Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 38

One Step Forward. Two Steps...

 Sally shrugged. “I don’t know why they got so bent. Mort had paid for the stupid ring.”

“Just another in a long string of misunderstandings, Sal,” Mort said, flipping a page in the magazine he was reading.

I raised an eyebrow. “Something you seem to excel at, Sis.”

She made a face. “The guard was new and a bit trigger-happy.”

“He pulled a gun?” Using one oven mitt-encased hand, Mom whacked Mort’s feet to get them off the coffee table, then set down a platter of bubbly, cheese-filled appetizers.

“Nope. A cell phone. With a speed dial to the police.” Sally grabbed a round of cracker, ham and melted cheese and popped it into her mouth. “Oooh. Theeth are HOT!”

Mom grinned at her. “You think? I did just take them out of the oven!”

I looked at her. “So what happened with you and Uncle Pete?”

Mom glanced at her newly-minted fiancé and blushed. Let’s face it. She’s not cut out of quite the same ‘thumb-my-nose-at-the-world’ stuff as Sally. “Another misunderstanding.”

I merely looked at her. “We’re listening.”

She sat beside Uncle Pete and they linked hands. “We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, to tell the truth. Apparently there had been a mugging nearby and the perpetrator…”

“What big words you know,” I said.

She tossed me a glare, cleared her throat and went on. “…the perpetrator looked like a decidedly attractive ex-marine recently returned from Afghanistan.”

Uncle Peter smiled at her. “I loveyou,” he said. She blushed even more.

“See? Easily explained,” Sally said, reaching for another cracker.

Peter and I exchanged a glance. “So what do we do now?”

Sally bounced to her feet. “Let me grab some money. WE are going shopping!”

I summoned up a smile. “Have fun.”

“No. Not Mort and me! YOU and me!”

I had time to look at Peter hopelessly whilst reciting the oft-misquoted ‘We who are about to die salute you!’ before I was jerked from my comfortable perch on the couch.

In less time than I imagined possible, the two of us were skating up and down aisles at Dollar Tree. Sally was pulling packaged decorations off shelves with total abandon. “Oooh! This! And this! And these!” She pushed her laden cart(s), collecting another as one was filled. Before long, she had a positive train.

I glanced at my watch. We’d been there 7 minutes.

I tried to get her attention. “Sal, don’t you think it would be much smarter to actually come up with a theme—or at least colours—and then go to a Bridal Wedding planning company and start there?”

Sally looked at me. “They have such a place?”

“Several.” I edged past the tottering pile in the cart nearest me. “They’ll help you plan your wedding and everything.”

Sally pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. Then she started pushing her carts toward the checkout. “Well, we’ll get…”

That was as far as she ‘got’.

As Sally was rounding the corner from aisle 4 something—on of her pockets? —caught one of the shelves.

In a heartbeat, it and all three of its closest neighbours came crashing down, ejecting their contents. Instantly, the center of the aisle became a war zone.

Shoppers—and me—scattered.

Sally calmly remained—haven’t I told you she’s made of stern stuff—and, when the manager and a small army of employees approached, pointed at the mess. “There’s been an accident,” she said, needlessly.

As the manager et al gaped at her, Sally pushed/pulled her carts to the checkout. The young man behind the till had been staring at what he could see of the mess behind her. He turned wide eyes to Sally. “Erm…” was all he could manage.

Sally merely shrugged. “Please add these things up,” she said. “And anything that’s broken in there.” She pointed.

You know, I don’t say this often (in point of fact, never), but sometimes, I’m downright proud of my sister.

Life with her is never boring, and actually is often filled with laughter and that’s the truth.

The future is now—if we can just survive it… 

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: 

the future is now ~ hands ~ laughter ~ money ~ pockets ~ love

Were given to me, via Karen, from my friend, Jenniy at Climaxed

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

Completing the Circle

Still on a ‘licking the bowl’ kick... The source of all that was delicious.Mom was in the kitchen.

Baking.

My favourite thing.

I was in my usual spot. On the cupboard beside her Sunbeam mixer.

That maker of all things delicious.

She added something to the mixture already in the bowl and turned on the beaters.

Mmmmm. Could anything look better?

I leaned closer.

“Mom? Can I have a taste?”

“Honey, it’s just sugar and butter.”

“But it looks so good!”

“Okay.”

She stuck the tip of the spatula into the batter and held it up for me.

I leaned in and licked.

It was delicious!

Mom just shook her head, rinsed the spatula and continued adding ingredients.

“Mom? Can I have another taste?”

“In a moment, dear. It’s almost ready.”

I sighed and fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, she added one last ingredient.

Vanilla.

I should mention here that vanilla smells much better than it tastes.

Just FYI.

Then she got a spoon and gave me a dollop of batter.

Mmmmm. Even better than the last taste.

“What is it?” I asked as I licked the spoon.

“White cake.”

“I like white cake.”

“I know.” Mom scraped the batter into a cake pan and shoved the pan into the oven.

I looked around.

Usually, by this time, the sound of the mixer had attracted all the youngsters in the vicinity.

And some of the adults as well.

But there was no one.

The world was mine!

“Mom? Can I lick the bowl?”

Licking the bowl.

That ultimate in rewards.

That oft hoped-for and seldom granted treat of treats.

I should point out that it didn’t actually involve ‘licking’ the bowl.

Mostly it consisted of running a spatula around the inner surfaces, catching every minute spec of deliciousness.

Okay and there was some licking involved.

Mom set me on the floor and handed me the bowl and spatula.

I sat where I landed and started in.

Could life possibly offer anything better?

Moving ahead . . .

I was making banana bread this morning.

My fourth granddaughter was seated on the cupboard beside me, mouth sticky from ‘tastes’.

I spooned the batter into pans and put them into the oven.

“Grandma? Can I lick the bowl?”

The circle is complete.

Really Empty

I should probably mention, right up front, that Husby and I are empty-nesters.
For the first time.
It's been quite an adjustment.
First, there were our six little chicks and those years of 'oh-my-word-what-else-could-happen'!
You know what I'm talking about.
Then there were the moving-out-to-go-to-college-serve-missions-and-or-in-the-army years. And the moving-back-in when those cycles passed.
A lot of to-ing and fro-ing.
Then there were the marriages. And the moving-back-in-with-mom-and-dad-while-we-save-for-that-all-important-deposit-on-our-first-home phase.
And now, with each ensconced in their own place, Husby and I are well-and-truly alone.
Fortunately, all but one of our chicks and chicklets are nearby, so there is still quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing.
But for the most part . . .
Today, this being alone really struck home. (So to speak.)
I was in the kitchen. We had some overripe bananas that were just calling out to be made into the yummy, deliciousness that is known as banana bread.
I finished mixing the batter and pulled out the beaters. Then, out of habit, I called out, "Anyone want to lick the bowl?"
That all-important point wherein the lucky contestant is handed the big mixing bowl and a spatula.
And for the first time--ever--no one answered.
No little bodies came swarming eagerly up the stairs.
No one appeared in the kitchen doorway.
There was no fighting. No arguing over 'who-got-it-last-time!'
Nothing.
I stood there, spatula half-raised, and stared at my empty kitchen.
And realized that empty-nesting is not all it's cracked up to be.

P.S. Okay, yes, I got to lick the bowl, also for the first time--ever--but it was only slight compensation.

Activities Suspicious

Throughout time, lazy, but creative people have been bilking their fellow man out of their hard-earned coins.
With each new ‘modern’ invention came new and creative ways to deceive.
Then came the phone, and an ever-increasing series of scams.And these deceptions  must be working, because the scammers are still calling.Case in point...

It was becoming quite familiar.

The ringing phone.

The incomprehensible number, which had a second number under it corresponding to someplace local.

Husby reached for it. “Ugh,” he said.

Tax season seems to encourage these types of calls.

Much like spring inviting flowers.

Although I have to admit, I much prefer flowers to 'scammy' phone calls.

Just sayin’…

Husby pressed the button. “Hello?” he said tentatively.

“This is Service Canada.” A robotic voice.

Husby rolled his eyes. You have to know that, had it really been an official call, he would have been accommodating and polite.

Or at least polite.

“Your social insurance number has been canceled due to suspicious activity…”

Husby pressed the ‘end’ button and dropped the phone to the table.

I looked up from my breakfast. “How many is that this morning?”

“Three,” he said wearily. “They started early.”

I went back to my porridge.

But the whole thing makes me think. I mean, just what has my social insurance number been up to that is so suspicious. Did it steal a car? Rob a bank? Can’t you just picture my tidy little number running down the street packing heat? Obviously, it's good at what it does because it has only raised suspicions. I know! Train robbery!

We should make a movie…

Music for Me

I love music, yessiree,

I’ve always something playing,

The songs that make me sing along,

Or softer ones for praying.

 

Whatever mood I’m seeking, well,

There’s music made to order,

From instrumentals soft and sweet,

To bagpipe and recorder.

 

Feeling chip and cheerful, well, 

There’s music for that too,

And songs lamenting broken hearts,

And some just for the blues.

 

There’s some I like to play real loud,

Like CCR (the best),

While others lull me off to dreamland,

Help me take a rest.

 

But just today, I realized

That music (you’ll agree!)

Designed with all my moods in mind…?

Must be written just for me!

 

P.S. I’m happy to share. You’re welcome!

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, tell us you’ll join in,Wear Purple for Peace—let’s all begin!
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!)...

Music (May 9) Today!

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Yo-yo (June 6)

Roller Coaster (June 13)

World Refugee Day (June 20)

The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Gossip

From the “It could have happened” Department...
“It was scandalous, I tell you! Scandalous!” 

The weekly afternoon tea of the local Ladies’ Aid Society was hitting on all cylinders.

Mrs. Petrie had the floor. Currently, she was making her point by jabbing a tiny, half-eaten petit-four in Mrs. Hall’s direction.

Mrs. Hall nodded solemnly, her own cake untouched as she carefully sipped a fresh cup of hot tea.

I watched as Mrs. Petrie took another nibble of the rich frosting, heavy jowls quivering in delight.

“Do you know what happened?” Timid little Mrs. Barry’s soft voice took advantage of the momentary break. 

Mrs. Petrie puffed up importantly and launched in again, crumbs of cake flying. “Oh, my dear, I know everything!” she said. She reached for a second petit-four, then a third, and set them carefully on her plate.

I glanced at the laden tray in the center of the table and sighed, praying silently that I’d made enough. 

Mrs. Petrie’s stories do tend to go on . . .

“Well . . .” Mrs. Petrie looked around the table, making sure she had collected everyone’s attention. Her voice lowered. “They found her at the entrance to the park!” she said. “Drugged, they said!”

“No!” someone gasped.

“Yes!” Mrs. Petrie’s voice slid up a notch. She stuffed her second cake into her mouth and chewed quickly. “She was wobbling about, hardly able to walk!” She swallowed and reached for more cake. “Her brains are absolutely fried!” She shook her head woefully and pushed in another bite. “They say she’ll never be the same!”

“But that’s awful!” Mrs. Barry said, shocked.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know the half!” Mrs. Petrie said, her voice lowered again. “They’re saying it was the clerk she’s been seen with! He did it to her!”

Mrs. Harris looked quite shaken. “Do you mean to tell us that that boy gave her . . . drugs?” 

Mrs. Petrie nodded, her face grave.

“Oh, but that’s terrible!” Mrs. Butterfield dabbed at an imaginary tear. “What on earth will Margery do?”

“Well I know what I’d do if it was my daughter!” Mrs. Petrie said stoutly. “I’d put her on bread and water for a week!” She stuffed in another cake.

“But her brain!” Mrs. Butterfield said.

“I know!” Mrs. Petrie said. “She’s been absolutely ruined!”

Seven heads shook in sympathy.

I sighed and reached for a cake. The tray was getting perilously empty.

Just then, the door opened.

Seven heads swung around. Seven pairs of eyes speared the newcomer.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Mrs. Beaker said, breathlessly. “I had to . . .”

She got no further. 

“Marjorie!” Three of the ladies had risen to their feet. “We just heard!”

Mrs. Beaker paused in the act of removing her coat, frowning. “Heard what?”

“About your daughter!”

“Oh, that!” Mrs. Beaker laughed. “What a mix-up!”

Several people glanced quickly at Mrs. Petrie, who calmly claimed the last cake and started eating.

“Umm . . . what happened?” Mrs. Barry asked.

“Well, that boy Abby’s been seeing took her for a walk in the park,” Mrs. Beaker said. “Apparently, he’d been planning on surprising her with a proposal.” She smiled.

“What was he proposing?” Mrs. Hall asked suspiciously.

“Marriage!” Mrs. Beaker said.

“What?” Someone drew the question in with a shocked breath.

All eyes turned to the now-silent Mrs. Petrie, who continued to chew solemnly.

“But it was sort of a disaster,” Mrs. Beaker said, seating herself at the table. She glanced briefly at the empty tray, then nodded her thanks as someone filled a cup for her.

I slid my untasted cake in front of her and she nodded again.

“Really?” someone said. Everyone leaned closer. “Do tell!”

“Well, he had hidden the ring somewhere in the park, but, as they were walking, it began to rain.” She took a sip of tea. “Oh, lovely!” she said, smiling at me.

I smiled back.

“Then what happened?” Mrs. Butterfield asked impatiently.

 Mrs. Beaker frowned. “Well, as far as I got the story straight, he had to run to the spot where he’d hidden the ring because he was afraid that the rain would wash it away and Abby ran after him and broke the heel off her shoe!” She laughed. “I guess she went down in a heap! By the time he had rescued his ring and his future fiancée, both of them were a little worse for the wear!”

The ladies at the table were silent.

“They staggered out of the park, their arms around each other . . .” Mrs. Beaker laughed again. “I guess it was quite a sight!”

“So . . . no drugs?” Mrs. Hall asked.

Mrs. Beaker frowned. “No. Well, Abby took a couple of painkillers after they had collapsed onto the bench outside the park,” she said. “She had given her ankle quite a turn.” She looked at me. “This cake is divine!”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“And now, Abby is engaged!”

There were several rather forced expressions of congratulation and, for a few seconds, the other ladies silently sipped and nibbled, casting the occasional accusing glance in Mrs. Petrie’s direction.

Suddenly, the visibly un-repentant woman sucked in a breath. “Oh, girls!” she said. “Did I tell you about Old Man Gunnar?”

All eyes turned toward her.

“Apparently, someone is trying to murder him!”“Do tell!” someone said.

Getting ‘Grave’ About Gravel

Drive with caution.We country kids learned how to drive on gravel roads.

Now, I should point out here that travel on gravel roads can be tricky—even treacherous.

Especially when the gravel is deep and loose and hasn’t been graded (scraped into an even surface) in a while.

Usually, on our sparsely-gravelled roads, this wasn’t a problem.

Occasionally, it was . . .

At those times, if one stepped on the gas pedal a bit too eagerly, the back-end of the vehicle could begin to fish-tail (yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like) and one could easily lose control.

Particularly if one was not very experienced.

Usually at times like this, the ditch is the inevitable final destination.

Best-case scenario: the vehicle simply leaves the road and travels, more-or-less in a straight line, into the ditch.

Worst-case scenario: Lives are at risk as the vehicle flips over. Often multiple times.

Most gravel-road stories landed (pun intended) somewhere between these two developments. 

I had heard of some of the worst of the worst.

Had actually witnessed a roll-over when a bunch of us kids were on our way home from a day out at Writing-On-Stone Park. (Fortunately no one was seriously injured.)

And I had been intimately involved in one of the best.

FYI, there’s nothing ‘best’ about it . . .

It was late.

My friend, Debbie and I were on our way home from an activity, closely followed by two friends in a pick-up truck.

Male friends.

Cute male friends.

I was driving.

And distracted.

We were travelling at speeds a little beyond what I normally drove.

Because I was showing off. (See above - ie. distracted.)

My little red car started to fish-tail.

Instantly, I was remembering the one and only roll-over I had witnessed just a few months previously.

I decided the only way to avoid that particular scenario was to head straight for the ditch.

Which I did.

Straight in. Keeping all four wheels on the ground.

And straight into an approach.

Wham!

We stopped, dead.

Our friends pulled up in a cloud of dust and dove out of their truck.

“Are you all right?” one of them shouted.

My friend, Debbie got out. “We’re fine,” she said, sounding a bit shook up and more than a little disgusted.

It was my first and, to date, only accident.

All I could think of was how angry my parents would be.

I burst into really unattractive tears.

And sobbed like a two-year-old.

For about ten minutes.

After making sure I really was all right, our two intrepid and very attractive young men climbed back into their truck.

And sat there in uncomfortable silence.

The car was fine.

A couple of dents.

My friend, Debbie and I were fine.

A couple of bruises.

The biggest injury of the evening was to my attract-ability.

These were farm boys.

Used to farm girls.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, farm girls cry.

But let’s face it, a stoic tear sliding attractively down a smooth, unblemished cheek is a far cry from someone sobbing their heart out with swollen eyes, dripping nose and blotchy face.

And without even being injured.

Yep. Any possible connection with either of those boys was instantly severed.

So . . . my point?

If you are driving on gravel roads, be cautious.Your vehicle and/or your hide might not be the only things injured . . .

Sorry, Sis!

My Sister.
She only looks tough.In youth, I was a daring sort,

A heedless, reckless charge-right-in.

In games, activities and sports,

In all events. And lose or win.

My sister, she of softer mien,

Would often follow where I led.

On dusty trails or tracks unseen,

The paths where ‘Angels fear to tread’ . . .

Upon Montana’s ski slopes there,

A smooth trail beckoned through the woods.

A path, the incandescent air,

Promised everything that’s good.

But I’m a cowgirl to my toes,

E’en upon the mountain side,

I had one speed and t’wasn’t slow.

My sister’s caution, I’d deride.

Spectacular and fast, my run,

I made a final, breathless stop.

Then waited for my Chris to come,

And happily scanned the mountain top.

She didn’t show, I’m sure you’ve guessed.

She’d fallen, twisted up her knee.

And now her holiday was messed

Cause she’d been trying to catch me.

One summer, as we headed home,

Bedecked in prairie dust and grime,

From checking through the herds that roam,

(And it was nearing supper time).

The lot fell to my sister there,

To man the gate so we’d get through.

She finished the small task with flair,

Re-mount was all she had to do.

But as she slipped her foot into

The stirrup, something went awry,

Impatient me had spurred my horse

And off t’ward home this goose did fly.

My sister’s horse did join the run

And spilled her owner in the dirt

A badly injured knee (not fun),

And for my Sis, a world of hurt.

The message that I’ve tried to tell,In my picturesque and silly way,

Is: We all know the one to blame

And who should really have to pay.

So if adventure’s what you crave,

If, into sports, you plow headfirst,

Remember: Though they may seem fun,

Avoid the cowgirls. They’re the worst!

The Great Race

Spring. And babies. They just seem to go together.I couldn't do better than to see them both through my mother's eyes.
A poem by Enes Stringam . . .
All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.

God planned to make things new and bright,

That's why He made the spring.

When birds and creatures everywhere,

O'er sweet new babies sing.

Bobbi Cow, some years before,

Was born on icy ground;

Froze her tail and ears right off,

Before she had been found.

We called her Bobbi...family pet;

She had a fearsome face.

Now she and I were bound together

In an anxious race.

All through winter, cold and dark,

Bobbi's belly grew.

Embarrassed, but a little proud,

I blushed, for mine did, too.

All the cowboys' bets were on,

Just who would win the race?The boss' wife or Bobbi pet—

Now milk cow on the place.

One by one, the days groaned by,

As I suffered all their cheer.

"Bobbi Cow will win, you'll see!

Her time is very near!"

Every day I stroked her side,

Lamenting the ways of women.

She switched her tail and tossed her head,

Her only thought was winnin'!

Then, that night. I tossed and turned,

There was no thought of resting,

Within the womb, the baby stirred,

The time had come for nesting.

We fired up the four-wheel-drive,

Just at the crack of dawn,

With wheels spinning, sparks a-fly,

The mighty race was on.

Each of us was sure she'd win,

The adrenaline flowed all day,

Me, in the delivery room,

And Bobbi in the hay.

Bobbi, then, received her cue,

(The same as her archrival,)

Urged on by a wildly cheering crew,

As they watched her calf's arrival.

And in the bright delivery room,

I pushed with all my might,

But the baby took its time,

And long became the night.

My hair and gown were soaked with sweat,

My strength began to fade,

And then one last colossal push,

Out popped our howling babe!

Then, suddenly, the race was done,

Who really cares who wins?

As I cuddled my darling baby girl,

And Bobbi licked her twins.

There were no losers, only champs,

It was a tie, you see.

A miracle and a Mother's love,

Transformed the cow. And me.

Bobbi and I declared a draw,

Both wiser and both thinner;

The light of love shone in our eyes,

Each one of us a winner!
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?

Our topic for next week is fun,It’s MUSIC! Come. Let’s get ‘er done!
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!)...

Babies (May 2) Today!

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Yo-yo (June 6)

Roller Coaster (June 13)

World Refugee Day (June 20)

The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Jam Dreaming

 I miss jam, I truly do,

Though there are jars (and not a few),

In every grocery store that you

Would ever chance to wander through.

Most with lids that you unscrew

And lined up in a great, long queue,

In colours red (to shades of blue),

Made with fruit (and veggies, too),

And even flowers someone grew,

So, why this ‘I miss jam’ ado?

Do I those ‘store-bought’ jams eschew?

I’m sure they’re tasty, fresh as dew,

And sugar-sweet and good for you,

But just read on, I’ll leave a clue,

So you won’t think that I’m cuckoo…

My Mom made jams from things she grew,

I ate them all, I loved them, too,

So why do I miss jams to chew?

Did Mom’s the others all outdo?

Were hers the famous 'jam break-through'?

So much so, I cry 'boo-hoo',

It’s really Mom I’m missing. True! 

Each month, our Poetry Group receives a challenge: Make poetry--on a theme.

And we do.

This we do for fun!

Go and see what my friends have created!

BakingIn A Tornado 

Messymimi’sMeanderings