Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 33

Putting In Everything

I’ve mentioned my new fitness craze, Aqua Fit.
Right?

Well, something occurred to me today whilst I was in the pool. Somewhere between ‘Lift! Lift! Lift!’ and ‘Push! Push! Push!’

But first I have to tell you something about my Daddy...

Daddy was the youngest of 11 children. When Mama met him, she thought he was nice but a rather spoiled youngest son.

She wasn’t far wrong.

But it was nothing that 65 years of husbanding, fathering, ranching, veterinarian-ing, Cattle organization-ing, production sale-ing, neighbouring, friending, teaching…and a host of other responsibilities couldn’t teach.

I think he was one of the wisest men I’ve ever known.

Finally I’ve reached what I’ve been wanting to say…

We were sitting in church. Daddy and me in the middle of the pew with assorted family members spread out on either side. I had just told him in my loudest six-year-old voice that this meeting was boring.

He looked down at me and made his patented ‘shushing’ motion. Then he leaned over and whispered, “Diane. You get out of something what you put into it.”

That was the first time I remember him saying that particular statement.

After that, I heard it a lot.

And it became a pattern for my life. If you hear my kids and grandkids claim they’ve also heard it a lot…believe them.

Now, back to my class.

I push myself. I do. I try to make each movement count. Keep in time with the music. ‘Push! Push! Push!’

Then I’m that annoying person at the end of class who announces how many calories we burned that day.

One of my fellow Aqua Fitters (is that a term?) laughed. “Diane,” she said. “You’re moving twice as fast as the rest of us. You burn way more calories.”

I stared at her. Surely not.

Next class, I looked around. Many of the women were chatting while they worked out, their movements slow and leisurely. Some weren’t even doing what the instructor…erm…instructed.

I’m not condemning them for it. They are happy and still benefitting.

But all I could hear was Daddy’s voice. “Diane. You get out of something what you put into it.”

I will continue to put in everything. 

That way, I’ll get everything out.

See you there?

 

A Notable Talent

Don't let the innocent expression fool you!Our eldest son (hereinafter known as ES) had a world class talent.World class.If it had been an event in the Olympics, he'd have taken home the gold.But there wasn't.And he didn't.Maybe I should explain . . .ES was born with the ability to throw a tremendous, colossal, stupendous, prodigious, enormous, fantastic, howling, mind-blowing tantrum.I know that many children do.Even some adults.But no one has ever done it quite at the same level.And he saved his best performances for when we were in public.Usually in the toy section of the local department store.Sigh.When he was three, he gave his most memorable performance.Well, I certainly can't forget it . . .He wanted a toy.I can't remember which one, but he wasn't getting it.The family budget was already suffering chills and fever.Any unnecessary purchases would have surely sent it into a coma.We started to move away from said toy.ES realized that his begging and pleading had come to naught.He dropped to the ground.And began to flop around like a landed fish.Then the screams started.Ear-shattering. Air raid worthy.Now, my Husby and I had learned that that proper way to handle a tantrum was to just keep walking.Which we did.To this point, it had never worked.We discovered that ES could flop and scream AND keep up with his moving parents.See?Skill and talent.But this day was a little different.This day, we had unexpected . . . help.As we ducked around the corner, and before ES could start after us, an elderly gentleman walked up to our writhing boy and stood there, looking down at him.ES finally realized that someone was standing beside him.He opened his eyes.To see a perfect stranger.“I guess you'd better come with me,” the man said.Tantrum instantly forgotten, ES scrambled to his feet.“MooooOOOOMMMMM!”His father poked his head around the corner.ES ran to him and grabbed him about the knees in a grip fuelled by three parts fear and one part . . . okay, four parts fear.My Husby silently looked at the man.Both of them smiled.And just like that, ES’ public tantrums were finished.Oh, he still treated us to private performances, but never again were we humiliated in public.We often think of that man.A father?Grandfather?Whoever he was, his wisdom . . .. . . and timing . . .Were one of the greatest blessings of our parenting years.I wish we could tell him.

Fiddled

Okay, yes, I’ve recited/ sung this rhyme all my life. It’s only now I’m trying to make sense of it: Hey, Diddle Diddle, The Cat and the fiddle, The Cow jumped over the moon, The little Dog laughed to see such sport, And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.

Okay, let’s try to unpack this whole thing from the beginning. First off, who names their child Diddle? Especially when said child has (sadly) already been saddled with the surname ‘Diddle’. Isn’t that just cruel? At the very least it shows a distinct lack of imagination! What are your thoughts?

Now on to the main part of the rhyme…

Right off, there’s the ‘Cat and the Fiddle’ thingy. Am I right in questioning what that cat doing with that fiddle? He surely wasn’t playing it. I’m no expert, but from observation, it appears one needs the use of one’s thumbs.

One thing I do know is this: no self-respecting cat has ever been caught with even one such digit. Tell me if I’m wrong. Sadly, the idea of a fiddle-playing cat conjures up the scary sound of the scrape of horsehair against strings that could only be labeled: ghastly. 

Moving on…

And now let’s tackle the cow. 
This particular bovine seems capable of heretofore unheard of altitudinal achievements. I owned cows. And watched as one in particular, who had been happily grazing with a herd of deer, tried to follow said deer as they lightly leaped our pasture fence.
She applied bovine brakes in the nick of time. What followed would have doubtlessly been an udder disaster. (*snort*) So, if a cow is physically incapable of leaping a four-foot fence, how could she possibly achieve the 405,500 km (251,000 miles) or the estimated distance between the earth and moon.

Not only that but there’s the whole ‘breaking-free-of-the-earth’s-gravity’ to be reckoned with. You’ve seen the power and force needed for rockets to achieve this. I have yet to see a booster rocket affixed to a cow. Though the thought does conjure up a unique visual. 

Nope. The only thing I’ve ever seen coming from the back end of a cow is…quite disgusting. And, I should point out, something that definitely wouldn’t be capable of sending said cow very far up. Although it has been known to send someone (ie. me) pretty far away… Just sayin’.

Then we move on to the little dog. Laughing. Now this one I can believe. Oh, you know I’ve seen my dog crack a grin or two at my calamities. And I’m pretty certain that, when she and her goofball buddies get together, they only pretend to be off playing.

In reality, they are snickering together over their respective master’s/mistress’ misfortunes. Tell me you’ve seen them. Jerks. And then they have the nerve to come back, tails wagging and doggie kisses ready. Not that I’ll ever succumb… Nope. Nope. No… Awww, I can’t stay mad at you!   Where was I…?

And that brings us to the whole dish and spoon debacle. Or, more precisely, their ‘running away’. I want to know, first off, if the spoon was a willing participant. I mean, the dish ran away with it. That sounds highly suspicious to me. Shouldn’t they have run off together?

And another thought: Often this phrase, ‘running away’ is used to express some sort of sordid affair. In which other parties (not included in the tale) may be elsewhere being betrayed and thusly: sad.

That or they were joining a circus. Either way, I’m not seeing a long-term relationship resulting. 
I say we give the whole rhyme a do-over…
Hey, Michael Diddle,
All cats are a riddle,
The cows only look at the moon (405,000+ km away).
The little dogs laughed cause they're all just jerks,
And the dish and the spoon had a mutually fulfilling relationship.
You’re right. It was better the other way.
Today’s post is a writing challenge. Each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times. 
This month’s word count number is: 50
It was chosen by: Mimi!
Links to the other Word Counters posts:
BakingIn ATornado
Messymimi’sMeanderings   

Scooping the Blame

A party! It was just the thing for newlyweds to do,

And the weather and the comp’ny made the whole thing perfect, too!

T’was warm and sunny, food set out. And promised good discourse,

The kind that keeps you talking until everyone is hoarse!

The barbeque was done. The host had set up a small stand,

With yummy, creamy ice cream--every colour, type and brand,

Her husband made a beeline for it, and was first in line,

Then went again and then again—the number eight or nine!

His wife just frowned as he returned, said, “Hon, I’m curious…

“But aren’t you just a bit embarrassed some will see you thus?”

Her husband took a bite and shrugged. “There’s really no ado…

“Cause when they scoop another bowl, I tell them it’s for you!”

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause 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 for all you special folks...We're going back to good, old jokes!
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!)...

Ice Cream (July 18) Today!

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1)

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Chickening Out

 Of course you know ‘something’ was bound to happen.

I’m blaming Sally.

Ahem…

 

Sally has been filming near us.

And by near us, I mean in the countryside about an hour from good old home base.

Mort goes with her every day because as her husband, he gets special privileges now.

Go figure.

Mom and Unc…Dad decided they were going off to have a ‘romantic’ picnic-for-two in a park.

So Peter and I went with Sally and Mort.

You know, FOMO.

It was kind of fun, watching the filming, even though it was sweltering out.

It’s a nice little story about a city girl who gets sent to her uncle’s farm to ‘clean up her act’.

Of course, Sally is the city girl.

But between you and me, that act is never going to get cleaned up.

Ahem…

The filming wrapped for the day.

And that’s when things came unraveled...

The filming was happening on a large farm.

Large.

Big old barn.

Chicken coops.

Pig pens.

Horses.

And lots and lots of cows.

Red and white cows.

Okay, yes, I called them ‘brown’ and white.

The rancher, Mr. Banks, immediately corrected me.

Touchy!

Back to my story…

Apparently, the head cameraman wanted some particular shot and the camera he needed had to be fixed or adjusted or something.

Plus, they had to order some kind of different rug.

Anyway, we found ourselves with extra time.

Someone had turned on a radio somewhere and Sally’s favourite song was playing.

She was dancing to the music. And that’s when she proposed her grand idea.

I know. I know. Sally…and ‘grand’ are just a recipe for trouble.

Anyways, apparently earlier, she had seen the farmer’s kids swinging from a rope out of the opening in the hay loft and into a huge pile of straw down below.

Sally though it would be great fun.

I looked at the height of the hay loft. And the depth of the straw and, probably for the first time—ever—agreed with my sister.

First Sally went.

“Heeeyaaaah!” Straight down and into the straw.

She landed and looked up at the rest of us. “That was the most fun ever!”

She quickly scrambled to one side as Mort went next. “Look out belooooow!”

He, too bounced to a stop and grinned. “Rad!”

The rope swung (Swang? Swong? Swinged?) back to me. But I quickly handed it off to Peter.

He winked at me and immediately made Tarzan look like a beginner.

And yes, I am prejudiced.

Then there was me. With the other three looking up encouragingly.

What can I say.

I’m a lemming.

Now I should probably mention that the pile of straw we were swinging down into was immediately adjacent to one of the chicken coops.

A small one. With grey, weathered boards for a roof.

I think it was used as a brooder house in the early spring.

Now, it sat empty.

This is important.

Also, you should know that I weigh about 100 pounds.

Soaking wet.

And carrying an anvil.

I grabbed the rope. Let out my grandest “Hallooo!”

And jumped.

The rope caught up the slack and I found myself swinging down and down and down, then over and over and over.

Then past and past and past.

“LET GO OF THE ROPE, GWEN!!!” Peter shouted. “LET GO!”

But I couldn’t. I actually couldn’t. My fingers were frozen to the line.

Finally, as I reached the far apex of my swing, the rope slid through my hands and, spread-eagled, I sailed through the air.

And that’s when the nearness of the chicken coop comes into play.

I went through the roof, landing on my back in the straw inside.

Now there were a couple of things that made this straw different than the pile I was supposed to hit.

That straw was clean.

And free of chicken dust.

Also…debris.

Ugh.

There was an immediate rain of old, weathered boards.

I curled up into a ball and let them fall about me.

Then, choking and gasping for breath in the dusty air, slowly started to climb to my feet.

Peter was suddenly there. He wrapped his arms around me and plucked my out of the pile of rubble. Then set me gently on a strawless patch of ground nearby. “Are you all right?”

I looked into his worried eyes and managed a smile as I took stock of my parts. “Yeah. All present and accounted for.” I sneezed. “I could use a shower, though.” I looked up at the new skylight feature in Mr. Banks’ chicken coop. “Oops.”

Sally and Mort appeared in the doorway. “Man, Sis, we can’t take you anywhere!” Sally said.

I think I managed a glare. Probably not a very effective one, owing to grime and dusty air and…the fact that Sally was more interested in the hole in the roof than she was in me.

Sigh.

My legs were a bit wobbly, so Peter supported me as we made our way outside.

Mr. Banks was there.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” Sally said immediately.

He nodded. “Been meaning to replace this coop. I guess now’s the time.”

He went inside.

Sally looked at the rest of us.

“Wanna go again?” 

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: sweltering ~ farm ~ song ~ park ~ rug

Were given to me by my good friend Karen at Baking in a Tornado!

Now go and see what words the others got—and how they used them!

Baking In A Tornado

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver

Climaxed  

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Not Quite Nude

The cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
 And I do mean Cover!In honour of National Nude Day—an experience...

I had a swimsuit.

I made it.

Long. Old-fashioned. Neck to knees type.

Yes, popular at the turn of the century.

The Twentieth century.

I loved it. It covered me.

It encased anything that might otherwise unexpectedly fall out.

And saved me the aggravation of having to shave my nether regions.

I hated shaving my nethers.

Moving on . . .

Swimming was the only exercise I could do that didn't hurt something.

I swam a lot.

This necessitated my going to the pool.

Usually, I swam in the morning with the other octogenarians.

I fit right in. And no one could see well enough to notice that my swimsuit was different from those found at the local Zellers.

All was well.

But I missed my morning swim one day.

And was forced to go at a later time.

With the younger set.

Who could see.

Sigh.

I strode confidently from the dressing room towards the pool.

And that's when the trouble started.

A group of kids, probably in the 10 to 12 age range was sitting on a large, foam raft not too far from the entrance/exit to the change room.

I entered.

One young girl pointed. And laughed.

I suddenly felt as though I was in junior high again.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

But that's not important.

What is important, was how this young girl was . . . dressed.

Her slender little pre-pubescent body was covered, barely (and I use this term deliberately) by two almost non-existent triangles of cloth on her upper half and only slightly larger triangles on her lower half.

She was as close to naked as one can get and still legally appear in public.

And she seemed completely heedless, sitting there amongst other boys and girls her own age, laughing at someone who was dressed in a far more modest, albeit fairly 'unique' swimsuit.

I remember when near-nudity was a source of embarrassment. When one's worst dreams were of appearing somewhere public . . . in a less than exemplary fashion.

Okay, I have to admit that, that day, one of us was embarrassed.

Me. For her.

My point is this: When has modestly become an opportunity to jeer?

When did society do a complete turn-around? When did the naked start laughing at the clothed? (Not that I'm promoting the idea of the clothed laughing at the naked . . .) But when?

I have to admit that I believe in modesty.

It promotes confidence and self-worth. It promotes respectful behavior, both to oneself and to others.

I still wear a similar bathing suit, and will continue to do so.

I'm comfortable.

And isn't that the point? 

Dating in the Sunset

 

Just the two of us.My Husby believes in date night.A least once a week.He and me.it's...fun.In our earlier, more penurious days we got creative.In nice weather, long walks.Around town. Along the river bottom.Sometimes, we'd wander through the mall, just looking.Occasionally buying a hot chocolate or ice cream cone to share.Going grocery shopping.Having an evening picnic.Wonderful times.As we near retirement, dating consists of movies, dinners, theatre and concerts.Still fun.As long as we're together.A couple of evenings ago, Husby's truck broke down.He pulled into the nearest parking lot, called first for a tow-truck, and then me to come and bring him home.I arrived long before said tow-truck.Looooong before.Together, we waited.Nearby were several formal restaurants.And an A&W.Not wanting to leave the truck until help deigned to arrive, Husby suggested that one of us run across the street to the fast food outlet and grab a couple of burgers.I volunteered.Between you and I, I'd rather do that then instruct a tow-truck driver if and when he decided to show up.Ahem . . .I returned.We ate.Have I mentioned that the world looks better on a full tummy?Well, it does.We talked and laughed.Sitting on the tailgate of the truck in the warm sun.And the cool summer breeze.Oh, we both had places we needed to be.Things that needed doing.But, for that moment, all that was important were a couple of burgers.The tailgate of our truck.The warm summer evening.And the two of us.Re-discovering the perfect date.In our sunset years.

Exercising Grannie's Fannies

War chest.
I’ve always been into fitness.Active ranch life.Sports in school and community.High impact aerobics as a young mom.Running--which I discovered I loved more than anything.Yep. Running and me, we were friends. I was going to be one of those octogenarians you see out at the crack of dawn hoofing it around the town.But then my knees got involved. In the worst way. They gave out.So I slowed my pace to a walk.Then my hips followed my knees.I cycled for a time, but that didn’t make my hips any happier.Sigh.Finally, on the 5th of April, 2022, I discovered Aqua Fit.I have a new fitness love. Seriously. Nothing hurts!But you have to know that, although it looks like we members of the Grannie’s Fannies (my eldest son’s label for our class) are merely thrashing around. To music. We are actually putting in a lot of effort.A lot.Well, according to my watch. (I purchased said watch—an underwater beauty—precisely so I could track my calories.)So, long story…erm…long, I’ve found my new fitness regimen and I couldn’t be happier.Of course, I have a few points for discussion…One of our torturers instructors keeps telling us to engage our core.And, just between us, my core and I have been more-than-engaged for a number of years. It probably won’t come as a surprise to hear that—about 20 minutes into the workout—me and my core are considering a trial separation. Possibly even divorce. For irreconcilable differences.Also, the masochist on the deck guide keeps shouting at us to breathe.Seriously? There are people in the pool who are not gasping loudly and desperately for breath?Sometimes she instructs us to do a certain move—without actually…you know…moving.Now I’ve noticed something. When she tells us not to move, that’s precisely when I’m going to.Oh, I don’t mean to.It just happens.Then when we are supposed to move, I don’t. Or even worse, perversely hit reverse.Call me a contrary.And sometimes, I just have too many parts.I’m sorry, but keeping track of all of them? And making them all do something different?It’s not happening.And, let’s just say it now: if you’re going to put a floatie device in each of my hands, they’d better be working together. Cause if I have to try and wave just one of them around, there’s going to be serious up-ended-ness.End of rant…But I flail with purpose.That uber-fantastic watch I told you about earlier?According to it, I average between 300 and 500 calories per workout.So I’m happy.

Loneliness

A couple of poems I've gotten done...One is thoughtful.One for fun!
Finding What You Seek
“Look for the light,” he said to me.
“When all’s a blank and lonely sea,And life becomes a mystery,You'll find there's possibility,Cause those things you seek, you'll see!”I shine life's flashlight from the lee,The darkness flies, the shadows flee.

And in its single beam, I see

Trembling there in lonely glee,A host of possibles for me!So he was right in his decree,Cause I was looking...now I see!
                      *  *  *

Never Lonely

I live with people--quite a few,

We all do things that people do,

At times there’s no one in my croft,

(And know this doesn't happen oft),

But for a moment, I despair,

As loneliness breaks o’er me there,

But then I see the brimming bin,

And dirty clothes enclosed within,

And I realize that I,

Will not be lonely by and by,

I needn’t have a ‘lonely spree’,

With endless wash for company!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause 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, for super, summer fun,We'll talk of ice cream, everyone!
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!)...

Loneliness (July 11) Today!

Ice Cream (July 18)

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1)

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Fishing for Brothers

Our intrepid camping ally, Ancient of Days.It's Summer.Camping time.Something our family did every year (when the chicks were growing) in a little, blue tent trailer purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978. It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.In my defense, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself. Three neat beds and a square central floor.Perfect for a family of eight.It took our family everywhere.For many years, we camped for a week each summer in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.Kimball Lake.We had a lot of adventures in that time.Today, I'm remembering one in particular...Our two youngest were napping.I use this word lightly.Because there was no 'napping' happening.Youngest Daughter (YD) was on the bed she normally shared with her older sister.And Youngest Son (YS) was in the playpen on the floor.Something he had learned to crawl out of.Usually, this wouldn't have been a problem.Let me describe our trailer to you.It had three wings that folded out to form the beds.The canvas wrapped around each of these wings and hooked securely underneath with elastic cords.It was possible to slide through those spaces.If you were small enough.And YS, at thirteen months, met that criteria.He crawled up onto the bed.Rolled against the side.And slid through.Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.YD, three, had been watching.She saw him slip through.And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed his hands.“Mo-om!”My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.I ran into the trailer.YD and the top half of YS were visible.She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.“Mo-om!” she shouted again.I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.That tiny son is now a husband and father and that trailer went down the road many seasons ago.But every year, at camping time, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.Picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..It's a good memory.