Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 37

The Ugly Tourist: Part One

We’re gearing up for it...A GUEST POST BY GRANT TOLLEY See? Almost invisible.Tourist.The word evokes many images – almost all of them negative – in the mind of anyone who is not one.  Yet, it cannot cease to amaze one, that we can despise the tourist in others, while adopting so many of those . . . er . . . interesting characteristics when on vacation ourselves.

My wife and I recently toured the islands of Greece.  I am an anthropologist by training, so invariably we spend a lot of time people-watching, as well as enjoying the sights and scenery. While overall it was a truly memorable and delightful trip, we inevitably encountered a variety of tourists, exhibiting a variety of ‘touristy’ characteristics, all of which we tried desperately to avoid, even though we were, technically, in the ranks.

I swear that what follows is an accurate representation of our observations of fellow tourists.

The Loud TouristThis category of tourist has a number of sub-groups.

The first is The FogHorn Tourist. This is the traveler who doesn't seem to mind announcing, at 100+ decibels, intimate details of their life to the entire world.
“But Henry, I’m sure I packed your hemorrhoid salve!  That’s just awful, to get hemorrhoids.  And on your birthday too!”

I've heard a lot of sad tales, but I've never heard of hemorrhoids appearing on someone’s birthday. I always thought they appeared somewhere else.
And another FogHorn, who told the following tale of woe :

“I was so sick! First I was throwing up.  My supper and everything! And then I had diarrhea all night! Oh, I tell you, Mildred, it was just awful!  I didn’t know which end was which!”No comment.  I only hope that at half time, she switched ends.
Second in the Loud Tourist category is The Anglocentric Tourist.  This is the one who believes that any foreigner can understand English if it is spoken slowly, and loudly enough.

“Toi-let pa-per.  Toilet paper.  You know [insert largely obscene but mostly incomprehensible hand gestures here], TOILET paper.  In the BATHroom.  TOI-LLL-LET! TOI-LET-PA-PER! IT’S ALL OUT! IN THE TOI-LET!! [more incomprehensible hand gestures]”

One can only smirk when, at the end of this performance, the hotel clerk says, with a straight face and in Oxford English: “We’ll look after it right away, madam.”
The third sub-group in the Loud Tourist category is The Airhead Student Tourist.  This category consists of students fresh out of a college semester, who apparently are touring exotic lands for the first time.  They can be both Loud and Ugly, and for all their education, are seemingly under the impression that because they are in a non-English-speaking country, they are the only ones on the bus who actually speak English.

The following particular pair stood eight feet apart during a 45-minute bus ride, sharing their intimacies with – they thought – no one, again at 100+ decibels.

“They didn't check my ticket.  How do they know I paid?”

“Well, like, when I first came, I thought the same thing, so once I didn't buy a ticket, and the ticket inspector came and asked me, and I, like, totally freaked, and they hauled me down to the police station, and I was, like, totally hysterical, and then you know what?  Like, then I got my period, and it was just awful, a big mess, and I started crying, and they still fined me 65 Euros, and then they let me go, but on the way home, I was attacked . . . ”

After 20 minutes or so of this, the conversation turned to :“I am so jealous of you, you've had so many loves in your life!  Like Jeff.  Was he, like, a major love, or just a mini-love?”“Well, he was kind of a mini-love, but turned into a major love, and I was, like, so totally in love with him, but he dumped me, and I was sad, but I got over it quickly . . .”

When this pair got off the bus, someone behind us breathed out an exasperated “Thank goodness that’s over!”We were not alone.
The High-Tech Tourist
This is the tourist who carries:
·         a regular camera

·         a digital camera

·         a video camera (sometimes two)

·         a cell phone

·         an electronic chronometer watch

·         a digital light meter

·         a GPS indicator

·         an IPad

·         an IPod·         several other indistinguishable gizmos

This particular breed of tourist becomes totally dysfunctional when something – anything – beeps.  I took perverse delight in sidling up close behind High-Tech tourists and making the alarm on his watch beep.  I have to admit that the unfortunate victim looked like a human windmill as he tried to figure out which toy was making the noise.

The Bleary-Eyed Bar Tourist
Truly amazing to us were the people who spent thousands to travel half-way around the world, only to spend thousands more getting plastered, day after day, in the hotel bar.  There were a few on this most recent trip.

“Why, shore, when I [hiccup] was in Australia, they got good wine there, you know [urp], the bar at the Hilton had ‘em all, it was great . . . [hiccup] . . . an' I even got to see one of them weird kangaroo thingys . . . "
To be concluded...

Starting with 25

 

Yes, it's blurry.
Photographing children and wildlife. It's the same . . .For two weeks, we had our youngest son’s (then) two children (ages 3 years and 16 months) in our home while their parents were exploring places warm and sunny.

I should probably mention that, at the time, our home already housed four adults and one resident three-year-old.

It was, for the most part, a marvelous time!

Twenty-five things we learned:

1. Children are like the ocean. You never want to turn your back.

2. The decibels reached by the average toddler during normal conversation cannot be measured by normal means.

3. Enthusiasm and unhappiness are often expressed with the same ear-piercing wail.

4. Also hunger, I’m-not-tired, and he-took-my-toy.

5. Three-year-olds and scissors should never make even a passing acquaintance.

6. Just because they’re approximately the same size, two three-year-olds don’t always see eye-to-eye.

7. The definition of a toddler is someone two feet tall with an arm reach of eight feet.

8. The head is equipped with a solid bone for a reason.

9. Bike helmets should be a standard component of every outfit (see #8).

10. Just because someone is looking at you, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are also listening.

11. Hiding places turn easily into finding places. A little too easily. Sooo . . .

12. Nothing is safe.

13. A toddler can – and will – eat their weight in food.

14. And, conversely, can live on air for an inordinate amount of time.

15. If you turn on the TV, the only time they notice is for the first three minutes.

16. And when you shut it off.

17. The bathtub is an excellent place to play. 

18. With or without water in it.

19. If one wakes up in the middle of the night, one needs the company of a sibling.

20. And/or at least two grandparents.

21. If a diaper says 8 to 10 pounds, that really is all it will hold.

22. The amount of time one needs to hurry a toddler to the potty is proportionate to the amount of time it takes for them to realize they have to go. And telling you.23. There's nothing quite like a small herd of children greeting you enthusiastically at the door when you get home.24. A toddler hug makes anything better.25. A toddler kiss, ditto.
Their parents returned home from a wonderful trip. Everyone was happily reunited.

And Grandma went back to bed.

Shattered

Please forgive me for the focus of today's poem for Memorial Day.
I try to keep my Poetry Monday topics upbeat, often nonsensical.
But I have been weeping for days.
And this is important.
In days of old, the Baal priests,
Did not sacrifice mere beasts,
Children were their chosen prey,
They sacrificed them day by day,
And terror, heartbreak and remorse,
These mattered little in their course,
And hour-by-hour and day-by-day,
The children on their altars lay,
The last view of these innocents?
A statue swirled in foul incense,
The years have passed, but man’s the same,
The altar’s changed, but to our shame
Remains. The idol’s not ‘someone’,
The golden shape there is a gun,
The last thing glimpsed by our small folk?
A gun that’s swirled in foul smoke,
And we have not advanced at all,
Our victims still are precious, small.

 

If our children’s lives we shirk,
They’re not our focus. Greatest work,
Then woe to all else that we do,
Our civilization’s shattered, too.

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, I hope you'll join our den,Cause Yo-yos are our topic 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!)...

Memorial Day (May 30) Today.

Yo-yo (June 6)

Roller Coaster (June 13)

World Refugee Day (June 20)

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)

Underworn

 The business produced underwear,

The kind that always comes in pairs…

Employees showed up with the dawn,

And when shift ended, stock was gone!

So bags were searched, and pockets, too,

Backpacks, coats, to name a few,

The baggage combed, to no avail,

All those attempts to catch them…failed,

The business finally assigned

Searches of a private kind,

But all the staff, when shift was done,

Well, each was wearing only one,

And still the stock would disappear,

Just how it happened wasn’t clear,

And this went on for quite some time,

(Impressed I say all this in rhyme?)

A bright light o’er in auditing

Said, “I’ve been thinking. Here’s the thing…

“We check them all when they are done

“And each is going home with one,

“I think we’d find our thieves in sin,

“If we checked them coming in!”

And so they did and he was right!

(His light was quite superbly bright.)

Employees going home with one?

Well, they were coming in with none!

So, if you’re selling underwear,

Beware the staff that comes in bare!

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,
Or at a 'puter screen, we stare,
Whilst sitting in our underwear,
(Okay, you're right, that is just me,
But, tell me, does it sound carefree?)
Each month we write and have such fun
We can't wait for another one,
Now this month, how well did I do?
Please go and see the others, too.

BakingIn A Tornado                 

Messymimi’sMeanderings

 

Norma and Me

Behold! My fictional story that sparked my love for tales featuring snarky sisters. The morning sun shone through the great cage with the brightly-plumaged macaw perched alertly inside.Norma was on her knees beneath, scraping with a long-handled shoehorn.

And muttering unintelligibly to herself.

I turned the page of my magazine as she emerged, still talking, “. . . fluff!”

 “And feathers!” I turned another page and glanced at her over my magazine. “Need I remind you that it was your idea to get the smelly old bird in the first place?”

She snorted as she straightened her glasses and glared at me.

I looked at her again. “Was that a snort?”

She suddenly found something very interesting in the pattern of the dining room wallpaper. “No.”

“It was! It was a snort!”

“Well, you called Reginald a smelly old bird!”

“Well, he is!” I dove back into my magazine. 

She got to her feet and pushed her glasses up on her nose once more. “Of all the rude, inconsiderate . . .” Whatever else she had to say became muffled as she disappeared into the next room.

I sighed and turned another page. I had long since stopped seeing what was there. I was too interested in baiting my sister.

Soon, Norma was back, still talking. “. . . and you know that I thought he would be some nice cheerful company. And still, you . . .” She stopped and frowned. “Why did I go into the kitchen?”

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows.

She glanced down at her mass of seeds and shredded papers on the otherwise spotless floor. “Oh.” She disappeared once again. “I don’t understand . . .” Once more, her words became a mere thread of sound, muffled by the thick walls. This time, when she emerged, she was carrying the trash can. “. . . know that a bit of cheerful company is always pleasant. Especially when one’s only roommate is one’s little sister. One’s snarky little sister.”

Little sister. The phrase always conjured up the picture of a small child in pigtails. Not the octogenarian of reality. I grinned. “But that’s what makes me so nice,” I said.

She pushed her glasses up and glared at me again, then knelt and started scraping bits of paper and seeds into the garbage. “Nice? Well, I don’t know if I could use the term in describing you.” She got up again and, carrying the trash can, started toward the kitchen once more. “I always thought people who are nice were . . .” What she thought nice people were was again lost through the thick lath and plaster between us.

I turned another page and saw the brightly coloured picture of a woman afloat on a cloud with visions of cars, appliances and tropical locales floating in the air about her. A caption, written boldly below questioned: ‘What are your dreams?’

“. . . and dusters. Don’t forget that we need to take a pile of them with us when we go over to help clean!” Norma was back, still clutching the garbage can. And, inexplicably, a fork. She stopped in the doorway. “Oh. I forgot.” She turned and left, but was back a moment later without the trash can and fork, but carrying a large rag and a bucket of warm, soapy water. “Here, Reginald!” she cooed. “Let’s get things all nice and clean!”

The great bird moved to the side of his cage and looked down on her as she dropped to her knees, dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out carefully and started scrubbing. “Get you - all comfy - and nice . . .” her words took on a rhythm as she cleaned. Finally, satisfied, she dropped the rag into the water and stood up. “There.” She nodded in satisfaction. Leaning close to the bars, she made clicking noises with her tongue. “Who’s the pretty bird? Who’s my little gentleman?”

Reginald tipped his head to one side and regarded her. “Gentleman!” he repeated.

Norma smiled. “That’s right. It’s you!” She bustled off through the doorway.

Reginald looked over at me, then turned slightly, fluffed his feathers, and let go a large, wet glob of something disgusting.

It made a great splat on the still-damp floor.

I smiled and hid behind my magazine.

Evenings In

Family games - mischief made legal
Above is a picture of an actual party featuring my parents’ actual friends.
Mayhem may or may not have been included.On the ranch in the evenings, particularly the long, winter evenings, opportunities for entertainment were few.
If there wasn't anything on your one TV channel, you pretty much had to come up with your own.
Entertainment, I mean.
This meant music (the make-your-own variety), which we practised with more or less success.
Mostly less.
Reading.
My own personal favourite.
Having a drink with the hired men in the bunkhouse.
Probably the least recommended for us kids.
Or games and/or puzzles.
Usually we went with games and/or puzzles.
One didn't get a lecture from one's parents when one played games and/or puzzles . . .
We had several favourites.
Scrabble. A word game which aimed for word construction creativity.
But only good for four of us six players.
Probe. Another word game. This one, disclosure being the goal.
Boggle. (Or if we were feeling daring, Big Boggle.) Another word game.
Huh. I just realized that we played a lot of word games.
And several of us ended up being writers.
Go figure . . .
Bridge. A card game played by four players.
Unless you're from Southern Alberta.
Where it is played by forty tables of four players.
But that is another story . . .
Rook. A card game resembling bridge and also played extensively in no-holds-barred tournaments across Southern Alberta.
Rummoli. Poker and sequence, all rolled into one happy package.
And finally, Monopoly. The apex of games.
The ultimate in Stringam family fun.
And won, inevitably, by Jerry.
Not that he even appeared to try.
He hummed, sang, bounced his knee rhythmically, talked, told jokes and CLEANED OUR CLOCKS.
Why did we keep on playing?
Good question.
Inevitably, I would end Monopoly with a very tiny hoard of cash clutched in one hand as I stared with dismay at my little shoe, parked firmly on Park Place or Boardwalk.
Each with their large, expensive hotel.
And each with Jerry's smiling face behind them.
I would hand over my little pile, along with the last of my properties, and quietly fade into the sunset.
And immediately challenge him to a rematch.
To which he happily complied.
Okay, I get it now.
It's just another example of the 'I'll get him next time!' mentality.
I never did.
Moving on . . .
Puzzles posed a bit less competition.
A more relaxing way to spend time together.
Visiting was permitted. Even encouraged.
But minutes could go by with soft music playing in the background and not one word said.
Yep.
Relaxing.
Our family's evenings now consist of visiting or playing cards.
Or watching movies.
Not too different from those I experienced growing up.
Family time.
What could possibly be better?

A PJ Vacation

 

That's me in the green. Dressed appropriately.Mom was a stickler for clothing customs and traditions.

“Wear a jacket.” “Put on your shoes.” “Where’s your hat?” “You need gloves/boots/armour in the barnyard.” “Get your helmet!” “I don’t care what the other girls are wearing, you are not going swimming naked!”

And others.

Clothes were almost a uniform to her. You wore what was appropriate. When it was appropriate.

Oh, we were still able to dress in what was going. Bell-bottoms. Not-quite-mini skirts. Go-go boots. (Okay those were my sister’s which I may or may not have sneaked out of her room.)

But one had to wear what. And when.

Now to my story . . .

Husby and I were in the sweet little town of Cardston, Alberta.

Husby and his partner, Shayne, wanted to build a museum there and/or spruce up the main street.

It entailed lots of glimpses into history.

He and Shayne were given a tour of the period hotel that graces the main street.The Cahoon.

And I had my own glimpse into history . . .

Mom and dad and we kids were in Cardston for some reason.

I don’t remember why. Relatives? Church? Business?

I was five. I had gotten into the car because whenever the family was going somewhere, it was an ADVENTURE.

Soooo . . . Cardston.

While we were there, as sometimes happens in the Great Canadian Prairies in close proximity to the equally-great-but-for-different-reasons Rocky Mountains in the winter, a great storm blew in.

And engulfed us.

And the town.

And probably quite a large part of the surrounding countryside but I was basically concerned with what I could see out the car window.Dad decided it was far safer to seek refuge right where we were.

We drove to the only hotel. The Cahoon. A great stone structure that loomed over main street.

Requested and were granted rooms.

And proceeded to ready ourselves for bed.

I remember three things that make sense to me now, knowing that the stop-over was completely unplanned.But that didn’t when I was five.1. A great iron bedstead that creaked and was really springy and perfect for jumping. Except that Argus of the Hundred Eyes (ie. Mom) was watching me.2. I didn’t have to brush my teeth because I didn’t have a toothbrush. And, most importantly...3. Mom stripped me out of my clothes and tucked me into the great, springy bed in only my undershirt and panties.Wait. What? No Pajamas?I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Not even a nightie?This had never—ever—happened before. I was expected to actually sleep? Almost naked?I know I probably went out like the proverbial candle, with or without my pajamas.And woke the next morning as refreshed and energetic as if I had been in my own bed, on my own ranch, in my own PJ’s to a fourth new and exciting thing:4. Breakfast in the hotel restaurant!

It’s funny how all of this came back as we stood there, staring up at the great, old hotel.

P.S. You have to know that pajamas still make up a large part of preparing myself for bed.Just ask Husby.

Turning Turtle

 A baby turtle, small and wee,

Was standing ‘neath the mighty tree,

Then, looking up, he gave a sigh

And started climbing t’ward the sky,

An hour later finally touched

The lowest branch, which he then clutched

And hitched himself along, till he

Had reached the end. He flexed his knee

Leaped t’ward the ground (and not too slow),

He landed in the leaves below,

Then crawling out (well, by and by),

Again approached, and with a sigh

Began to climb s’he had before,

An hour’s work, well, less or more,

Then finally reached that self-same branch...

Before the thought could make him blanch,

He leaped as he already had,

With similar results (so sad),

Then started mounting a third time,

Sighed as he began the climb.

Much further up, a pair of cranes,

Both sat and watched the turtle’s pains,

The wife, she turned and, to her spouse,

Said, “Should we help the little mouse?”

“I’d like to aid our sweet young whelp….

Would knowing he’s adopted help?”

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?

Cause it's important, next week, weWill talk Memorial Day. Come see! 
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!)...

Turtles (May 23) Today!

Memorial Day (May 30)

Yo-yo (June 6)

Roller Coaster (June 13)

World Refugee Day (June 20)

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)

Tiny Pray-ers

I’m really on a poetry roll... Have you ever watched the kids at church?

Or heard their daily prayers?

Well, I’ve been doing some research,

These things are true, I swear . . .

Said Mom to her small girl  in the pew,

“We must quiet reverence, keep!

Do you know why?” She said, “I do!

‘Cause people are asleep!”

With the Lord’s Prayer, the boy declaimed,

“Our Father, who does art in heaven.”

Then added, “Harold is His name."

And then, “Amen!” was given.

Another praying, as he had been taught,

Asked to be a ‘lamb’.

“But,” he said, “It matters not,

It’s fun the way I am!”

The elder lad, who, without shame,

Watched baby brother blessed.

Spoke with the priest and then became

Unaccountably distressed, 

The Service done. Clutched Dad, Jerome,

Unquestionably blue,

Said, “Priest wants me in a Christian home,

But I want to stay with you!”
Two boys were fighting over food,

Who’d be the first one served.

Mom frowned because it wasn’t good,

“You must be like the Lord!

‘You go first!’ He’d always say.

And first, His brother’d be.”

One boy looked at his brother then,

“You be the Lord!” says he.

The small boy grabbed his father’s hand,

And led him to the beach.

A dead bird lay there in the sand,

Dad frowned. T’was time to teach.

“What happened?” his young boy inquired.

“He went to Heaven, son.”

The boy frowned down at the body, mired,

“Thrown back when God was done?”

A small girl asked to bless the food,

For guests her mom invited.

She said, “I can’t! My prayers aren’t good!” 

(She was a bit excited.)

“Just say what you’ve heard Mama say.”

She nodded. That was fine.

"Lord,” she said, “Just why on earth

Did I ask these folks to dine?!”

We talk of Faith, we talk of Hope.

We talk of Charity.

We follow prophet, priest or pope,

Find comfort on our knees.

Though we’re sincere in thought and word,

With pomp and pageantry,

There’s no one closer to the Lord,Then the children that you see.

Changing Careers

Shortly after we were married, Husby took a job as foreman at a housing plant.Building pre-fabricated homes.He was good at it.And it was two minutes from where we lived.He was home for lunch every day.As well as for breakfast and dinner.For his new bride, life was perfect.For the man actually going out to work . . .The job was very stressful.Many bosses - several without any knowledge of building.Any knowledge.He carried on.For two years.He had a family to feed.But the stress started to tell.He developed health issues.And stopped sleeping.That's when he started making noises about going to school.Husby had been in school when we started dating, but had quit to take a job after we were married.Now, he realized that he had made a mistake and wanted to correct it.I was unconvinced.How would we provide for ourselves if we had no income?So he continued working.Growing more and more unhappy.And sleeping less and less.One time, he suddenly snorted, sat up on the edge of the bed and started getting dressed.“Honey, where are you going?” I asked. “It's 4 AM.”He jumped and looked around. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”He pulled off his shirt, lay back down, and was instantly snoring.Is there a term for sleep-dressing?Probably . . . sleep-dressing.Moving on . . .One night, around 3 AM, I was sleeping quietly.Suddenly, Husby shot up in bed, grabbed me by the collar of my pyjamas, pulled me to a sitting position in the bed and shouted, “You hold the ladder! I'll nail the soffit!”My sleep-fogged brain vaguely discerned that these were 'house-building' terms.“Honey, you're dreaming,” I said, rather shakily. “Go back to sleep.”He wasn't to be deterred.He shook me slightly. “Okay?!”“Okay!” I said.“Good.” He dropped me and flopped back onto the bed.Seconds later, I could hear his soft snore.He had been asleep the whole time.I, however, would probably never sleep again.I was finally convinced. Stark, heart-racing trauma will do that to you.Husby went back to school.He studied History, Arts and Anthropology.(Finally achieving a doctorate, a fantastic career, and a lot of satisfaction.)His health instantly improved.As did his sleeping habits.Going back to school was a good decision.Though with two tiny babies and a wife to feed, it had seemed anything but.He no longer sleep-dressed.Or roughed up his wife.And you can bet that the installation of any soffit was in broad daylight.With a much more willing assistant.Oh, and real soffit.