Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 35

War by the Bucketful

Not just for food storage any more.Second Son is tall.In his stocking feet, six-foot-eight. Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.I have a close family friend.I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.She makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.In fact, the word 'feisty' might describe her perfectly.SS used to tease her about her height.Or lack thereof.I should point out that this woman has six children of her own. She could give it right back.One day, she and SS had been exchanging insults.After a particularly pointed comment which ended with his pretending to put an elbow on the top of her head and using her as a fence post, she tried something a little more proactive.“Oh!” she said. Nearby was a bucket of honey.Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.Moving on . . .She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do now?”SS merely stepped backwards.“Oh!” She said again. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him.Then she stepped up once more.“Ha!” she said a second time.He stepped back once more.“Oh!”This went on for some time.She pushed that bucket of honey all over the kitchen.Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.Hmm.I wonder if we could market this idea on a global scale . . .

Sing With Me

My Hero.
Born and raised in China
And studied in Beijing,
She was considered brilliant
In most everything!

 

Fine malariologist,

Found artemisinin,

Won the Nobel prize in ‘15

For the fight that she did win.

 

Millions have been saved by her,

The road she walked was rough!

But singing Happy Birthday to

Tu Youyou? Well, it’s tough!

 

Worked Out

They told me I’d improve my health, if I exercised,

So I thought I’d join a club, just as they advised,

Yoga? Tai Chi? Boxing? Barre? Zumba? Boot Camp? more?

The choices are so vast, it seems, with types and toils galore,

I chose aerobics. Seemed like fun. I showed up at the gym,

And ducked into the change room, more than ready to get slim!

Then what a workout! Jumping, twisting, gyrating an hour,

I tell you when this all was done, I’d clearly earn a shower!

Flushed with success, quite sure that I’d burned calories en masse,

I’d fin’ly got my leotard on...then found I’d missed the class!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"We write because she's our Big Cheese,
And we love her, you know that’s true,
So this is what we writers do . . .
We craft a poem based on a theme,
With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,
Each month we write and have such fun
We can't wait for another one,
Sooo...this month, how well did I do?
Please go and see the others, too.

BakingIn A Tornado                 

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Wanted: Men

This . . . Will get you this . . .  Maybe . . .For over twenty years, we ran a family business.Mikey's Music Machine.We were DJs, specializing in family dances.We had . . . fun.Running a family business is wonderful in many respects.Dealing with telephone solicitors isn't one of them.With my apologies to anyone reading this who may have 'telephone solicitation' on their resume.Ahem.One particularly persistent individual had been on the phone with me for longer than I cared to talk to him.Which was more than five seconds.He wanted to sell our company some pens.Pens with 'Mikey's Music Machine' printed in a number of different fonts.On an even greater selection of backgrounds.In an attempt to convince me of the need for said pens, he told me his company would guarantee that, by placing an order for a mere 1500 of the rascals, I would receive one of the following:A new carA new, big-screen TVA six-man hot tub.It was there I stopped him.“Wait!” I said. “Six-man hot tub? Does it come with the men?”There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.“Ummm . . . no.”“Darn,” I said.Then the unexpected response. “Are you married?”It was my turn to say, “Ummm . . . yes.”And his turn to say, “Darn.”I really don't know what path the conversation had taken, but it was definitely not the one that we had started out on.Time to get off the phone.Which I did.Without my pens.Yep. Running your own family business.Tons of fun.In so many different ways.

Uninvited

Picnics are a fixture of the great Canadian summer.Something anticipated throughout the long, dark winter. The reward for spending months huddled around the wood stove.Okay, I'm exaggerating.But Canada does have winter.And Canadians definitely look forward to summer.And picnics.The trouble with picnics is that they are so dependent on so many factors.Weather is a biggie.For instance, it's rather hard to picnic in the rain.Though it has been done.Wind, too can play havoc with one's plans.As well as one's picnic blanket, napkins, paper plates.And smaller guests.But one of the most insidious of picnic problems is the uninvited guest.And, believe me, they show up for every picnic.They show up if a picnic is merely being contemplated.I'm sure they have poked their noses in at your picnics.And I do mean poked.I'm talking mosquitoes here.Those little, lighter-than-air messengers of doom.Irritators extraordinaire.High-pitched precursors to prolonged itch and expressive words.Known to achieve sizes heretofore only seen in the pre-Cambrian days.With the ability to carry off unsuspecting small animals.The reason Canadians wear their winter gear year round.And learn to eat quickly and with one hand.While the other hand feverishly stands guard . . .My friends were picnicking.Their entire family had turned out.They were visiting.Eating.Laughing.Enjoying the beautiful day and fresh air.And generally doing those things that make a picnic so enjoyable.Grandmother was seated at one of the many picnic tables.Enjoying a hamburger.With a sesame seed bun.In the company of one of her young grandsons.That's when the uninvited guests arrived.One particularly determined individual was making life miserable for said Grandmother.She lifted a hand and grabbed at it.Now the normal hand motion is: Grab. Look. And if one is successful, Smash.She completed the first two manoeuvres.Grab.Look.Rats. She had missed.But she did see a sesame seed, stuck to her finger.Which she then, happily, licked off.Now I should probably mention, here, that the grandson was seated opposite, watching his beloved grandmother.I probably don't have to describe what he thought he saw.But I will.Grandmother grabbing mosquitoes.And eating them.His horrified expression and the words 'Grandma! Yuck!' which burst out of him alerted her to what he was seeing.She quickly explained.And peace and appetite were restored.But she raises an important point.Instead of making mosquitoes the uninvited guests at a picnic, why not make them the picnic?Who's with me?Let me know how it goes...

Type A

 . . . or you could just throw it at someone . . .In high school, amid the myriad choices, there was one class everyone was expected to take.None of us could understand why.It was a useless class.What on earth would we ever need it for?It's not like it had any practical applications.Yep. Typing 10.The colossal waste of time.But we were, if nothing else, dutiful.Daily, we would report to our teacher.Then scurry to get the best machine.I should explain, here, that the machines we used were all elderly 'Olivetti Underwoods'.Non-electronic.Totally manual.Capable of jamming if any two keys approached the action zone at the same time.Heavy, cast iron.And able to take whatever abuse we chose to mete out.And, believe me, that was Abuse with a capital 'A'.One friend would systematically pound on her machine for every mistake she made.It was quite entertaining.And made the typing of the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog not quite so mundane.And repetitive.Daily, we were taken through exercises designed to improve our accuracy.Our ability to type while looking anywhere other than our keyboard.And our speed.None of which were my forte.Our teacher would stand at the front of the room with her trusty little stopwatch.And holler 'Go!”Dozens of keys would begin clicking.Okay, another thing I should mention is that manual typewriters, at least the ones we used, were noisy.All of us typing together would constitute what could only be considered a 'din'.With the sound of my friend periodically rising above as she stopped to punch her machine. “Stupid, useless . . .!”“Stop.”Hands in our laps.Then we would roll out our paper and check for mistakes.This is where I always came to grief.Well, one of the places.I could type fast.I just didn't ever hit the right keys.Of all the kids in the class, I probably scored the worst.Oddly enough, I'm the only one who now makes her living . . . typing.The irony is just sickening.P.S. Every time I see an old Olivetti Underwood, I get all misty and nostalgic. Go figure.

The Price of Flight

We see them every day, the headline news and on our screens,
Those people fleeing tyranny by any ways and means,
Then landing on the shores and borders weak and in distress,
Hoping that some kindly souls will help them gain redress.

 

But there are those too ill-disposed to give them any thought,
Who simply say, “It’s not my charge. ‘Cause, your lot is your lot.
“Go home and work it out,” they say. “Don’t clutter up our land!”
Then turn away from those in need—ignoring outstretched hands.

 

We have been blessed to grow up in a land that’s free and clean,
Choose what to do in life. And set our very own routines,
And do those people want to take those things that we call ‘mine’?
Or do they simply want to work for something just as fine?

 

There’s something I’ve been thinking of for quite a little while…
What would it take for me to grab a suitcase and my child?
And flee forever all I know and all that I hold dear?
I have to say it’d need to be a ‘something’ very drear.

 

Our own ancestors fled their lands so many years ago,
And they were taken in by friendly hearts and hands and souls,
 Just where, I ask, would we be if rejected when they asked?
When they were fleeing tyranny in generations past.

 

We have so much, our land is wide, we’ve plenty and to spare,
For sure we have enough that we could help and we could share,
So maybe we should think of that before we turn away,
And with compassion look into those anxious eyes today. 

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, we shall celebrateThe Birthday song! I cannot wait!
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!)...

World Refugee Day (June 20) Today!

The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Independence Day (US) or Sidewalk egg-frying day (July 4)

Loneliness (July 11)

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) 

A Little Topsy-Turvy

Husby and I were on the vacation of a lifetime in the Caribbean.Now before you start feeling too envious, let me point out the down side.
Umm . . . . 
Okay, you can feel envious.
While on the Island of St. Lucia, we were able to join some other intrepid explorers and . . . erm . . . explore.
On horseback.
And yes. It was amazing.
But what stuck most in my mind happened afterward.
We handed our steeds (yes, we rode steeds) over to our guide and his assistant, then went with another guide on a ramble over the part of the plantation we had missed with our four-footed friends.
We marched along pathways worn smooth in the days of slavery. Watched a donkey turn the mechanism that, as in days past, crushed the sugar sap out of cane.
And generally ooh-ed and ah-ed a lot.
A lot.
Then we were abandoned at the cluster of shopping huts near the plantation entrance to eat and drink and unload bags of money.
Okay, you probably know that we saved a long time for this trip and that we really don't have bags of money. But we were happy to browse. And peruse.
And then I saw it . . .
Now just to keep you in suspense a little longer, I am going to give you a bit of background . . .
My Aunt Mary Stringam had a doll collection.
Behind glass.
In her family room.
I was not allowed to touch said dolls.
Ever.
Sigh.
There was one that I found particularly interesting.
It was a topsy-turvy doll. I'm sure you're wondering what that can possibly be. It's a doll with two very different heads. One at each end. With a long dress that covers the one or the other and essentially gives you two dolls!
Genius, right?
Well, I thought so.
I don't remember what Aunt Mary's two-sided doll had for each of its heads (there are some with Goldilocks at one end and the wolf at the other.) I just remember how very much I wanted to play with it.
Enough background.
That thing I saw in the little shop on St. Lucia? A topsy-turvy Caribbean doll. And, just like that, the memories of that ever-wanted and ever-out-of-touch doll came back to me.
And I instantly knew what I was going to get each of my granddaughters as a gift from my holiday.
One last note:
When you ask a shopkeeper for 14 of any one item, especially hand-made dolls, they are quite willing to give you a break on the price. Just FYI.

Uplifted

 

An Uplifting ExperienceIt's officially summertime in Edmonton. Today we were driving past one of the many ski hills that abound in the area.The snow is finally gone. The slopes green-grassed and empty.Only the lifts, looking forlorn and forgotten, are there to remind one of the usual bustle on those slopes.Lifts.It reminded me of something . . .Years ago, our family used to ski Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.Every winter.It was the highlight of our year.Well, mine, anyway.Dad forked over a whopping $3.00 ($4.00 CAN) per ticket for us to ride all the lifts all day.Watched as we attached said ticket to our ski jackets.Then waved us off cheerily.I don't know what he and Mom did all day while we kids were having the time of our lives.But as long as he showed up at the end of the day and immediately took us to be fed, we were happy.But back to the ski slope . . .At that time, Big Mountain had four main slopes.There was the bunny hill. Which we learned on. Then immediately spurned.Two intermediate slopes.Where I and my siblings spent the most time.And, finally, the advanced slope. Which, for me, merely served as the entrance to the back trails. Oh, I skied it.Once.And ended up taking off my skis and walking down.Don't ask.Moving on . . .The first thing we learned about skiing was the fact that you had to get to the top of the hill before you could come down.Skiing 101.And that required the use of the tows/lifts. Sure. It looks fun here . . .The bunny slope had a rope tow.A very sneaky rope tow.Consisting of a rope running continuously.I assume it was pulled by some sort of . . . puller.The rope had to be approached cautiously.One would place one's mittened hands on said rope.Then slowly tighten those hands around the heavy, quickly-moving hemp until finally, one's grip was tight enough to actually start one sliding up the hill.It wasn't as easy as it sounds.If one gripped too hard, the rope would jerk one off one's feet.Which, I must admit was hilarious.Unless it was you.And, even funnier was the sight of a pulled-off/escaped mitten riding up the rope.All by itself. Do not attempt this without supervision.
Ouch.The tow on one of the intermediate hills was a little more . . . touchy.It was the 'poma' lift.Pomas consisted of a long pole attached to the high tow wire by a spring.With a little disc welded onto the bottom.Which disc, when inserted between the skiers legs, would, theoretically pull one up the hill.It took practice.A lot of practice.There were the inevitable mishaps and false starts.People who lost their grip on the poma and watched it spring up into the air.While the hapless skier slid to a halt down below.Or, better yet, the people who lost their balance and were dragged several feet before they realized that any hope of completing their ride to the top was gone and that their best tactic at that point was to . . . let go.The poma lift always attracted a non-skiing group of observers whose sole purpose was to watch.And laugh.Jerks.I should mention, too, that getting off was . . . tricky.Enough said. Effective. And cozy.The other intermediate slope tow was a 'T' bar.A bar in the shape of a T.That pulled two riders up the slope.Or one rider if the other one fell over.Which happened a lot.If you were a bit more of a skiing expert, you got to ride the chair lift. The most fun of all. And the easiest to ride.How often does that happen?The problem was that it took one to the very highest slope.And the steepest (see above).My siblings and I became experts on each of these lifts. The Ultimate.Oh, not all at once.It took time.And we had our learning curve.Which was infinitely more 'curve' than 'learning'.But still, we had fun.And were finally able to stop providing entertainment for the jerks.HA!Masters of the ski lifts.Life just didn't get any better.

Socked

 

You…and I…see a pile of socks…

I should probably mention that I am a bit of a ‘neat freak’ and have a penchant for all things ‘laundry’.

Oh, and Husby hates wearing socks.

On to my story…

Yesterday, I was collecting for the weekly ‘sock fund’, wherein all socks that have been worn, may have been worn, or simply find themselves unfortunately out of place are donated to the hamper.

Ready to be returned in (to quote ‘Q’ from James Bond) pristine order.

It’s a simple and satisfying operation.

I collect and launder and fold and return.

Husby wears.

What could possibly go wrong?

Stay with me…

I came to a pile of socks in the corner of the bedroom.

Now, you have to know that we’ve been here before. Husby is as protective of his sock stash as a middle-aged dragon would be of his gold and gems. Thus, my hesitation over simply grabbing the whole bunch and leaving.

Me: Which of these socks need to go to the laundry?

Him: None.

Me: But you can’t have this many pairs going at once…

Him: Yes, I can.

Me….

Him…

ME: But…

Him: Look. (holding up one pair) These are sturdy for working outside. (Drops it and picks up another) These are still sturdy, but less so, for working inside. (Moves to a third) These are long and fuzzy for warm tootsies when we are downstairs watching TV. (Fourth) These are a little more dressy for Sundays. (Fifth) And these are short for wearing with my sandals. I haven't worn any of them often enough to warrant washing.

Me: Are you sure you’re wearing the right socks now?

Him… (But with a look that should have burned a hole in said socks.)

Me: (Sighing as I turn away) Wearing socks with sandals is for nerds. And you have pairs especially saved for just that. That must make you a special kind of nerd.

Him…

Me: Yeah, I'm out. Nerd.