Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 39

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

Whistle-Blower

Watch it!You didn’t break rules in our house.

You’ve heard of that tiny, small voice that whispers correction?

Well, it lived here.

And it wasn’t that small.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Our granddaughter, aged 22 months, and her mother lived with us.

Granddaughter was tall for her age.

Strong.

Hazel-eyed.

Curly-haired.

And very, very excited about having things ‘just so’.

Doors left open must be shut.

In fact, if one was so foolish as to leave a cupboard door open, a small tornado would emerge from the bowels of the house to slam said door.

Even if one was still using it.

In the high heat of the summer, propping the front and back doors open for extra ventilation required permission, in triplicate, and a signed order by the Pope.

And many, many repetitions of “No, Sweetie, Gramma wants it left open!”

Sigh.

Bodily releases of tiny bits of air (ie: burps, sneezes, coughs, farts) though they were extremely funny, were to be immediately followed by a firmly-stated excuse-all.

Or a small, insistent person would appear at one’s elbow. “Say ‘scuse me, Grampa! ‘Scuse me!”

Preparation for mealtime prayer was to be strictly followed.

Even if one wasn’t technically in the room...The business portion of our kitchen/dining room was separated from the eating portion by an island.If one was in said business portion when grace was being said, and no matter what one was doing there, that person was expected to participate.

“Gramma! Prayers! Fowd arms!”

One day, my daughter and I were bike-riding.

With a small person in the trailer behind daughter’s bike.

Something we did . . . often.

My daughter had, unthinkingly, done her hair on top of her head.

Totally unsuited to the actual wearing of a helmet.

She had then opted to leave her headgear at home.

Big mistake.

It was the longest ride of our lives.

Because every few seconds, a little voice from the rear called out, “Mama! Hemit!” or “Hemit, Mama!” or “Hemit! Hemit! Hemit!”

Ad infinitum.

The point of my story?

Be careful what you teach your kids.

They may hold you to it.

Rescue Dog

Us. And Mike as a puppy.We had a dog. 
Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 
My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty . . .
It was summer.
Summer meant swimming on the ranch.
How convenient that the south fork of the Milk River curved  around the ranch buildings like loving arms.
Baking in the hot sun while lying on the sandy shore.
Looking up through the cloudy water to see the particles of grit suspended in the light.
The very best of times.
Back to Mike.
Such bliss needed to be shared with our very best friend.
Right?
Well it seemed like a good idea at the time . . .
We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 
He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Oops. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 
Then, the problems started.
If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so by whatever protruded. 
Then drag them further up onto the beach.
To his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.
It was more than the 'saving people' part of him could stand.
He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone to save. 
He'd find a limb. 
Or a backside. 
Then grab it, and whoever it was attached to, and drag them out of the water kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act . . .
He never managed to drown anyone that day. 
A true miracle. 
And we learned from the experience.
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

Skewed View

Starting to think about travel again...maybe... A better view. From our porch.Mexico.

The history.

The culture.

The food.

The heat.

The warm beach.

The tourists . . .

Husby and I had finally achieved a lifetime dream and were sitting beneath a shady umbrella on a patch of the wide, white sand near Cancun.

 Around us was every classic romantic novel encapsulated.

Creamy surf laving the beach.

Sun-worshiping bodies lying in various positions of relaxation and abandon.

A soft breeze caressing white skin (safely hidden from the February sun), flirting with the fringe of the striped umbrella, teasing the brim of an intricately woven hat and breathing gently across the ice floating in a crimson drink.

With a sigh of pure contentment, Husby leaned back and took a long drink, ice clicking quietly in his tall glass. 

Then he gasped.

I looked at him. His eyes had widened as he stared at something down the beach. I turned to follow his gaze.

And felt my breath catch in my throat.

A large man . . . I emphasize large . . . was coming toward us.

And he was naked.

No. Wait. Beneath a ponderous, hanging belly, did I catch a glimpse of something . . . blue?

The man turned slightly.

I did! Something blue!

I felt the blood drain out of my face. Okay. Something small and blue.

The man had enveloped his cargo in a speedo.

Then, not really concerned with anything as trivial as modesty, had . . . rolled it down.

The result was not a mere infraction of the whole beach-wardrobe code, it was a felonious crime of . . . massive proportions.

I reached for Husby’s drink and gulped.

Lying on a beach in Mexico had been heralded as the ultimate in relaxation and pure, sensual comfort. With limitless views of both ocean and sky.

No one had mentioned the views that one could encounter a little closer to one’s beach chair.Umm . . . Yikes.

Brothers

Three brothers lived together in a house just down the block,

All were in their nineties but were made of sturdy stock,

One night the oldest, 96, decided he would bathe,

Drew a lovely bath and then prepared himself to ‘lathe’.

He readied both his soap and sponge, all set to have a scrub,

Then stripping off his clothes, the man moved closer to the tub,

He lifted up one foot, then set it down, now filled with doubt,

And hollered to his brothers, “Was I getting in or out?”

The next in line yelled, “I don’t know I’ll come and help, you clown!”

Started up the stairs, then paused, ”M’I going up or down?”

The youngest, 92, just sat and took a sip of ‘joe’,

He shook his head, said, “Holy smoke, those two are getting slow!

“I hope I’m never bad as them.” He knocked on wood for luck,

“After I see who’s at the door, I’ll be up to help you schmucks!”

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 will make a fuss,Over BABIES! Come! Join us!

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!)...

Brothers (April 25) Today!

Babies (May 2)

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)

Gentility Lost

A rant.My Husby and I like to swim.It keeps us healthy and young.Or at least healthy.After a bit of rigorous paddling, we like to sit in the hot tub and visit.Our local pool facility inevitably has music playing.Yesterday, shortly after we got in, a catchy tune started.Catchy.I started to listen.The chorus came on.The background music quit, just as the last line was sung.A last line that consisted of the words, “What the ****!”The words were painfully clear.I looked around at the small children playing near us.Children to whom the words were just as clear.“Did you hear that?” I asked my Husby.He didn't.The chorus came on a second time.“What the ****!”“I can't believe what I'm hearing!” I crawled out of the pool and marched, dripping wet, into the front office.The song wasn't as loud here, but still discernible.“Can you guys hear that song?” I demanded.The two women at the front counter frowned. “I wasn't listening,” one said.“It's foul!” I said. “And there are little children out there listening to it!”“Oh, my! We'll change it!” she said.And she hurriedly did so.They hadn't chosen the song. They had merely turned on one of the satellite radio stations, thinking that it would have a modicum of decency.They were obviously wrong.The experience reminded me of the time, a few months ago, when my Husby and I were eating breakfast at a local 'family' fast-food restaurant.A young woman a few tables over was talking loudly on her cell phone to her boyfriend.Or I'm assuming it was her boyfriend.Some of the one-sided conversation would suggest it . . .“You're the worst ****ing boyfriend I've ever had!” she said. “What are you ****ing talking about? I can't believe you would ****ing say that to me! How could you ****ing do that to me? Well **** to you too!”And so the conversation went.For nearly twenty minutes.There were families there.Trying to eat.Most hurried their children through their meal and packed up and left.And still, the girl shouted obscenities into her phone.It turned my stomach.Finally, we packed up what was left of our breakfast and escaped.Finding somewhere better to finish.Thinking of that girl and that song, I can't help but wonder . . .Have we lost our gentility?My Dad taught me when I was growing up, that what came out of a person's mouth was a direct reflection of what was going on in that person's brain. That a person who resorted to obscenities in their conversation simply didn't have the intelligence to converse on a higher plain.I think of a speech given by a woman named Margaret D. Nadauld:“The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined.”We can easily substitute the word 'people' for the word 'woman'.Have we been concentrating so hard on being tough and independent that we have lost our ability to talk on an intelligent level?Is this really how we want to be heard expressing ourselves today?
Is that how we want our music, our movies, our conversations, our lives to sound?And, for goodness sake, can't we think of another word?!What are your thoughts?

First and Sweetest

See? C.U.T.E.How had I never noticed this before?And how long had this been going on?Maybe I should explain . . .I was at the movies.Something the kids in my family did at least once a week.The highlight of said week.This particular picture was a western.My favourite.But something was different this time.Oh, there were the usual items of interest.Horses.Lots and lots of horses.And I think there were cattle also.But for the first time, I noticed that there were also . . . cowboys.Cute cowboys.Huh.When did they get there?One cowboy, in particular, caught my attention.Black-haired and lithe.Slim and well-muscled.And oh-so-delicious in jeans and boots.Wow!No wonder people liked westerns so much.And I had thought they came, like me, to see the horses.I was glued to the screen every time he appeared.Which proved to be frequent.Being as he was the star of the picture.I was so enraptured that I didn't follow much of the story.Oh, there were a couple of noteworthy parts.One, in particular, featured one of the secondary cowboys being captured by bad guys and then creatively tortured with cactus needles within earshot of his buddies.The next morning, his badly abused body was dropped in the middle of their camp.I will admit it. It made me sick.Literally.For two days.But even that horrifying scene couldn't dim the splendour of my new hero as he saved the day.I watched eagerly for his name to be mentioned in the end credits.Audie Murphy.I said the name over and over.Committing it to memory.Then I headed home.“Mom, did you know that there are really cute guys in movies?”My Mom stared at me. “Umm . . . yes,” she said, rather cautiously.This was a new topic of conversation for me and I'm sure she was wondering where I was going with it.“Well, the movie I just saw starred the cutest guy ever!” I said enthusiastically.“Really?”“Oh, yes,” I said. “His name was Audie Murphy! Oh, Mom he was soooo cute!”“Audie Murphy? THE Audie Murphy?”“Oh.” I frowned. “Have you seen the picture?”Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “But I used to drool over Audie Murphy when I was your age!”Now it was my turn to stare. “Really?”“Oh, I was so in love with him!”“Huh,” I said and headed for my room.My mom had been – had been – in love with my hero when she was my age?He was . . . old?Yikes.I never saw my new/old hero again.I think the movie I had seen was his last.Newer, younger heroes took his place in my world.Heroes that my Mom had never dreamed about.But, oddly enough, at this end of my life, it's Audie Murphy that I think of when someone mentions their screen heartthrobs.I guess it's true.First love is always the sweetest.

Climbed Out

Because it’s her birthday, I thought a story about my eldest daughter...appropriate. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart! Cute. But hard to carry . . .Our family was on holiday.

A not in-frequent occurrence.

A chance for mischief and mayhem.

And donuts for breakfast.

And which, for us, meant stopping at every point of interest, museum, and huge ball of string we could find.

We were in Yellowstone Park.

The kids were loving it because there was lots of ‘nature’ and not one ball of string anywhere in the vicinity.

We had hiked to the bottom of one of the falls.

A nice steadily-downhill walk of about two kilometers (a little over a mile).

We had enjoyed the sight of the pure, sparkling water pouring down the cliff face.

The clean air.

The rampant forest growth.

And the ‘people watching’ watching.

(Probably the most fun activity of all.)

We were ready to start the hike back.

Now, I should point out here that the worst thing about hiking down into a site is the probability that one will, inevitably have to come up to get back out.

Unless there are people-porters about.

And there never are.

Hmmm . . . 

But back to my story . . .

We had ascended about fifty feet when my eldest daughter turned her ankle.

Awakening an old, rather nasty injury.

She was suddenly hobbling about on one leg.

Not a really convenient – or safe – way to hike up a forest path.

I don’t care how wide and smooth it is.

Everyone else in our group had preceded us by several minutes. And because cell phones only existed on Star Trek, there was no one to turn to in our distress.

There was nothing else to do.

I would have to carry her out.

I should probably mention here that, my seventeen-year-old daughter weighed exactly the same as me at this point in time.

Exactly.

The. 

Same.

And was several inches taller.

Yikes.

She climbed on my back and we started up.

Slowly.

I could make it about thirty steps before I had to stop to breathe.

And reassure myself I wasn’t in any way...dying.

Oh, we made it. 

Though the walk that had taken us ten minutes to go down took over an hour back up.

Our family spotted us as we came up over the last rise. They closed around us and my Husby took our daughter up the last 100 yards.

Where we both, my daughter and me, collapsed on a convenient bench.

The attendants so conspicuously absent during our climb were instantly swarming around her, offering ice and wraps and comforting, consoling words.

I, on the other hand, received nothing but a blithely given, ‘Thanks, Mom!’

But that’s okay.

She still owes me.

And I have a long memory . . .