Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 23

Winter, the First

In honour of the first day of Winter...Digging through Grandma Berg's Journals again . . .

Grandma and Grampa Berg were married in a small Lutheran church in Blackfoot, Idaho on April 20, 1919.

Throughout the summer, they worked on the farm they shared with another couple, Nanny and Axel Karlsson. In October of that year, they moved to their new land west of Millicent, Alberta, where they would raise their family.

But their first winter wasn’t spent on that land. Instead, they went with another couple, the Palms, to the Fort McMurray area to run a trapline.

Our story starts there . . .

What a winter it was! We had brought a supply of kerosene and food—flour, sugar, jam, beans, dried fruit, salted pork, powdered milk, butter and frozen potatoes—which supplemented with moose and rabbit meat made our diet quite adequate.

I baked bread in a stone oven built by Petrus outside the cabin. A fire was built inside the oven until the stones were hot. The heat from the rocks baked lovely bread!

The two men were often in the wilderness for days at a time, tending their trapline with snowshoes and dog teams. Although Petrus was bush wise, one time they lost their bearings in a storm and were wandering for nine days before stumbling on another trapper’s cabin. The trapper wisely, slowly brought the half-starved pair back onto food by allowing them only one pancake every hour over a period of hours.

Never had pancakes tasted so good!

I was expecting my first baby in January and plans were made to leave before that time. However, the snow kept falling and by Christmas time the train stopped running. [Mrs. Palm and I] prepared for the baby by knitting and sewing little garments out of yarn and flannelette we had brought with us . . .

When I went into labour, Petrus ran behind the dogteam twenty miles to Lac La Biche where he had been told of a midwife. When he found the experienced native midwife, she first hesitated until an RCMP constable persuaded her to come. Many precious hours had passed and Petrus was beside himself. The woman finally gathered the necessary supplies and settled herself into the sled.

With anxious urging, the hardy dogs made a short time of the twenty or more miles, arriving at the cabin about midnight.

Soon Petrus was greeted by the cry of his first-born son. 

All the frustrations of the day were forgotten in the joy of holding this precious child.

There is some disagreement among family members about whether Grandpa and the midwife arrived in time to assist in the birth. To settle the issue, my Uncle Roy put the question to Uncle Glen, the baby in the story.

“Glen, you were there. Were you delivered by the midwife or not?”Uncle Glen turned his head at a wry angle and taking his chin in his left hand, with deep thought and deliberations, he answered, “You know, I can’t remember.”

Clement and Me

Welcome to our Monthly Word Counters Challenge.This month’s number is 19.My lines? EXACTLY 19. Clement Clarke Moore’s? Approximate.  

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.Definitely not our house. There are two Seniors—with bladders—living here. All we do all night is stir…

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.No comment. Except to say we’ve discovered stockings hold a lot more when sitting on a chair. Just sayin’… 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.Okay, yes, this was written long ago. Now their visions are of switches, video games and American Girl dolls.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.Hey. If you have kids, I say rest while you can. Any CONSIDERATE person would understand you need…uh-oh… 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.Have you ever been awakened in the night—heart pounding and your mind headed frantically off in all directions?

Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.It always amazes me that the author had the wherewithal to do this in order. Obviously a quick waker!

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.There’s just something about the sight of the moon shining on the snow. It’s magical. What are your thoughts?

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.I’ve seen lots of things when looking out my window. I can honestly say these aren’t on the list.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.Whew! A bit of relief here. For a moment there, I was picturing the Mounties. Or worse, the Revenuers.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!I should probably mention that I’m not into speed. The idea of flying quicker than eagles makes me…nauseated. 

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!This truly amazes me. I have six children and I’ve NEVER gotten everyone’s names right. And I named them.

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"I’ve driven a sleigh and I fairly certain I’ve never—ever—given this command. Or anything close to it. 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.I have to admit this is true. When grandchildren meet an obstacle, their first reaction is to go up.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.Rooftop landing: “like trying to hit a bullet with a smaller bullet whilst wearing a blindfold, riding a horse”.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.I’m truly hoping that those are light little hooves. Otherwise, I’m seeing a shingle job in someone’s near future.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.I’m thinking: front doors. Wouldn’t it be easier if everyone just had a lock-box with a special ‘Santa’ key?

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.Fur for sure. There’s nothing better for flying through frigid air. The ashes and soot? See the previous paragraph…

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.I’m thinking this is the one and only time you’d want a peddler—with wares—in your front room. 

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!This is the perfect picture of someone who loves what they do. In the very cold out of doors.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.Again, loving what he does. But that white beard… Elderly? Or stylish and with a really good hairdresser?

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.I have a thing or two to say about his smoking. Even more so in a home NOT his.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!Okay, my Uncle Lonnie had such a face. And belly. And you have to know he laughed. A lot.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!Back to Uncle Lonnie. Chubby: check. Plump: check. Jolly: check. Made me laugh: check. Am I seeing a pattern here?

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.Have you ever had that happen? Where you just look at someone and know they’re trustworthy? Yeah, me, neither. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.I like this. It shows that Santa was not only jolly, but, more importantly, had a good work ethic.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!Huh. With the going down and rising up, does anyone ever have to pay to have their chimneys cleaned? 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.I’ve seen thistledown fly. Light, yes. But a few other words come to mind. Unplanned. Erratic. Unpredictable. Flammable.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"What else can I say but, “Right back acha! And, Santa. Thanks for the generations (and generations) of entertainment!” 

This month’s word count number was brought to you by: Karen of Baking In A Tornado  Links to the other Word Counters posts:Baking In ATornadoMessymimi’sMeanderings

Muffins to Buns

My husby and I went to dinner that day.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.)
And 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 of them should be sent packing.
My Husby’s my hero, I’ll freely admit.Though, compared to some others, he’s…round.His kindness and his generosity shine,And with many good things, he abounds.
But Husby, he thought, because of his shape,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 you read this that Husby and me,Are having some wonderful fun,Exploring and wandering throughout the world,Just me and my honey(stud)bun.
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 as Christmas slowly wanes,Let's talk about the Candy Cane!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!)...

Muffins (December 19) Today!

Candy Canes (December 26)Treasure (January 2)Stuffed animals (January 9)Get lost (January 16)Clocks (January 23)Time (January 30)

Sally Two

 You have to know that nothing remotely resembling ‘normal’ ever happens in our household.

“And what are these?” I pointed to the collapsed little mound of pants and shoes on the floor beside Mom’s bed.

Mom paused in her folding of a tiny, green sleeper and looked over at me. She grinned. “Oh, those are Pete’s pants and shoes.”

“O-Kay. But why are they lying here on the floor?”

“This is part of his ‘efficiency baby birthing’ plan.”

I stared at her. “Seriously?”

She laughed. “Well, you know he’s ex-army.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Mom. Who knows better than the people who live in this house?”

She shrugged. “Well…”

“So what’s with the pantsandshoes?”

“He has them arranged like that so he can hop out of bed and right into his pants and shoes. He simply steps into the shoes and pulls up the pants. Voila! Clothed and shod.”

I shook my head. 

“He has things strung out in order from here to the door. Pants and shoes. Shirt.” She pointed. “Then jacket, wallet and car keys.”

Mom tucked the little sleeper into the overnight bag on her bed. “I’m under instructions to put this bag in its proper place as soon as I’ve got it packed.”

Dad came into the room, rubbing his hands together. “There. No more rough skin!” He rubbed his knuckles against Mom’s cheek.

She smiled at him and, not for the first time, I was grateful this kind, wonderful man had come into our family.

He was such a marvellous addition.

“That’s so important!” Mom said. You don’t want to touch a baby with rough skin!”

“Right?” Dad sat beside Mom on the bed and reached for her hand.

I admit it freely. They are a cute couple.

Mom frowned and rubbed a hand over her huge belly.

Dad pulled on the hand he held. “Is it time?”

She smiled at him.”Nope. Just a twinge.”

“Oh.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No regrets?”

“None.”

“Ugh. You two love birds. I’m going to start supper.” I headed for the door.

“I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished packing!” Mom called after me.

Things carried on normally for the rest of the evening.

That is an unusual occurrence in our household. And cause for some alarm.

Because it is inevitably followed by…

I sat straight up in bed. Was that voices? A moan? I listened carefully. Yes to both! I jumped out of bed and sprinted down the hallway, grabbing the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and skidding around to the bottom stair. 

In seconds, I was up the stairs and standing in the doorway of Mom and Dad’s room.

The lights were on and Mom was sitting up in their bed.

Dad had managed to get his pants and shoes on but then seemed to have run down. This decorated soldier was standing in the middle of the room, rubbing his forehead and staring into space.

Mom looked up at me. “Nothing to worry about, Honey. Just indigestion.”

I stared at her. “Really? And just how often is this indigestion happening?”

“About every three minutes.”

I went to the doorway and hollered. “Sally! Mort! Baby!”

I heard an answering shout from the bowels of the house. I turned back. “Dad!”

He jumped and looked at me.

“The baby’s coming!”

He blinked.

“We’ve got to do something! Probably getting Mom to the hospital is first on that list.”

“Right.” He grabbed his shirt and put it on. Then ran toward the door picking up his jacket, wallet, and car keys. Finally, he grabbed Mom’s suitcase and charged through the door.

“Dad!”

He reappeared.

“You forgot Mom!”

“Oh, right!” He slung the bag from its strap and headed back toward the bed.

Just then I heard a loud crash from outside. Followed by the continuing ‘beeeeep‘ of a motorcycle horn. I ran to the window and looked out.

The car was out of the garage, lights on and engine running. Mort and Sally, both barefoot and in their PJ’s were in front of it, trying to pry something out from beneath.

I opened the window.”What’s happening?!”

Sally looked up at me. “Mort parked his motorbike on the driveway and ran over it when he backed the car out.” She turned back to her straining husband. “It’s stuck!”

I looked at Mom and Dad. “Mort just backed the car over his motorbike!”

Dad ran to the window and I took his place beside Mom, carefully helping her to her feet.

“Oh, Honey!” She paused, putting a hand to her belly. “I think this baby’s coming fast!”

“Well get a crowbar!” Dad yelled.

“What?” Mom said.

“What?” I said.

He looked at us. “What?”

“Never mind!” We could hear Sally’s shout. “We’ll just take Mort’s car!”

By this point, if an elephant had shown up, Dad would have gladly flagged it down. “Fine!” he shouted back.

Dad and I managed to get Mom down to the main floor. 

The noise of the trapped motorcycle was louder here.

Oh, joy.

Dad opened the door and with Mom between us, we moved to the front porch.

By this point, every house in the neighbourhood was lit up. And neighbours were beginning to gather.

Why can’t our family do anything quietly?

Bill Baggins, from next door, was, with the help of a couple of his boys, now trying to free the motorcycle.

Mort and Sally had moved to Mort’s venerable old car, parked at the curb and had it running and the rear doors open for us.

We had nearly reached them when the motorcycle’s pain-filled shrieking finally stopped.

Bliss!

In the relative silence that followed, we managed to manoeuvre Mom into the back seat.

Dad followed and I ran around and got into the far side.

Then, Mort jammed his foot down on the gas and with the squeal of tires and swirl of exhaust, we were off.

Sally slid back the sunroof and stood up. “We’re off!” she shrieked. “See you after the baby comes!”

There was a cheer from the neighbours. Not sure if it was for Sally’s words or our final exit from the neighbourhood, but whatever.

The trip to the hospital was relatively short and thankfully uneventful, considering the speeds Mort coaxed from his ancient auto and the fact that Sally insisted on announcing the imminent birth of her brother or sister at the top of her lungs whenever we approached an intersection.

Sigh.

Mom and Dad were whisked away and the rest of us took our seats in the waiting room to…erm…wait.

Peter arrived just seconds after we had gotten settled. Needless to say, I was tearfully grateful to see him.

We didn’t have long to wait.

An hour after we had charged through the doors of the Emergency ward and waved our parents off, Dad floated back to tell us to come and meet our new sister--born 15 minutes after they had arrived.

We followed him to a small, private room where Mom was sitting in bed, tenderly holding a little cloth-wrapped bundle. The smile on her face rivaled the sunshine.

We crowded around, jostling each other for a better view.

Just as I leaned nearer, the baby opened her eyes and, I swear, looked right at me.

I caught my breath.

She was perfect.

A perfect double of Sally.

A Sally in miniature.

Good golly.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post—all words to be used at least once. All the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. And 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. 

My words:  regrets ~ sunshine ~ double ~ miniature were sent to me, via Karen, from my good friend, Rena! Thank you!

Now see what my friends have done with their words!

BakingIn ATornado
TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
ClimaxedPart-timeWorking HockeyMom 

 

I Ear You

Our family has had an epiphany.Something that has been playing around at the back of our minds and only just now realized…We exist to keep the magic alive.There, I said it.And there are countless others who do it—and to them, I say, “Thank you!”It’s an important job, keeping the magic alive.But it’s totally fun to do.Husby and I do it by acting as Santa and Mrs. through the Christmas season.Others do it…well, let me tell you about it…Eldest daughter (hereinafter called ED) works at a local Dollar Tree store.She loves it—meeting people. Visiting.Occasionally working. (Okay, yes, she works hard—I just had to throw that in.)Throughout the Christmas season, she has been wearing ‘Elf’ ears.They look fairly real. Quite spectacular, in fact.And the children who come into the store with their Mamas notice.Many of them ask her if they are real.She responds with a finger to her lips and a “Shhhh.”Yesterday a little boy came into the store with his Mama looking for gift bags.ED was helping them.The little boy was staring at her ears. Finally, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Are those ears real?” he asked.ED put a finger to her lips and said, “Shhh. Not everyone can see them!”He looked at his mother.She was looking at him. “What ears?” she asked. She, too, looked at ED. “I don’t see anything different.”He gasped and put both hands over his mouth as his eyes lit up like stars.The magic continues. Magic
Into the next generation.

Husby and Me. More Magic...

Potato Playing

I received my first set when I was four.

And it entertained me and my siblings for many, many years.

But one ingredient for fun was missing.

And had to be supplied by the owner.

Stay with me . . .

It was a yellow box.

With writing that I couldn’t read yet.

The picture on the front showed round-faced, rather lumpy people.

Intriguing.

I wasted no time in opening it. Hmmm. Body parts.

I looked at my Dad. What on earth . . .?

“You make people with it!” he said, helpfully. 

I looked at my Dad doubtfully.

Make people?

I tipped the box and poured out eyes, noses, mouths, ears, hands, feet and even ‘hair’.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up an eye. “Mother! We need a potato!”

Obligingly, Mom brought us one and Dad proceeded to poke eyes, nose, mouth, etc. into it.

And I got my first glimpse of Mr. Potato Head.

Oh.

Neat!

“Let me try!” I grabbed the potato and jammed it full of everything on the table.

Okay, so my first attempt looked like something out of a heretofore (ooo, good word) unknown horror movie, and my technique and strategy were nothing more than simply finding a space to put things (FYI: Potatoes aren’t very big).

But it was fun.

I played with that little set for hours, creating people. People who were easily dismantled and re-formed.

Hmm. Maybe we’re onto something here. Dismantling and re-forming. I wonder if that can be done with hips.

But I digress . . .

That set was around for many, many years. And grew. And expanded.

Little bits that had to be painstakingly picked up after each session. (Because Heaven help the person who left it out if Dad stepped on something during a barefoot foray through the house.)

And many, many potatoes, carrots, turnips and at least one pickle were snitched and sacrificed in the quest for fun.

Moving ahead . . .

My daughter recently gave her daughter a Mr. Potato Head.

A slick, complete set.

Including a head with pre-punched holes.

It is bigger.

Safer.

Gramma still isn’t sure if it’s better.

SeamStressed

Magic happeningLife on the ranch demanded creativity and resourcefulness from every member of the community.
Except for me.
I was four.
Oh, I was resourceful.
Just not in a productive way.
Moving on . . .
In this spirit of inventiveness, my Mom had taught herself to sew. And she was good at it.
From her hands and her trusty little machine emerged fantastic and wondrous articles of clothing. Dresses, blouses, skirts, shirts, trousers--all were created quickly and efficiently, with only a bit of cloth.
I know. I watched her.
I also watched her peel potatoes with equal economy, but that is another story.
And a very different outcome.
Ahem . . .
Occasionally, Mom's sewing machine would give her grief, but my Dad instructed me not to say those words.
They must have been sewing words.
Years later, I would use them as cow herding words, but I digress . . .
Mom could also fix things with her electric marvel. The most hopeless wardrobe disasters could be quickly and perfectly repaired with ease and just a couple of strokes of the needle.
A couple of words, here, about the needles she used.
They were sharp.
Enough said.
My Dad had a work shirt.
Green.
Sturdy.
He hated it. Something about the fit or the material.
One day, while fencing, he caught a fold of this shirt on some barbed wire and tore it.
Quite badly.
Rather gleefully, he told Mom to just throw it into the rag bag.
But Mom was far too thrifty to do that.
This was a good, serviceable shirt, with plenty of years of work left in it.
She repaired it.
Dad sighed and wore it again.
We were branding. Dad caught the shirt on the squeeze handle and, again, it tore.
Again, the advice to scrap it.
Again, the repairs.
Another sigh.
Dad was working in the shop and caught the shirt on the work bench.
Another tear.
This was becoming a pattern.
But this time, he was determined to be rid of the hated, but indestructible shirt once and for all. He extended the tear into something . . . longer.
Then proceeded to rip the rest of the shirt apart.
He came into the sewing room, and delivered the scraps to my astonished Mom. “Rag bag,” he said. Then he made the mistake of leaving the room.
Mom looked at the little pile of scraps and . . . smiled. Have I mentioned that Mom has a very good sense of humor?
I probably should have.
She removed whatever project she was currently sewing and started to work.
And giggle.
In a short time, she had reassembled the dreaded shirt.
Oh, it didn't look quite the same. Frankenstein's monster comes to mind for some reason.
But it was, once more, complete.
She folded it carefully and put it in Dad's drawer.
Then waited.
She didn't have to wait for long. The next morning, Dad opened that drawer to get out a shirt and let out a little scream.
And no, it wasn't a girly scream.
He emerged, pale-faced, clutching the shirt. “It's back! It's haunting me!” he said.
Mom laughed and laughed.
We all did.
After that, the shirt finally made it to the rag bag.
It had finally served its purpose.

Out Potted

 My father loved his toothpicks and my mother loved her plants,

I know these things seem diff’rent as can be. Yes, this, I’ll grant,

But here, they go together in a tale both fun—and short,

Though it includes some laziness…and slow death of a sort…

My mom had read that healthy plants from pineapples could grow,

By lopping off the tops and planting them in soil just so,

And so she tried it and viola! her pineapple grew strong,

Three times she had to re-pot it. (It didn’t take that long!)

And so it stood there proud and lush in a pot by Daddy’s chair,

Totally within arm’s reach—three feet from his…derriere.

One day, my mama noticed that her plant was looking grim,

The leaves were growing yellow and the shine was looking dim,

She fussed and fussed about her ‘child’, gave nutrients and such,

But all her fussing did not seem to help it very much.

Now Dad would sit enjoying after-dinner toothpicks (Yum?)

Chewing them to sawdust, indistinguishable from gum,

He’d hand them to an unsuspecting child who happened by,

To throw into the garbage, claiming they were much more spry,

But when no child appeared to take his little ball of ‘ick’,

He looked around to find a place to toss it, neat and quick,

And what was near whose shaggy leaves could hide his sorry deed?

Yes, Mother’s plant. Perhaps (who knew?) on sawdust it could feed?

So through those months, Dad’s toothpicks turned my mom’s plant into dust,

Maybe blocking nutrients. (Or reacting from disgust.)

It fin’lly died, was buried in the compost out in back,

Mom tried again a time or two, but never got the knack,

So I’ve one question for you all, and toothpicks, it’s about…

What’s in those beggers that we daily put into our mouths?

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?

We will be back in seven daysTalking about our muffin craze!
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!)...

Poinsettia -or- Potted Plants (December 12) Today!

Muffins (December 19)Candy Canes (December 26)Treasure (January 2)Stuffed animals (January 9)Get lost (January 16)Clocks (January 23)Time (January 30)

Language Lessons

Missing my Mom today... Mom (third from the left) with five of her eight brothers.Some ninety-two years ago this year,

On Alberta’s new frontier.

My Mama started school that day,

In Millicent, not too far away.

Swedish was what she knew best,

And not a word of all the rest.

But for this day, that pint-sized girl

Would, English, give a little whirl.

Her mama coached her carefully,

On what to say at Teacher’s knee.

The words that would the class transfix?

“My nom Enes, I’m halfpastsix.”

Clutching book in little hand,

Mama entered ‘No-Girl’s Land’,

Then sat down in the nearest seat,

And tried to make herself discreet.

But Teacher saw her sitting there,

With press-ed dress and flaxen hair,

And called to her to please advance,

And of her schoolmates, get a glance.

My Mama went, but she was tense,

She did not want to be thought dense,

So, hoping they would not despise, 

Recited what she’d memorized.

But when her class did mock with glee,

The words she’d said so carefully.

My Mom, their teasing did abhor,

Wished she could sink right through the floor.

From then, my Mom deliberately,

Forget her Swedish publicly,

And ever after English spoke, 

When e're she talked with other folk.

Before you sympathize too much, 

Blame kids that did make fun and such,

Please note Mom didn’t cry or bawl...Scholastically outpaced them all.

More Than One?

 We just celebrated the 47th anniversary of our first date.First Dates are like Dress Rehearsal. If a Dress Rehearsal is terrible, the play will be great. Likewise, if the First Date is terrible, the Marriage will be great.                                                         Diane Tolley
Forty-Seven years and counting!First dates.

Relationship killer or kindler . . .

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

We decided to go on a date. Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

The first half of the date was fairly low-key:He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Rather awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family. And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Weird.

Moving on . . .

I watched the movie.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

Suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Yep. Wonderful.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents' bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

They must be out.What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up. It moved. Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure. Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church and had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced, and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant swears his heart fell into his shoes.Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.