'm moving you up to the next level.”
Okay.
And so it went.
By the time we were finished our one-hour lesson, I had been . . . promoted . . . seven times.
It must have been some sort of record, to go from the beginner level to the 'Junior Lifeguard' level.
In one lesson.
Who could have known that all my flailing and thrashing around like a demented fish had actually been getting me somewhere.
Or that, in the still water of a pool, with no current to fight, I could actually make headway.
Really fast headway.
Jerry (the only member of my family who could fight the river's current and win), eat your heart out.
Because miracles do happen.
I was suddenly the soggy and triumphant queen of my little, watery world.
It didn't happen often.
But it was a very good feeling.

Something's Sprung

March bows. A wave good-bye, she earns, And April comes and hope returns,That soon we'll see some warmth and sun
And know that springtime has begun.

When colour will return anew,
And leaves come back and flowers poke through.
The grass turn green. The song of bird
Throughout the warming air be heard.

When soft and pristine breezes blow,
And places, then, to see. And go.
The doors and windows, closed so long,
Are opened wide to catch Spring's song . . .

It's here, you know, that airy Spring,
When bells ring out and songbirds sing,
There's warmth and joy and sunlight's gleam
And spring has sprung--cause I can dream.

Sigh.
Ready to set sail . . .
Someday . . .
Monday is for Poetry.
It starts the week off right, you see.
Now go discover what my friends,
Have done when they two wield their pens!
Delores at Mumblings is having an Ordinary Day
Jenny at The Procrastinating Donkey experienced a true modern dilemma.