Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 165

A Golden Rule

Me. Far right, second row. Renee, directly behind me.
One of us was perfectly dressed.
It wasn't me.I'm a horrible person.I mocked/made-fun-of someone.I have repented . . It was my first day of school.I was breathlessly, happily, finally in grade one.I had just enjoyed my first bus ride.It was bumpy and dusty.But magical.I had been duly delivered to the sidewalk outside my brand new school.Where I stood in indecision.Okay. The other kids were lining up at the doors.I followed.A tall, slender woman was calling for all of the "Grade Ones!"I saw several kids about my size line up beside her.I followed.The bell rang and Miss Warnoski turned and went into the school.We all followed.In Miss Warnoski's room, we toted our book bags (mine was homemade by my Mom) to our first desk.I was in the second row.Second seat back.It had my name pasted onto it.D-i-a-n-e S-t-r-i-n-g-a-m. I spelled it out by tracing with a finger.Yep. That's me!I watched to see what the other kids were doing.Unpacking.Okay. I could do that.I began to pull out thick, red pencils and half-lined scribblers.Cool. There was a cubbyhole under the desktop that could hold a mountain of stuff.Soon it was home to my stuff.I hung my bag over the seat back, sat down at my desk, folded my hands together on top, and let my legs swing.School was a breeze.Miss Warnoski began to teach.Okay, not such a breeze.Then, it was time to line up for Recess.Capital 'R'.The great unknown.I followed.We filed back outside. And kids began to run and play.This was Recess?Pffff. What was I worried about?This was just like playing with kids at home.In fact, I recognized some of the kids from playing at home.Suddenly I was in my element.And that's when the trouble started.I should point out, here, that I didn't always get into trouble during recess.It just seems like it.Moving on . . .There was a tall, very slender girl in my new class.Renee.She had long, silky, platinum-blond hair, perfectly groomed.And she was dressed in the very pinnacle of fashion.Something that would remain a trademark with her throughout our school years.And something that would pass me by throughout . . . you get the picture.Today, she had on a poofy pink dress.Which I secretly thought was very pretty.And of which two or three of the other kids were making fun.They called out jeers and snide remarks.A five-year-old's version of insulting.And none of which I can remember.Probably a good thing.But it looked like fun!I would join in."Renee, you look like a big, poofy candy floss!"Renee just smiled. As she had been doing all along.And suddenly, I didn't feel all that clever.In fact, I felt stupid.I had made fun of someone.And I didn't like it.I handled my new feelings of embarrassment and chagrin with aplomb and maturity.I went and hid.Till the bell rang and Miss Warnoski came to gather all of us.I've forgotten much of what I was taught in grade one, I'm sure, but one thing stayed with me.Don't say anything you wouldn't want said to you.Okay, I never had to worry about anyone teasing me about my 'candy floss' dress. Or any dress for that matter.But you get the point.

Stray Cats

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.It was evening. Just before bedtime.
And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.
Something she did a lot.
Especially at night.
We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.
It was . . . annoying.
Finally, I set my book down and got up to see what could be bothering her.
Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby?
A cow bawling?
Water running in the canal?
Wind in the trees?
Crickets?
Dumb dog.
I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport with two walls: one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.
The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.
It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word). See? Carport. Without the cars...Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.
Something I usually did.
Tonight I . . . didn't.
I don't know why.
I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.
There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.
And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.
My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.
Still barking her fool head off.
Stupid dog.
I sighed and pushed the screen door open.
Then hesitated.
And did something I had never done before. I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other neatly-placed garden tools.
Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.
I paused at the edge of the carport.
Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased. I could see her clearly now, even in the dim light. Hackles raised. Whole body stiff with intent.
I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.
And I do mean shattered.
It was the scream of a cougar.
Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.
It's . . . scary.
This scream was five feet away.
Above me.
At the very edge of the carport roof.
See? Shattered.
I froze instantly.
Then started to back up, one step at a time.
Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.
I called my dog and she came running.
Still barking.
The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.
Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”
I was staring out the window.
Cheetah was now standing behind me. She continued to bark.
“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.
“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”
“Are you sure?”
I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”
“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.
I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.
My dad appeared. Calm as always.
“Where?”
“Well it was on the carport roof a few minutes ago.”
“It'll leave.”
I stared at him. “You're not going to go out after it?”
“Not while it's on the roof.”
Good point.
Dad got a flash-light and pointed it out the window.
The roof was snared in a noose of light.
Empty.
I cautiously opened the door.
Cheetah shot through and into the night. Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and toward the foothills.
Our visitor was obviously headed home.
Everyone present heaved a sigh of relief. With some visitors, that's just the way it is.
Less is more.
Moving on . . .
I will add that this was the first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.
And not being offered a warm meal.
Oh . . . wait.
I guess that's a good thing.
Mondays are Poetry days!If you'd like to participate, you will be so welcome!I'm writing about BEGINNINGS. Message me your link in the comments before Sunday evening. Let's do this! :)

(S)Licked Up

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'. Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.But especially tacos.Mmmmm. Tacos.There was only one problem. I couldn't get them hot enough.I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.Not enough.Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.Still not enough.A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)Almost there.Seven drops.Perfect.And that's the way I ate them the entire nine months.My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.I think I burned it off.This is relevant.Moving on . . .After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.Mmmmm. More food.I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest toasty and comfortable.Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.My dinner arrived. I looked at the loaded plate. Then at my baby.I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.But that would take effort.And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.Hunger decided.I would just eat.Over the baby. It was just like being pregnant again.Sort of.All went well.The mushy peas went first. That was easy, I just held the bowl close and spooned.Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.Mmmm.And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.With ketchup.Paradise.Dip.Munch.Dip.Munch.And so it went.Then . . .Dip.Splat.Oops.Right on the top of my baby's bald head.What to do?I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.Done.I happily went back to eating my chips.That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table. Looking at me. A frozen expression of horror on her face.Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.I remember being a trifle embarrassed. And briefly uncomfortable.Then I shrugged.In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex.It's all a matter of perspective.Mine.