Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 21

Sneaking on the Prairie

I was at my first Prairie Party with my friend/roommate/almost-sister, Debbie (she of the laughing eyes and sparkly personality), and my new boyfriend.It was . . . rather exciting.

Even though the weather had been uncharacteristically iffy.

And was continuing in the same vein throughout the evening.

There was a crowd of farm/ranch kids all talking and laughing around a huge campfire, periodically opening umbrellas when the heavy overhead clouds shook out a few drops or hustling into the nearby camp kitchen if the rain increased.

Many remained sitting in the shelter, pouring drinks, eating chips, popcorn, nuts and the inevitable and still popular, gumdrops.

Which, as the liquor flowed and sanity decreased, seemed to be used mostly for target practice.

My new boyfriend and I, both non-drinkers, were sitting in his truck, one of several parked in a semi-circle around the kitchen providing light on the obviously moonless night. 

Talking.

No, really. We were talking.

He was showing me his new knife and my mind was a confused whirl of blade belly, AUS 8 Steel, bevel, edge, tang, bolster and anodization.

I was discovering that he was a lot of fun and very clever.

He was discovering that I laughed a lot.

Suddenly, his head snapped around toward the kitchen. “Look,” he said, nodding.

I turned.

A shadow was making its way toward us.

Sliding between cars and generally giving the impression of cautious-ness.

It slid quickly through a beam of light and dove once more into the shadows.

But that quick flash of light disclosed just who was sneaking.Debbie.

The two of us watched as she continued in our direction.

Finally, she left the shelter of the car just to our left and, crouching, made her way directly in front of the truck we were sitting in.

My boyfriend waited for just a moment . . .

Then, grinning widely, honked the horn.

The Greatest Rewards

Sometimes, the greatest rewards come in the smallest packages…

We are a church-going family. We love it.

And most of us sit together in our Sunday morning congregation, ensuring that at least three pews are take up solely with members of the Tolley clan.

We love that, too.

Inevitably, I am hemmed in by small bodies. With at least one on my lap.

Let’s just say it ensures that I don’t doze off during the meeting and leave it at that…

This past Sunday, I had little four-year-old Twizzle on my lap. 

She leaned into me and took a deep breath. “Gramma,” she said. “Is that your heart I can smell?”

I looked at her.

She had her nose snuggled into my sweater at about chest height.

“I suppose so, Sweetie,” I said.

She sighed happily. “I love the smell of love!”

It just doesn’t get better than that.

BBB's and Poetry Monday

Today's post is a Double Header! My Best of Boomer Blogs AND Poetry Monday!First, this week's BBBs!

Carol Cassara

Most people think about what they want in the new year, but this week over at Carol Cassara's blog, she writes about things she wishes would go away in the newyear. 

Laurie Stone

Laurie’s son Patrick came into the kitchen, his face worried. “I caught a mouse in the basement.” She looked at him and shrugged. Mice came into her house all the time, part of life in the Connecticut woods. “Put it out,” she said. He looked at her like she’d just spoken Swahili. “How do I do that?” Laurie sighed. Time to teach her oldest the ways of humane animal relocation. 

Jennifer Koshak

Do you have any memorable vacations? How about any memorable vacations that people outside of your friends and family might be talking about?  That's what happened to Jennifer, of Unfold and Begin, when she and her family were vacationing in Maine. In What's One of Your Memorable Vacations, she shares the hilarious results.

Rebecca Olkowski
January is when many of us start thinking about improving our fitness after gorging during the holidays. However, as we age, why should exercising be tortuous? Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com writes about why fitness over 50 should be fun instead.

Rita Robison

Watch out for scam emails, texts, and phone calls that say your Social Security number will be suspended, warns Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist. Robison received an email saying her number was going to be terminated within 48 hours. You’ll never guess who “signed” the email. 

Corinne Rodrigues 
There's a lot of suffering in the world - physical pain and emotional pain. While making sure that people get access to experts, Corinne explores how we can  reach out and create comfort for people in our lives who are suffering from pain. 


Diane Tolley

And now me!The shirt was worn out. It had to go. But those buttons still had life and could definitely be re-purposed.But while Diane was about to fetch the snips and do a proper job, Husby took matters into his own hands.With spectacular results.This never happened to Superman...

And that's a wrap!I hope you enjoyed these wonderful bloggers as much as I do!

And now Poetry Monday: Un-Lost
Some years have passed since this took place,
But still, this story has a space,
It was the first time Husby showed,
This knack he has when on the road.

 

We’d flown to Boston, rented there
 A car to take us everywhere,
To Boston Common we would go,
And see the things it had to show.

 

I had the map, seemed apropos,
While Husby manned the ‘stop-and-go’,
I studied closely--no mistake,
The ramp we two must shortly take.

 

It came and went, to my dismay,
I scratched my head, said, “That’s okay.
There is another route will do…
Turn there on number 42!”

 

Again I watched it pass us by,
I gave my man the evil eye,
And struggled to find other ways
To reach our target place this day.

 

Instruction Husby did ignore,
(It made his wife a little sore!)
And though this town he did not know,
Found on his own the place to go.

 

Disgusted, I just tossed the map,
Refrained from giving him a slap,
And made a very solemn vow
To never navigate. No how!

 

In England, he proved once again,
Without a map, he had the ‘ken’,
That even overseas, his skills,
Would work just fine o’er moor and hill.

 

We’ve traveled lots, we’re still alive,
I simply sit and let him drive,
It’s peaceful merely knowing that
Getting lost ain’t on the map! 

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, please join us here again...We'll be discussing clocks 'bout then!
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!)...Get lost (January 16) Today!Clocks (January 23)Time (January 30)Frozen Yogurt (February 6)Random Acts of Kindness (February 13)Be Humble (February 20)Pineapple (February 27)Cookies (March 6)Butterflies (March 13)Buzzards (March 20)Celebrating Earth Day(March 27)

Rolled Up

I know you will be surprised. I know I was. But our family made it through the entire holiday without a single disaster. No bruises the colour of kohl. (Google it.)

Nothing! It may have something to do with all of us being totally spellbound by our new little sister, Ivy Jean Gunn, born on December 16, 2022. She is the cutest baby ever. Ask anyone. Okay, well ask anyone living in our house. And Peter. Back to the holiday… We spent a few dollars. Partied quietly on Christmas Eve. Opened gifts and feasted on Christmas day. Lazed about on Boxing Day. Generally accomplished little other than puzzles and consuming less-than-healthy snacks for the next 6 days. Quietly celebrated New Year’s Eve. Slept in on New Year’s Day.

Just a really, really normal time. Living in Sally’s house, you know that makes me nervous. Then…today… Mom loves Christmas. And Christmas trees. We had the big one downstairs in front of the great windows. And another—less big—up in Mom and Dad’s room. Both are real. Both were supposed to be fresh. Both shed like Labradors. Sally got the great idea of—after the big tree was un-decorated—toppling it onto the large rug that normally graces the hall and pulling it out the front door.

Theoretically, all that would need to be cleaned would be said rug.

We thought it a good idea. Yeah, I was surprised, too. We denuded the tree. Tipped it over onto the carpet. Rolled it up. And slid it outdoors quick as quick. Brilliant. Maybe the first time in our history an idea of Sally’s worked well. The smaller tree would be even easier, I thought! Silly me. Rather than try to haul the large carpet upstairs into Mom and Dad’s room—and besides it was already outside, thick with dead needles—we decided to use the runner in the upper hall. We slid it into their room. Collapsed the tree onto it. And rolled it up. Okay, yes, it took a bit more rolling than the big one downstairs, but now we had a neat package that would be a cinch to kick to the curb. So to speak. Sally and Mort slid the encapsulated tree to the top of the stairs. And that’s where everything fell apart. We secretly knew it would, am I right? Just as they started down the stairs, someone banged loudly the door. Peter, standing just inside said door awaiting Sally and Mort and their tree, swung it wide and two police officers stepped into the open greatroom. Mort turned to look… Now those of you who know Mort, know also that when he was made, God added things like ‘grace’ and ‘agility’ with a teaspoon and someone jiggled His sacred elbow. Mort slipped. The tree he and Sally were carrying between them slid out of their hands and started to roll. Why do these things always happen to us? It rolled down the stairs, gaining steam as it went, finally plowing into the two officers staring up at it dumfounded-ly.

They went down like ten-pins. The one, Officer Smith merely fell back onto his…erm…backside. The second, Officer Jones, went forward. Over the tree and onto the rather sturdy marble tiles that form the entire lower floor of the house. Breaking his nose and one of his very handsome front teeth. Rats. WHO MOVED THE STUPID CARPET…oh.

I probably don’t have to tell you that their reason for coming was forgotten in the chaos that followed. Once Officer Jones’ wounds had been blotted and the damage assessed, both men were surprisingly cavalier about the whole thing. I mean, they (and let’s face it, the entire city police force) know Sally. Simply dropping by her house is always an adventure. Am I right? Happy New Year. 
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: gain ~ dollars~ bruise ~ kohl ~ rug They were submitted by: Karen of Baking in a Tornado  Now check out my fellow bloggers!  BakingIn A Tornado Climaxed TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver   

 

Little Prayers

I think the Person who receives evening prayers must look forward to those being offered by the children.

You want to talk entertainment?!

Last night, following a day that included church attendance, swimming at West Edmonton Mall, the eating of assorted junk and the wind-down of puzzlemaking with family, five-year-old (hereinafter known as 5YO) disappeared into the bathroom to ‘take care of some business’.

She came out a few minutes later with a strange look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” her mother asked.

“It looked really strange,” 5YO said.

“Strange, how?”

There followed a short conversation of strange-appearances-from-the-past.

I’m editing because—yuck.

“But this was different,” 5YO said.

“Well next time you see something different, please tell me before you flush.”

“Okay.”

5YO happily went back to puzzlemaking.

And the subject was, thankfully, dropped.

The evening wound down.

Bedtime approached.

Routines were adhered to, even though the day had been anything but normal.

Teeth brushed, hair braided, hands and face washed, pj’s donned, journal updated, story read, song—sung.

5YO was on her knees to say her evening prayer.

Now you have to know that this is often the highlight of the day for whoever is putting her to bed.

Usually momma.

The prayer rambled around for a while. Thank you for my mommy and daddy. Grampa and Gramma. Thank you for cousins and pets and toys.

Then the unexpected. “Please don’t let any more yellow stuff come out of me. Amen.”

Ummm . . .

All I’m saying is: I wouldn’t mind being on duty when those prayers start to arrive.I’ve got my notebook.

Dis-Buttoned

Okay, it looks kind of neat on movies or TV.

In reality?

A little more dangerous.

Perhaps you remember the story (stories) of Superman in which mild mannered Clark Kent tears his shirt off and becomes the wondrous Man of Steel?

It always looked so—effortless. And tidy.

Well, I am a witness to shirt ripping and it is anything but. 

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby had a favourite shirt that was getting rather threadbare.

And needing to be retired.

Now, in the home of my parents, the retiring of a shirt was almost a ceremony.

Buttons snipped off and neatly stored.

Collar stays fished out; ditto.

Anything operational cannibalized for possible future use.

Then the remaining scraps relegated to the rag bag.

All while soft music was being played and/or a choir hummed quietly in the background.

Okay, I made up the part about the music, but the rest is true.

Now, fast forward to my house. And Husby’s threadbare shirt.

“That shirt needs to be thrown out,” I said.

“I love this shirt!”

“I can see right through it.”

Now many of you may think that is a good thing.

And it would be. Except that the places I could see through were things like: underarms. Front button plackets.

I’m sorry, but there is little that is sexy about underarms. Or front button plackets. 

True story.

Husby sighed.

Thinking the conversation was over and agreed to, I started to leave the room, heading for my snips and the button box. Maybe the stereo.

And that is when Husby hunched forward, tearing the shirt up the back, then grabbed the front and shredded it apart.

Buttons shot everywhere at the speed of sound, a few of them narrowly missing me.

For a moment, the two of us looked at each other as the sound of bouncing buttons died away.

“Or we could do it like that,” I said.

Now I don’t know about you, but whenever I saw Superman do the same thing, no one mentioned flying, potentially lethal buttons.

No one.

The button companies have kept this a dark secret.I think our hyper vigilant protective agencies should be informed.Insurance rates are gonna rise.

Where It Started...

For Christmas this year, I received Lego.Yep. Lego.As I have done every year for almost 60 years.It sparked a memory . . .
Maybe he should have wrapped up some teeth . . .In the Stringam family, birthdays were always exciting.Family. Good food. Cake.And presents.My fourth had been truly memorable, with a little barn fire thrown in for . . . umm . . . excitement.But my eighth was memorable for two other reasons.Let me explain . . .It began ordinarily enough, with Mom's wonderful breakfast and good wishes all around.Dad had gone into the city, on ranch business, and wasn't expected back until later--when us kids got home from school.But that was okay, because I knew that my real birthday, complete with birthday food and cake and the all important presents wouldn't happen until supper time.I went through the day with high anticipation.I'm sure my teachers tried mightily to teach me something that day, but who can compete with birthday supper and cake?And presents.By supper time, I had worked myself into a rare mood.Mom made my favourite.Spaghetti.With meat balls.Mmmm.Then the cake. Again my favorite - Angel food. With fluffy seven-minute frosting.I should point out that the name of the frosting had to do with how long it took to make it.Because it certainly didn't describe how long it took to eat it.But I digress . . .And then that moment.The time I had been anticipating for an entire year.When the wrapped boxes came out and were given the place of honour.Right in front of me.The first one was rather . . . book sized.I tore into the colourful paper eagerly.I should explain, here, that I had fallen in love with reading in the first grade, at the age of six.Dr. Seuss had introduced me to world of books and I hadn't looked back.By the time I was eight, I had graduated to the next step.Chapter books.And here, on my birthday, I was suddenly holding the greatest treasure I had ever seen.Nancy Drew. The Secret in the Old Attic.A chapter book.All my own.My world had just gotten bigger.Then there was more.A large, rectangular package.Intriguing.Reluctantly and reverently, I set down my precious new book.And ripped into my other present.The wrapping came off easily.Revealing . . . Lego.Lego?What on earth was that?I stared at the package.Everyone stared at the package.My father was well known for finding the new and the wondrous.He didn't fail here.I opened the box and poured out a stream of little red, white and clear blocks.Of varying sizes and shapes.I unfolded the brightly-coloured instruction sheet.And my world got bigger, still.I needn't tell you that my Nancy Drew collection expanded to include every volume ever written.Or that Lego became a large part of the Stringam world that day.And that a major part of playtime, for three generations now, consists of amazing feats of construction with myriad colourful blocks.Or reading.I only need to tell you that everything began on my eighth birthday.
This year’s. And yes, I’m spoiled...

Happily Stuffed

From my daughter's experience.I put it to verse...
Was pregnant and anticipating her first baby’s birth,Went shopping in a fun attempt to clothe her changing girth,But nothing seemed to draw and as she walked out of the store,Saw a bin of stuffy dogs she hadn’t seen before,For some unknowing reason she just had to purchase one,Then stuffed it in her bag and soon forgot what she had done.A day or two went by. One day she caught a case of flu,To lay in bed in misery was all that she could do,A worried Husby picked her up and took her to emerg,Hopeful they could help his sweetie beat this awful scourge,They pumped in fluids, calmed her down, she got some needed rest,Happy she responded well, they told her to get dressed,A child’s cry caught her attention—someone sounded scared,A little boy whose parents were awaiting treatment there,And suddenly, she knew just who she’d bought the doggie for,She gave it to his nurse as she was headed to the door,The last she saw, the tears forgot as his dog played peek-a-booGoing up and down it went there in the vacuum tube.Sometimes at the start, it’s very hard to see the end…(And sometimes little Stuffies can be so much more than friends!)

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 might come at quite a cost...We poets all are Getting 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!)...Stuffed animals (January 9) Today!Get lost (January 16)Clocks (January 23)Time (January 30)Frozen Yogurt (February 6)Random Acts of Kindness (February 13)Be Humble (February 20)Pineapple (February 27)Cookies (March 6)Butterflies (March 13)Buzzards (March 20)Celebrating Earth Day(March 27)

Shaved Off

Surprise!Changes. Some are good . . .

This was a bit more than a little girl’s mind could take in.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Every Christmas season, Husby and I spend our time among families and other assorted celebrants at their festivities, dressed as Santa and his Mrs.

It is a happy, joyous occupation as we have often stated (and restated).

But it necessitates the growing of a beard.

His. Not mine.

And the keeping of said beard year round.

This year, Santa-in-the-off-season decided he would shave.

To the skin.

Yeah, I was surprised, too.

He did so. And presented a bare face many of us have not seen for years.

Oh, we knew it was in there behind the tangle of whiskers. We just hadn’t seen it.

The day after the significant wielding of the razor, we met our family for food, fun and games in the cultural hall of our chapel.

Santa-in-the-off-season, or Grampa, as he is known was running and playing British Bulldog with numerous grandchildren.

He stopped.

And realized that one small person was standing beside him, looking up.

He looked down.

Into some serious—and rather confused—dark brown eyes. 

“What’s that matter, Leah?” he asked.

I should probably reiterate here: that beard has been on Grampa’s face for longer than that little girl has been around.

Four-year-old Leah blinked. “What happened to your face, Grampa?”

“I shaved off my beard, Leah.”

“Oh.” She turned that over in her mind. Then, “Can you shave it back on?”

Change. It’s all about us.

Sometimes good.

But most times unwanted. 

Puffed and Perfect

How do you spell 'delicious'?There was a bright spot to every school day.

And no, it wasn’t that magical moment each morning when we first stepped into the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge.

Ick.

No, it was that moment, when the whole thing was safely in the past.

The long bus ride to school.

The sweat and toil.

The long bus ride home.

Ta-da!

That moment.

When Mom would usher us into the house and the smell of warm deliciousness would sweep over us like a welcome blanket.

Snack time.

The wonderful reward for having made it through yet another school day.

And mom made it special. Homemade snacks like pudding, cake or pie.

Hot chocolate.

Sometimes the extra-special spudnuts.

Fresh, warm bread with melty butter.

It made all of the pain and drudgery worth every drop of effort.Then, as we grew older, Mom stepped back a bit and let us create our own snacks.

In the process, something was lost. But something else was definitely gained.

Our snacking of preference grew and changed as our skills did.

At first, my brother, George, would simply spread cheese on crackers and create a giant stack.

Which was then happily consumed, layer by layer.

I would toast bread – just barely – and spread it with peanut butter.

Peanut butter is better all soft and melted.

Just FYI.

Then Mom got a new invention, a Teflon frying pan and I discovered the magical world of omelets.

With lots of melty cheese.Then George was introduced to tapioca pudding.

Made from scratch and eaten while still warm.

And sometimes shared with his sister.

Until she was shown the amazing chocolate wonderfulness of puffed-wheat squares.

I should explain here that the puffed-wheat is simply a medium to get the chocolate syrup to your mouth.

And it does it well.

Did you know that a hungry teenager can eat an entire pan of puffed wheat squares and still have room for supper?

It’s true. And I proved it on many an occasion.

Moving forward many, many years.

Yesterday, I dug out my tattered old recipe for puffed-wheat squares.

It was stained.

And worn.

But still readable.

I mixed and cooked.

Added, pressed down and cooled.

Then, with my daughter and granddaughter, sliced and consumed.And, just for an instant, relived the best part of growing up.