Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 19

Poke-er

The incentive
It seemed like a good idea at the time.We are not gamblers.

We’re not.

But we taught our kids to play poker.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We have a timeshare condo in Banff, Alberta that we’ve owned for over thirty years.

Every year, for one week, that beautiful corner of the world is ours.

But, sometimes, in years past, the weather didn’t cooperate. It rained. (Or snowed, but that is a whole other story for us non-skiers.)

We didn’t mind much.

There was still the swimming pool, where our kids spent 6 hours of the day.

And the cable TV.

A special treat that absorbed another segment.

But for the time usually spent  walking/hiking, we had to get creative.

Board games...

Genius.

Cards...

Even better.

So with a deck of cards and a large bag of Smarties, we set out to teach them poker.

I know. I know.

Hear me out . . .

We had the list from our Rummoli game, so we knew that a flush beats three-of-a-kind, etc.

We were ready.

I don’t know what type of poker we were playing.

It consisted of dealing five cards and having one chance to trade some in.

And then betting Smarties.

I should point out, here, that the ‘chips’ kept getting eaten.

Especially by our five-year-old.

Each hand was dealt.

Cards were traded.

Bets were placed.

Hands were judged.

Smarties were claimed.

Eaten.

And the next hand was dealt.

It was a great way to spend a rainy afternoon.

To make it just that much more fun, the makers of Smarties had come up with something unique. 

Purple Smarties with a tiny pair of sunglasses printed on one side.

They weren’t worth more.

Or taste any different.

But they were unique.

And therefor valuable.

Throughout the afternoon, my kids learned such phrases as:

‘Your deal.’

‘Cut the cards.’

‘Full house: aces over threes.’

‘Read ‘em and weep!’

‘Who dealt this stuff?’

And the all-important, ‘Ahhhh! I’m out! I’ve got spit!’.

The latter of which was immortalized by said five-year-old when he walked in the door of his grandmother’s. Another non-gambler. “Hi, Gramma! We played poker and I had spit!”

The game officially ended when the last Smartie had been eaten.Erm...yes...poker.

That most...educational of all family games...

Being Humble

I've always equated being humble with gratitude.So for today's Poetry Monday, with its topic of "Being Humble", I'm going to share that gratitude!

‘Please bow your head and all give thanks for blessings you’ve been given,’

I did as I was told, then thought of this old life I’m live-n.

I’ve fam-i-ly, that’s number one and a modicum of wealth,

And food to eat and clothes to wear and yes, I’ve got my health.

With things that I can do that make each day diverse and fun,

And friends and family to help (that keep me on the run).

I’ve tales and articles to write and some to read as well,

And always there’s a grandchild near and stories I can tell.

I’ve got my job, I’ve got my faith, I’m grateful for them both,

And even problems when they come, assuring spiritual growth.

I’m grateful for my childhood, and parents I hold dear,

And all my precious memories that still remain so clear.

My friends both near and far I simply could not do without,

I’m grateful for their caring, even when they bawl me out!

I’m grateful for my country and the freedoms I enjoy,

And happy, too, that I can choose just how I’ll be employed.

My list goes on and on and, yes, it truly humbles me,

When I think of all I have and all that I can be,

And so, today, you’ll find me, folding arms, with eyes shut tight,For blessings I’ve been given I thank Him with all my might!

Three Little Girls

A trio of girls, two were five, and one three,Playing as happily as they could be,Lego and Playmobil, stuffies and more,Building a fort and slamming some doors,When Gramma had checked on them, naught was awry,Just three little faces, six innocent eyes,And then as it happens, sometimes when you blink,Three little girls, whilst getting a drink,Decided that they could see great times ahead,If they pulled out the water stored under the bed!It took all their strength, they pulled and they strained,Then grinned at each other, said, “Let’s make it rain!”And quick as a blink, they were dousing the mat,Each other, the bedclothes, and even the cat!Cause 24 bottles can cause quite a lotOf trouble, when three little girls hatch a plot!We adults were upstairs just playing card games,With nothing more thoughtful than winning, our aim,Till a three-year-old showed up all dripping and wet,As soaked as a small person ever could get,Then the mad scramble as fathers jumped up,And hurried to check on the two other pups,I likely don’t have to explain all the rest,How the dad’s gave a lecture, whilst drying the nest,While Gramma just laughed and stayed out of the fray,Chalked it up to experience—just one more day.But I will say this: When kids play and dads clean…The carpet in there is the cleanest it’s been! 

Not Cool

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.1965.I had just realized that boys didn't have cooties.I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.The two went together.Perhaps I should explain . . .Grade five.The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.Times tables proved important.Story writing, more intense and personal.Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.And boys became . . . interesting.The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”It was signed, 'Paul'.What???!A boy?!Wanted to go to a movie with me?!What should I say?What should I do?What should I wear?!Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.And that was it.My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.For the rest of the week, actually.Saturday was a long time coming.I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.The popular, cool boys.And way out of my league.But his group adopted me as one of their own.For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.Back to my story . . .I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.For about a month.Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.Who took me back in without so much as a frown.For half a morning, I complained bitingly.Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .You can see where this is going.“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”I sprinted to join them.Didn't even look back.Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.I know what you are thinking.Fickle non-friend.And you're not wrong.Ahem . . .This went on for some time.Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.Then my popularity waned.And died.And do you know what?My old group again took me back.Without even a sideways glance.This time, I stayed.We went through grade six together.Then Junior High.Then Senior high.And we had fun.I discovered that it all comes back to math.♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.I learned my lesson.
P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.Life is the true leveler.

The Importance of Shoes

Breaking News: Former servant now a servant of the people. Sort of. Kinda. Okay, maybe we should all hear the rest of the story…

Cindy was a good girl. Only child of a widowed father, she spent her days helping around their too-large-for-just-the-two-of-them chateau.

Her father, assuming (erroneously, methinks) that she was in need of female company, (ie. mother, sisters, etc.) decided to find exactly that. Or those.

Whilst away, (notice my medieval language. Ahem…) her father happened upon a lovely woman, mother of two daughters, in sorry need of a husband.

Assuming again that these three women were precisely what his sweet daughter needed, he immediately married the mother and carted the whole brood home.

I just want to say that, when MY dad returned from a trip, he never—not once—brought me a new mother or sisters.

I suspect my own mother/sisters would have been a tad vocal about the arrangement. Hmmm. Forget I suggested it. Back to my story…

Anyways, things went along quite swimmingly until Cindy’s beloved father keeled over one morning whilst dining. Or reclining. Pining? Maligning? My notes are fuzzy.

Following the poor man’s death, cracks appeared in the heretofore solid foundations of Cindy’s world. Womanmade cracks. From the aforementioned and up-to-now, sunny, Stepmother.

Apparently, some women and some girls shouldn’t exist in the same hemisphere. Actually some women and anyone else, regardless of sex, creed or religion.

Stepmother, in a rather fruitless attempt to help her two (sadly plain) daughters eclipse Cindy in the looks department, dressed her stepdaughter in rags.

Then forcibly compelled her to take over the servants’ duties in the vast mansion. After firing the servants. Because of an ongoing struggle with budgeting.

Now Cindy, she of the eternally effervescent attitude, took all this in stride and continued to shine. Even whilst mucking about doing servant…stuff.

All the while, the three girls continued to grow. And mature. Approaching the day when their gifts—or lack thereof—would become painfully obvious.

Meanwhile, over at the palace, the prince was also growing. And had just graduated from the UofSofRP (University of Sons of Rich Parents).

The one over on Prosperity Avenue. Just past ImposingBankBalance Road and FiltyRich Street. No, I’ve never been there, but I’ve read about it.

Anyways, now he was home, clutching his brand-new Useful for Everything Degree and grinning broadly and truly excited about some serious sleeping-in time.

His father, the King, had other ideas, and had already organized a grand ball to introduce his son to the kingdom’s ‘all and sundry’.

'Sigh. Okay, yes, father, I will put in the effort to have someone else groom and dress and polish me to a finished shine.

And stand in a line to smile at girls. And be nice to girls. And dance with girls. All whilst their mothers are watching.'

Now the word—and the invitations—had gone out to the entire kingdom. Every unmarried girl was to attend. Emphasis on EVERY. Cindy included.

Let’s just say Stepmother wasn’t having any of it. Remember? Plain daughters. Gorgeous step-daughter. I’m quite sure you can guess what happened next…

Yep. Chores. More chores. And chores to do before other chores could be done. And when those were finally done? Dusting—the endless chore.

(My own sainted mother was quite good at this. She could cross one chore off a list and deftly add three to the bottom.)

Needless to say, Cindy simply ran out of time. Oh, she tried. Dressing hastily in an old gown of her mother’s which her stepsisters consequently shredded.

Sigh. Forlornly, she watched as the carriage took the three, Stepmother and daughters, off to future incredible glory. And/or dancing and five-star dining.

But as she sat sobbing in the garden in her formerly-outdated-but-pristine-now-ragged dress, A Personage appeared. Her Fairy Godmother.

May I cry foul? I just want to mention that MY Fairly Godmother has never appeared. Even when I had simply ‘nothing to wear’.

Cindy’s FGM fixed things up with a wave of her wand. (Harrumph. See above.) And Cindy was suddenly wearing the finest. Complete with glass slippers.

And a pumpkin became a coach. Mice, horses. A dog, the coachman. All in all, a fairly productive wave of said wand. You agree?

Just like that, mice, dog, Cindy and pumpkin were off to the ball. The cost of the evening’s finery? A fairly middle-ground curfew of midnight.

And did that girl party? I should say! Almost immediately, she attracted the eyes—and rapt attention—of the aforementioned, degree-toting prince.

They spent the evening talking and laughing and eating and dancing. I know you’re probably wondering why the Stepmother/sisters didn’t recognize her.

I will just say this. Out of context/impeccably dressed. I mean, how many people failed to recognize Superman behind Clark Kent’s glasses? Hmmm?

Lost in dreamland, when the midnight hour began to toll, Cindy gasped and hastily leaped up—dropping one shoe—and began the trek home.

She didn’t make it. Well, not as the fairy princess in a coach. More as a wretched rag-wearing, one-shoed and rather forlorn former princess.

A word about those slippers. Glass? Really? Either this girl weighed nothing, was incredibly light on her feet, or glass is different in fairy tales.

Now the Prince, totally enamoured with ‘The Girl’ was beating about the whole kingdom in search of her. And Stepmother discovered her secret.

Yikes. Desperate to prevent what seemed to be happening from…happening, she locked Cindy in her room and prepared her daughters to greet the Prince.

All was going well, despite the fact that her own daughters’ feet couldn’t possibly fit into the uber-tiny shoe the Prince was toting around.

Cindy managed to escape her room just as the Prince was leaving, but, in a final effort to thwart true love, Stepmother broke the Prince’s shoe.

Which would have been a complete and total disaster for all if Cindy didn’t still (conveniently) have her own shoe. That girl plans ahead…

Needless to say, the Prince and Cindy were engaged that very day and married almost immediately. Forgiving all, they lived happily ever after.

Something I’m sure that I, as Cindy, would have struggled with but hey! I didn’t have to face that nasty Stepmother and sisters thereafter!

And that brings us to our notable takeaway. Girls. Shoes are important to your happiness. Sometimes vitally important. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

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 word count number is 24. And was brought to you by: Mimi of Messymimi’s Meanderings!

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Backfired

 My Husby is a kind man, given oft to kindly acts, Doing things for family—and me—in point of fact, So, Random acts of kindness may cross others on their way, But Random Acts of Kindness come to me most every day! Pandemic’s end’s the signal of our travel once again, And Husby’s started planning for the where’s and for the when’s. This week, he bought a world map, stuck it on the kitchen wall, Then turned and grinned at me, said, “Time to heed ol’ travel’s call!” In kindness, handed me a dart, said, “Hon, youcan decide, Exactly where we’ll go, and for a little while, abide, Just give the dart a throw, my dear, wherever it does land, Well, that is where I’ll take you, be it rock or snow or sand!” I smiled at him and took the dart and carefully, did aim, (Hoping for lands warm and bright, that tourists acclaim!) I guess I should have better aimed, moved to the right a smidge, It looks like holidays for us will be behind the fridge!

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, you won't hear us grumble...Cause we're discussing being humble!
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!)...Random Acts of Kindness (February 13) Today!Be Humble (February 20)Pineapple (February 27)Cookies (March 6)Butterflies (March 13)Buzzards (March 20)Celebrating Earth Day (March 27)Maps (April 3)Golf (April 10)Safety Pins (April 17)Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

 

 

 

 

Jail Break

Okay, yes, this story is about Halloween. And yes we are far on either side of said Halloween.But still, it seemed apropos.The reason will become apparent…Mom, Sally and I were spending a glorious two weeks in a small town in Maine. You have to know that this was several years ago, when Sally and I were sixteen.Pre-Mort. (Or Peter or Pete.)And Mom and I were still rather at the mercy of the loquacious and friendly and adventurous SALLY.For those of you who know Sally, it will come as no surprise that she was already well-known to every single member of the community.My indefatigable sister had saved a couple of little boys who had fallen into a cisternby jumping into the—fortunately—only chest-deep water and then holding both of them above the surface and screaming for help.She had foiled an attempt at a boat theft by secretly tying a line to the pier.And she had single-handedly saved the morning rush and many hungry tummies at the local diner when, upon seeing the single server collapse somewhere between the dining room and the kitchen, she threw down her napkin and pitched in.Of course I—and sometimes Mom—was usually somewhere in the vicinity.But Sally was the instigator.Then—Halloween.Sally and I had long since given up the idea of going door-to-door and instead had taken to wandering around the darkened neighbourhoods making sure the kiddles were safe.In costume, of course.In our neighbourhood, we had become an accepted part of the Halloween landscape.Here? Not so much.Now the small-town sheriff, having dealt with mischievous teens in years past had decided, this year, to be proactive.And dutifully gone about town picking them up before they could get into mischief.Okay, yes, it was probably the most peaceful Trick-or-Treat night on record.Sally had skipped across the street from me to help a dragon whose tail had gotten caught in a wrought-iron fence.And that’s when the sheriff spotted me.I did protest.But was whisked away with five other kids about my age in his patrol car.Good thing we were all skinny.Okay. Part of me thought this was all rather exciting and, knowing I had done nothing wrong, I was quite ready to embrace the adventure.I had lived with Sally for most of my life…The sheriff duly delivered us to his station—a lonely little brick building halfway down the block and across the alley from the aforementioned diner.And put us all into one of the two cells. A good old-fashioned one right out of the movies. With iron bars, a tiny window—now dark—and a toilet in the corner.The other cell contained a snoring, scantily-clad woman with a whorl of pink hair and a police coat over the little she was wearing.The boys in our group thought she was…interesting and I know my eyes popped just a bit.Anyways, the six of us all found seats next to each other on the two bunks and prepared to wait for the parents the sheriff promised to call as he was disappearing down the hall to the office and reception area.We had been chatting a bit and I was just getting to know them when the back door mysteriously swung open.Okay, why was the back door of the police station unlocked? Anyone?Of course, it was Sally.We all stopped talking and stared.My mind started going a million miles an hour. Do I admit she’s my sister?Do I feign ignorance?She glanced up the hallway and approached the cell we were in, then whipped out—I am not making this up—a hacksaw.And yes, I know what a hacksaw is.There was a collective gasp and a few chuckles.She just grinned at us and went to work high up on one of the bars.Faster than I would have imagined, she was through and attacking lower down.When she was about ¾ of the way through, one of the boys—probably in an obvious bid to look…buff…pulled down on the bar, bending it inward toward us.The space between the remaining bars was now considerably wider than before.Remember when I said we were skinny.Well, that comes into play here.One by one, the kids slipped out through the opening and darted out the still-open back door.I was the last to leave. I turned to Sally. “I wonder what the fallout will be from this prank?” I whispered.Sally just grinned. “Let’s find out, shall we?” She slipped into the cell I had just left and laid down on one of the cots.“Sally. What are you doing?”“It’s no fun sparking something unless you want to see it go off!”“Ummm…”“Go! I’ll tell you how it ends!”I didn’t want to leave her, but she insisted.As a loyal sister, I waited just outside the back door.There was the sound of footsteps. The sheriff’s voice. “Okay. Reed, your dad’s here to…”I could see it in my head. The astonishment. The…unbelief."Sir!” Sally’s voice. “There’s been a jailbreak!”Oddly enough there was very little fallout from this escapade. I guess a dozen disgruntled parents—one of them the mayor and her husband—upset over their kids being hauled off to the hoosegow without provocation made them all just a tad…well…disgruntled.I’m sure the bar got replaced.Maybe the sheriff also.I just know that without Sally, things would have ended quite differently.The reason I’m telling you this?Mom and Dad want to take all of us out to Maine this fall to see the foliage. Dad actually booked us rooms at a B&B in the same town.Wish us--and the town--luck. 
Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post with the understanding that all words be used at least once. All the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now. 
Today, I’m using: scantily ~ popped ~ whorl ~ indefatigable ~ cistern ~ loquaciousThey were submitted by: Jenniy of  Climaxed the BlogThank you, my friend!Now check out my fellow bloggers! BakingIn A Tornado Climaxed The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver 

Going Boom

A Guest Post by Blair Stringam(Who miraculously survived this story...)At one point in my youth, dad’s ranch headquarters were a mile down the road from my uncle’s farm.My cousin who lived there was always tinkering with something so I would walk to his place and we would build/destroy.One day my cousin taught me how to make gunpowder.It turns out it’s quite easy. Only 3 ingredients.One of which was sulfur(?!)Easily picked up where the Sulphur-laden trains passed over a bridge just south of our town. There was a slight bend before said bridge where bits of sulfur bounced off of the train cars.We picked up several pieces and headed back to our black powder processing facility (shack behind my uncle’s house).We started grinding up sulfur and charcoal then combined our mixture with saltpeter—my cousin knew the approximate proportions. (One should probably wonder about that kid!)We were ready.From that point on, we would make little gunpower bombs and blow up old toys (sister’s toys but we’d never admit it) or blow holes in the ground. It was fascinating to see bits of dirt fly into the air as our little bombs ignited. One time, we even made a little rocket.That started to take off and then fell over on its side.Thinking back, it’s a wonder we didn’t start a fire or destroy something at my uncle’s home.Or blow a finger off or burn ourselves.Well, except for that one time…We drilled a hole in a brass tube and inserted a fuse. Then packed gunpowder in the tube and plugged both ends.We had the perfect homemade mega-firecracker.Now all we needed was a safe place to light up.My cousin had built a double story fort. We went to the upper floor and set the firecracker on the floor.Then my cousin lit the fuse.I was gazing at it happily when I realized my cousin was making a fast exit from the upper floor and out the door below.This wasn’t one of our small firecrackers that we had previously made!I decided I had better follow.I was almost out the lower door when I heard the loudest BOOM! I had ever experienced. My ears were ringing and my cousin had to speak loudly so I could understand what he was saying.We returned to the upper floor and found a deep black hole in the floor. There was also a slight dent in the wall.I was immediately grateful I was able to exit the upper floor.But wished I had made it all the way out.  My ears rang for 2 or 3 days.I don’t recall making any more IFEs (improvised farm explosives).Probably a good thing.If we continued in that activity there is no telling what might have happened. The law of averages dictates that sooner or later, there is going to be an incident. Am I right?Many years later, I’m glad that we lost interest in the activity. Who knows how many fingers I might be missing or the expensive hearing aid I might need to use if we had continued.Some boyhood adventures are best as memories. As seen here. Hair going, but limbs intact...

Bringing Families Together

Husby and our Middle Son, Duffy.
Spinning music.
Every weekend for over twenty years, Mikey’s Music Machine entertained groups of families.

It was a DJ company.

Catering particularly to school, church, community or family reunion groups and trying to re-create the barn dances Husby and I grew up with.

My Husby spun the music and the kids and I danced.

Teaching as we went.

Everything from the old time Virginia Reel, Butterfly and Schottische to the modern line dances.

What our family did, other families followed.

It was . . . marvelous.

Through the years, we had many, many wonderful experiences.

But one stands out.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had been booked by a school in Canmore, Alberta.

Near Banff.

We were setting up.

A matter of twenty minutes or so.

During that time, a man stood watching us.

Finally, he approached.

“This’ll be a fun evening,” he said sarcastically. “Why on earth did the school invite the kids?” His mouth twisted. “How can the adults have any fun if there are kids running around?”

I stared at him.

Mikey’s was all about adults and kids.

Having fun - together.

How could I answer that?

“Ummm . . . we encourage the parents and children to dance together,” I said.

He snorted. “Oh, that’ll be fun!”

He walked away.

I turned and continued to run wires.

A few minutes later, a young girl (about 10 or so) came up.

“Well this dance is going to be a total loss,” she said.

I looked at her. “Really?”

What else could I say?

“Well, we’re not going to be able to have any fun with all of the parents here!” 

Her lip curled daintily over the word, ‘parents’.

“Oh, well, we’ve found that, actually you can have lots of fun,” I said, trying to be hopeful.

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

I finished what I was doing.

And walked over to my Husby.

“This is going to be a tough crowd,” I whispered into his ear.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve already had two complaints and we haven’t even started yet.”

He grinned. “Let’s change attitudes, shall we?” 

He flipped the switch.

My kids and I walked to the middle of the gym and started dancing.

Usually, we had the dance floor to ourselves for that first song, our Mikey’s Music signature song.

Grant spoke over the music, explaining, briefly, how the evening would go.

Then he moved into the Twist.

The first of many contests for the evening.

“Okay” he said, his voice loud over the speakers, “Now this is a dance that everyone knows. The Twist! It’s also a contest song. We will give a prize to the family (he emphasized the word) who can do the very best twist!”

I should point out that we usually gave away suckers and other wrapped candies.

People would dance themselves silly for one.

Moving on . . .

The floor was immediately crowded.

Families forming small groups, all twisting madly to earn a prize.

The song ended.

The prizes awarded.

And Grant moved into our second contest of the evening.

It began by teaching everyone the Old Time Waltz.

“Okay grab a partner for this one. Once we learn this dance, we’ll have another contest. All you have to do is count: one, two three; one, two three!”

My kids and I were already demonstrating. 

People watched for a moment.

Then joined in.

The song ended and they were ready for the contest, which began with each couple receiving a sheet of newspaper and spreading it out on the floor.

“Now all we want you to do is dance the Old Time Waltz on the newspaper,” Grant would say cheerfully. “Carefully! There are no prizes for torn papers!”

Okay. That’s easy.

They began.

The music floated around for a few moments. A Strauss Waltz.

Happily, the couples, mostly a parent and a child, danced carefully on their piece of newspaper.

Grant stopped the music and everyone looked at him.

“I forgot to tell you one last thing,” he said. “When I stop the music, you have to jump quickly off your paper . . .”

People did so.

“. . . and fold it in half.”

A groan from the crowd, then laughter as they complied.

“Now hop back on and we’ll dance some more!”

Everyone continued to dance on a rapidly shrinking ‘dance floor’.

“There are no rules,” Grant added, “other than both of you have to be on that piece of paper. No heels or toes can touch the floor!”

People got more and more creative. Usually resorting to one carrying the other, or employing other supporters to . . . support.

Slowly, couples dropped out as they succumbed to gravity.

The awards were given.

And Grant drifted into another old time dance, the Heel-Toe Polka.

And that’s when we got our touching surprise.

Remember the man who had approached us as we were setting up?

And the girl?

The two of them danced past me at this point.

Together.

Working out the steps to the polka and laughing.

I watched them go by, then glanced at my Husby and raised my eyebrows.

He looked at them and grinned.

That father and that daughter spent the rest of the evening on the dance floor.

Together.

I will never forget the look on their faces as they, perhaps for the first time, became friends.

Mikey’s Music Machine.

We had so much fun and created so many memories.

Good ones.

Musically Inclined

I’m a writer.Since Mrs. Hainsworth’s grade six class a millennium ago, I’ve authored books, plays, songs, articles, stories and whatever else strikes me.It’s what I do.And what my kids saw me do.It probably shouldn’t be a surprise, then, that most of them are also writers.Far better than their mother!A couple of them—one in particular—in addition to composing stories, also composes music.And that’s where this story starts.You knew I’d get to it eventually…In an effort to keep small children quiet during church services, it’s not unusual for parents to bring quiet toys for little hands.Many also bring paper, pencils and crayons.Well, I did.Drawing and colouring is customarily a quiet occupation.It wasn’t uncommon in the past for a story to be written in the 40 minutes or so of sermonizing. A couple of the kids were pretty good cartoonists, as well.So when my eldest son’s second youngest sat down between Gramma and Grampa with papers and pen, I really didn’t notice, at first, what she was working on.You should know, this little girl is five.“Gramma!” she said in what she fondly considers a whisper.I looked down.“Gramma, look!” She held up a sheet of lined paper covered in…figures.I blinked. Were those…yes. Those were notes. Music notes!“What are you making?” I asked in a true whisper.“I’m writing a song for Brother Woolley.”Just a note: Brother Woolley is the extraordinarily-talented and magnetic and just downright fun leader of the (eighty or so) three-to-eleven-year-olds’ singing time.Back to my story…I leaned over, looking more closely.Sure enough, she had all sorts of notes drawn across the whole page.She slid another, similar page out from the first one. “I wrote a second verse!”I couldn’t stop smiling.Children do what they see their parents do.She had obviously seen and ‘taken note’.I’m still smiling.