Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 42

Two Little Butts

Today, for Poetry Monday,  we salute poetry!
The rhythm. The rhyme. The emotion.At times, the silliness!
And what better way could there be to salute poetry than by...writing...poetry.Here, then is my most popular poem from the past 12 years of blogging...
Our family was ‘raised on the stage’. And for a few wonderful years before Covid, I realized the dream of having my grandchildren follow in their parents’ footsteps.This poem was written as we wrapped ‘The Elves and the Shoemaker’ in 2017.
Their parents were all in the cast or backstage,
Their grandparents, too, with the play were engaged.
Two little girls in the large gallery,
Two last little sprigs on their family’s tree,
Had grown bored with the play they had seen from Day One.
That first day was great! The rest, not so fun.
They’d watched scenes through first blocking and all incarnations,
Knew all of the songs and heard all the Orations.
And while those in the room were still fixed on the show,
Running sound and effects. Lights above and below,
Two little girls weren’t attentive at all,
They wanted to run. They wanted to crawl.
They did not want to sit in their chairs quietly,
They wanted to dance, laugh and giggle. Times three.
But Grampa, just sitting there, manning the lights,
Had to keep ‘shushing’ his two little mites.
And then in an effort to give them a scare,
Vowed to tape their two little butts to their chairs.
Two little girls sat down quietly then,
But those silly old wiggles soon started again.
And then Grampa, still working the lighting board’s keys
Heard a sweet little voice, and it said, "Grampa, please—
We’ve done all that mom sent for we two to share,
Grampa, please, could you tape both our butts to the chair?"
Every day we learn something, and today, here is one:
When is a threat not a threat? When it’s fun! 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 promise won’t be flat,Our topic is ‘Respect Your Cat’!
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!)...

Celebrating Poetry ( March 21) Today!
Respect Your Cat Day ( March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

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)

Conversational Manners

Three-year-old second-youngest granddaughter (hereinafter known as 2YG) and her Mama were visiting.

It had been much too long since we were together, so there was MUCH visiting to be done.

2YG had alternated between books, puzzles, Fisher Price, Duplo, iPad and ‘Mama/Gramma! Look at me!’ for the entire morning.

We had moved things downstairs so 2YG could play dress-up and/or watch an episode or two of Paw Patrol.

All the while, her Mama and I were continuing the visit.

Like I said, there was a lot of catching up to do.

Now my daughter, when her children need her attention, has tried to school them in proper ways to do so. None of the usual, “Mom! Mom! MOM!” Nope. They are to wait with one hand on her arm as a silent signal.

It works surprisingly well.

Most of the time…

Back to our visit.

2YG wanted Mama’s attention, but it wasn’t coming quite fast enough. (ie. within the next two seconds)

Frustrated, the little girl stood, feet apart and hands on hips, glaring at the two of us.

When we looked at her, she burst out with (picture this in ‘toddler speak’ and with hands indicating appropriately): “There Mama! Then Gramma! Then Mama! Then Gramma! Then Mama! Then Gramma! Where Quincy?!”

Translation: “I can’t get a word in edgewise!”

‘Toddler Speak’ is just so much more entertaining than what the rest of us pass off as ‘conversation’.

Maybe there should be classes.

Who’s with me?

 

Short-Term Sister

 

Mom, third from left, and five of her eight brothers.
Her 'baby sister' Roy, alias Rosie, is far left.A selection from my Mom's journalsThis was my Mom's favorite story . . .
Being the only sister near the middle in a family of eight brothers, I found myself competing with the boys and growing up as a 'Tom Boy'.
I was athletic and could run as fast, jump as high and throw as far as my brothers.
I milked cows, drove and rode horses as well as the boys.
As the fourth in the family, I often considered myself the fourth brother.
In spite of this, I yearned for a sister, sharing my mother's dreams of another daughter.
By the time I was five, I had three new, small brothers but still no sister.
My prayers unanswered, I seemed destined to be alone in a mob of boys.
My little brothers seemed more cooperative and trusting than my older brothers; maybe little brothers could substitute as sisters? I decided to try to make one my little brothers into a little sister. Perhaps if I dressed them up in girls' clothes, they would pass as sisters. I rummaged through Mama's trunk and found an old dress and a bonnet with lace trimming.
Armed with these frillies, I looked about for a likely prospect.
Roy, the fifth brother and three years my junior, seemed the best choice. I approached him where he was playing in the yard.
"Roy, come and see what I have here."
He came willingly after I promised him a cookie.
We went upstairs where I slipped him into the dress, tied the belt and put on the lace bonnet, all the time crooning how nice he looked - so very nice. I gave the dress a tug to cover grubby clothes and ankle-height shoes.
I called my new little sister Rosie, my favorite name at the time.
For a while we played games that I supposed girls would play. We played with dolls and improvised a tea party including the promised cookie.
We were having such a good time, just us girls.
It was wonderful having a beautiful little sister.
Finally, I thought and I and my little sister should go for a walk to see the cats and the farm animals which would be frolicking about outside.
I took Rosie by the hand and for several blissful minutes, I led her around the yard, describing all the interesting features of our farmyard and garden.
Luckily, we did not encounter any brothers with their taunting giggles and snorts.
Suddenly a car came into the yard.
 The spell was broken. Rosie, reverting to Roy, leapt into the air and shot like a rocket toward the house.
As the passengers poured out of the car, they were surprised to see what looked like a human tornado, shedding clothes as it sped to the nearest hideaway.

Be Little

It should probably come as no surprise that I love children.And that I had (what I consider) a stellar childhood.
I was raised with peace.
Security.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Good food.
And a lot of adventure.
Today, I'm thinking especially of the children of Ukraine, and all other children throughout the world who have none of these things.
And my heart breaks for them.
In my opinion, children should never have to fear.
Suffer.
Die.
I donate my money.
I offer them my prayers.
I keep them in my heart.
Today, I'm thinking of them.Be safe.
Be little.

27

Once upon a time...in Norway...

This story begins with a childless queen looking for advice on ‘how-to-have-a-baby’. Taking her royal self down to the village, she consults a peasant woman. 

I know what you’re thinking—the answer to her question probably lies a little closer to home 

(ie. the royal bedroom), but go with me on this…

 

The woman gives the queen some rather strange advice—namely that she is to look under her bed in the morning. She will find, there, two flowers.

 

Huh. When I look under my bed, all I find are bunnies—of the ‘dust’ phylum. Don’t fairy tale people have all the luck? Just sayin’…

 

Anyways, when she finds these flowers, she’s supposed to eat the pretty one and ignore the ugly one. I don’t even want to touch that. Any thoughts?

 

But the queen, perhaps unwilling to follow someone else’s advice—even that of a wise woman—eats both flowers. Will anyone join me in a general eye roll?

 

Nine months later, (yes, even fairy tale babies take that long) the queen gives birth. To an ugly girl riding a goat and brandishing a wooden spoon.

 

Okay, hold the fort. I’ve given birth. It was uncomfortable to say the least. And passing any extras like goats and/or wooden spoons? Yeah…no. Just no.

 

But I admit I do have to snicker when I picture the technician tasked with performing that ultrasound. They probably keeled over in a dead faint. *snort*

 

Needless to say, the queen is fairly surprised by the whole affair—and even more so when her newborn daughter immediately turns and addresses her. Ummm…what?

 

The baby tells her not to be too surprised, shocked and/or upset. Because there is another baby coming who is much, much prettier than she is.

 

Okay, I have something to say here. First of all, there is no such thing as an ugly baby. And second of all…no, there is no second.

 

Sure enough, another daughter is born moments later who is g o r g e o u s, at least by the shallow, worldly measuring stick. And a stick is just a stick. 

 

I expect the queen hardly noticed, though, as she was probably simply relieved she didn’t have to pass another wooden spoon—or goat for that matter.

 

The younger sister is named Glory and the elder, Tatters. Someone needs to speak to these parents, obviously. But then, Tatters likes wearing tatters, never washing and goat-riding.

 

So perhaps the unfortunate choice of her given name could be attributed to simple observation rather than nasty mean-ness or an outright lack of imagination. Right?

Tatters and Glory get along well throughout their growing-up years. In fact they are inseparable until one fateful day when their castle is attacked. By interchangeable bad guys.

 

Now some stories claim these so-called ‘bad guys’ were trolls, witches or goblins. It really doesn’t matter. Any or all would definitely make for a bad day.

Tatters, ever the practical sister, instructs Glory, parents and staff to lock themselves in the castle and let her handle things. Which they all immediately do. ????

 

She then rides out on her oh-so trusty goat, wielding her wooden spoon. Certainly, nothing says ‘invincible’ like a goat and a brandished spoon, am I right?

 

While Tatters is mixing it up with the invaders, her worried sister pokes her head out of a window to ‘check up’. And then something unusual happens…

 

One of the invaders pulls off said head and replaces it with a less-pretty goat’s head. Ugh. Tatters returns from bad-guy chasing to find a goat-headed sister.

 

I’m fairly certain the next scene—where Tatters vents her disgust on all who failed to protect Glory—involves raised voices with perhaps one or two expletives.

The two sisters then sail away on one of Daddy’s ships to the Land of the Bad Guys where Tatters proceeds to kick some serious ‘bad-guy’ butt.

 

She then steals back her sister’s proper head and uses it to replace the temporary and really unacceptable substitute. Even though she obviously likes goats. Per se.

 

The two of them then go on Adventures…(capitol ‘A’ denotes excitement, yes? Ahem…) …sailing around the world and discovering new places and peoples. And, maybe, goats.

 

Finally, they arrive at a kingdom ruled by twin princes, one of whom immediately falls irrevocably for Glory. After a day and a half, he proposes.

 

Okay, some things do move faster in fairy tales. Anyways, Glory refuses him unless he can find someone to marry Tatters. So he looks around… the room.

 

Low and behold there is another young man. RIGHT THERE. Huh. Must be fate. The second prince marries Tatters, but isn’t really happy with the whole arrangement.

 

Finally, tiring of his sullen silence, Tatters asks why he is so silent. The young man—perhaps sneaking an envious glance at his brother and Glory—shrugs.

 

Tatters tells him they could discuss her goat. He shrugs again and asks why she rides an ugly goat. (Okay, maybe something was lost in the translation.)

 

Tatters replies with ‘An ugly goat, you say? This is the most beautiful horse you've ever seen.’ And instantly, the goat changes. Into the finest horse ever. Yow.

 

The prince’s attention has been captured and he begins to ask her about some rather personal things. Like her tatters, her spoon and, yes, her ugly face.

 

Tatters then transforms into a beautiful young woman. Gone are her tatters. And her embarrassingly effective spoon. Now she carries a magic wand and wears practical, breathable clothing.

 

But my question is this: was Tatters a better, more valued person just because her outside had changed to something ‘desirable’? Or was she just the same?

 

And what about her goat/horse? Would he still be respected by his former goat friends? Do goats even have friends? I think this matter should be explored. 

 

And by the way…that spoon? I want one.

Word Counters is one of my favourite challenges. 

This month’s number was 27 and chosen for the group by the invincible Karen of Baking in a Tornado.

Go now and see what the others have created using the number ‘27’!

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In A Tornado 

Messymimi’s Meanderings

With Gratitude

I always have prized genius, think those who have it, GRAND,

I know that I have benefitted from the things they’ve planned,

But those that I admire the most are men and women, who

Have given healing miracles with won-der-ous breakthroughs!

 

Frederick Banting comes to mind—Canadian, like me,

With his assistant, Charles Best, found insulin, you see,

That tiny hormone in control of sugar in the blood,

Without which, your bloodstream can become as thick as mud!

 

When insulin’s deficient, comes diabetes mellitus,

An ailment quite as deadly as whatever we’d discuss,

Before the Banting and the Best, ‘No sugar!’ was the cry,

Controlling calories the way for people NOT to die!

 

Hear now, the scene: A children’s ward—beds filled with little ones,

All had reached the latest stage; diabetes course had run,

And then two men come through the door with syringes and vials,

Start giving shots to all the littles—insulin’s first trial!

 

And by the time they’d reached the last, the first had come awake,

Their diabetic coma done, their lives again to take,

Imagine parents going now, from deep despair to joy,

Looking once again into the eyes of girls and boys!

 

It makes me weep with gratitude—a miracle, it was,

A gift far better than those brought by jolly Santa Claus!

There’re many members of my family would not be here,

If not for those two men and all their work and research dear!

To those who gave us Insulin. And Penicillin, too,

Vaccines that have stopped smallpox, po-li-o and now the FLU,

I’m on my knees in gratitude, for life those doctors gave,

May God smile upon them all…and the millions they have saved.

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's our day in all the year,We're CELEBRATING POETRY here!
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!)...

Genius Day ( March 14) Today!
Celebrating Poetry ( March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day ( March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Putting the Feet in Footlights

The talk around our house has been family. And babies.And that leads me to a story and a suspicion...Sally ending up in movies really wasn’t a surprise.
The truth is, she had long wanted to be in theatre.
Seriously.
For a while, that’s all she talked about. ‘Hitting the boards’.
Whatever that means.
She was actually cast in a play here in our city.
Once.
Not the lead, but an important part. A governess.I don’t remember much else about the play itself apart from the fact that she and another woman were in the first scene. Two turn-of-the-century governesses gossiping about the families they worked for during a daily sojourn in a park. Their baby carriages, supposedly complete with quietly sleeping infants, were parked beside them as they gossiped. Behind them were a gazebo, a small garden shed, and notable vegetation. (All great, wooden cutouts realistically painted, BTW.)Now the theatre Sally’s play was performing in had a unique feature. A moving ‘thrust’ stage.For any to whom this term is unfamiliar (ie. me) it is a stage that ‘thrusts’ out into the audience. Chairs are arranged to accommodate and the audience members get an up-close-and-personal, three-sided view.Now what made this theatre truly unique is the fact that this particular thrust stage wasn’t permanently in that position.No.It was cranked forward for each performance at the push of a button.Following the retracting of the great, ponderous stage curtains via another button.(Bless mechanics and electricity.)So the proper order for all of this was: first, the curtains. Then, the stage.And finally, the first line from the two women who had been thrust out with the stage.For all of the rehearsals and the first four performances, all had gone perfectly.Perfectly.I can even remember Sally’s first line: Gertrude (while fanning herself rapidly with a large fan): “I tell you, Hortense, I do not know how much longer I can possibly put up with it!”‘Hortense’ answered and blah, blah, blah...play.Then, the fifth performance.Now you have to know this was a matinee. And though the playbills specifically requested no ‘infants in arms’, there were several.It made for a restless, rather noisy audience.By curtain time, the actors and the backstage crew (I was the script girl) were already strung out.Then what happened…happened. And no it wasn’t someone’s cellphone ringing. (Don’t I wish.)The stage manager hit the button for the thrust stage first.Uh-oh.Said stage was well into its grand entrance before he realized he had forgotten to pull the curtains.The very, very heavy, capable of sweeping a stage bare (and made that way to cancel noise backstage) curtains.Already, the sounds of set pieces hitting the wooden planking were loud and…notable.As well as the shrieks of the two women already in their places in the dark and trying to avoid messy squishiness and/or death.As the curtains finally opened, one of the props, Sally’s baby carriage—already tipped and threatening disaster—took the final tumble.Spilling a not-that-real-after-all infant onto the stage.Where it rolled, like a little flannel-wrapped football, into the audience.There was a small, dusty pause as audience and actors alike blinked. And actors’ minds began working frantically for ways to salvage…Almost before the rest of us could draw a breath, Sally had picked up her skirts and leaped down from the stage.Handing the baby doll to a woman seated on the front row holding her own sleeping infant, Sally said, loudly, “Here’s your baby ma’am. Please take better care.”Then, scooping up the woman’s own very real baby, she scurried back onstage, righted her carriage, made a show of placing the infant in it, and said her first line.The woman stood up—I expect she was about to protest the apparent kidnapping of her child—then sat back down.Maybe she was excited to have said child onstage at such a young age.Maybe she was just happy to have someone else take it for a while.The play went well from there on.As ‘Gertrude’ and ‘Hortense’ continued their scene, black-costumed stagehands efficiently righted set pieces and all was well.The child was quietly traded back during intermission, none the worse for its sudden drafting into the world of theatre.Surprisingly—or maybe not so much—Sally got several acting offers thereafter.All of which she had to turn down because…movies…fame…sigh.And now the aforementioned suspicion...I’m telling you all of this because Sally has suddenly started talking about ‘family’ and necessities a family needs like ‘toilet paper’ and…and how good that baby was for her during that play and how much she enjoyed holding it. And aren’t babies nice?!I know she’s not announcing the pitter-patter of little feet because she, like Mom, has a pretty strong opinion on Marriage First.But she and Mort have been exchanging significant looks and I know he’s dragged my Peter to the jewelry store on more than one occasion.The truth is, I think we have a wedding in our future.Lord help us all…  Use Your Words is a writing challenge.
Each month, we submit words and each month, our noble Karen re-distributes. We don’t know where our words went or what will be done with them…
Until now.
We’re as surprised and pleased as you!
This month, my words: football ~ curtains ~ toilet paper ~ cellphone
Came—via Karen—from my wonderful friend Rena at
Thank you, my friend!                             
 
Ready for more? 
Here are the links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:
 
Baking In A Tornado  
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Climaxed 
Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Fair-ly Fraudulent

The criminals are seated second row: Second and fifth from the left.
And they look so innocent . . .I was so excited.
My cousin/pal, Jody and I were going to have a fair.
During afternoon recess at school. A real fair, with games and prizes.
We had saved our allowances. We had . . . ummm . . . permission . . .
Maybe I should tell you the whole story . . .
Jody was staying with me at the ranch for a few days while her parents were away on holiday.
We had conceived a marvelous scheme while we were supposed to be sleeping. Just before my dad threatened to separate us for the night.
For the record, I don't know why they are called 'sleep overs'. Nothing resembling sleeping ever takes place. But I digress . . .
Jody and I had come up with this amazing idea. We’d hold a fair. With different contests and featuring real, bona-fide prizes of toys or candy. It was the best plan ever! Stupendous! The school would be talking about it for years!
Our plans grew and hatched more plans.
Barnum and Bailey would be put to shame! (I didn't know who they were, but whenever a circus was talked about, they were mentioned, so they must be important.)
There was only one hitch in our marvellous plan. We were eight years old, in grade three, and needed permission to go down town to purchase the necessary candy and prizes.
And my mom refused to give us the necessary legal document.
Pffff . . .
We even provided the statement, already spelled out. All she had to do was sign.
She refused.
Sigh.
For sure, Barnum and Bailey didn't have such complications . . .
We were still puzzling over this difficulty when we got on the bus and sat in front of one of the grade 12 girls. We talked and talked, but no solutions were forthcoming.
The girl leaned over the seat and asked one of us to retrieve a pen she had dropped. I complied, still talking.
She reached out her hand to take the pen.
I paused, looking at her. At her . . . fully-grown hand.
That knew how to write in script.
That couldn't help but fool our teacher.
I smiled.
Later, we skipped happily off the bus, content in the knowledge that the two of us were smarter than our teacher. Than anyone. Than the whole world.
We duly presented the paper, properly signed, to Mrs. Ratcliff. She scanned it.
“Huh. I thought Jody's mom wasn't due home for a few more days.”
“Oh, she's back!” we assured her.
She nodded.
We bounced happily from the room. We had succeeded.
Our fair was underway.
We ran all the way downtown and had a marvelous time blowing our combined $.75 on penny candies and trinkets.
Then, clutching our paper bags of magic, we ran all the way back.
Our fair was a success. We conducted games and races and magnanimously handed out prizes, happily certain we were idolized by every child on the playground.
That everyone wished they were us.
Then, just as the bell rang, Kathy ran up to tell us that we were wanted.
In the principal's office.
We looked at each other. What could possibly have gone wrong? Our plan had been so fool proof.
Slowly, we trudged towards our doom.
“Jody, is your mother home?” The principal was staring at us from under bushy, frowning brows.
I stared at my feet, frozen to the spot.
Jody, just slightly braver than me, managed to shake her head.
“So, where did this note come from?” He waved our masterpiece.
“Ummm . . . Mom signed it before she left?”
The principal shook his head. “I don't think so.”
Sigh. We were caught.
“A girl on Diane's bus signed it.”
“Ah.”
I peeped up at him. Was that a good 'ah'? A 'very clever girls' ah?
He was still frowning.
Obviously not.
I looked at the closet door behind his chair.
Where I knew the strap was kept.
If he made one step towards that closet, I was going to head for the hills.
And I knew where those hills were . . .
He folded his hands together.
“Do you girls know what you did wrong?”
We nodded.
“Do you?”
We nodded again, with a little less certainty.
“This is what is called 'fraud'.”
Fraud? I'd never heard of the word.
“It's like lying.”
Ah. Lying. Now that I knew a lot about . . . from watching my siblings . . . not because I . . . oh, never mind.
“Deceiving someone.”
Another long word I'd never heard of.
“Lying.”
Okay, back on familiar ground.
“You got someone else to sign your mom's name. That is lying. Fraud.”
But she was an adult! my mind screamed. She was big. She could write script.
“You can't have someone else sign in place of your parent unless they are your guardian. Was this girl on the bus your guardian?”
Guardian? I was at sea again, and for someone who had never seen the sea, that was pretty lost. Ummm . . . I'm going to go with 'no'?
“No.”
I was right!
“So what you did was wrong.”
Rats!
Again, my eyes were drawn to that closet door. Not the strap! Not the strap!
He leaned back in his chair.
“I'm going to have to speak to your parents about this.”
I stared at him. Parents? Maybe the strap would be a good idea.
“They will have to take it up with you.”
I thought of my dad finding out. The strap was looking better and better.
“Now I want you to go back to your class and think about this.”
We nodded.
“And never . . . ever . . . bring in a permission form signed by anyone but your parents. And never . . .” his eyes drilled through us . . . “lie to anyone again.”
Again we nodded. Wide-eyed.
Then we escaped.
We were right. The school talked about our fair for weeks afterwards.
They, and we, just didn't remember it for the right reasons.

Heir’s Hair in the Barber’s Chair

I just had to tell one more story about my dad and his nephew... Don't let the
boy-scout outfit fool you.By request: The further adventures of Uncle and Nephew . . .Influencing the young and innocent. Even in families, it's not always a good thing . . .My Dad was the youngest of eleven children. If anyone asked him if he was related to Owen (his eldest brother) he told them: “Distantly. He's at one end of the family and I'm at the other.”When my Dad was nine, said eldest brother lived close by with his family. A wife and their eldest son, two-year-old Brian.
Brian adored his much older uncle.
He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.
Usually a good thing.
Occasionally . . . not.
My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.
Brian loved to go along.
Just because.
It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.
All was well.
One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.
She combed the unruly locks into submission.
"Ouch!" Brian  said.
"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."
"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"
"Almost through."
"Ouch!"
Brian glared at his mom. "If you do that again, I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"
"I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'."
"What?" she asked again.
"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.
Light dawned an her mouth popped open in horror."You mean 'Son of a . . .'" She gripped his small shoulder. "Where did you hear that?!"
He stared at her, not understanding her panic.
She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"
"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"
Two things resulted from that haircut.
1.  Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2.  "Unca Mark' received a bistering lecture on language and its proper uses.
Oh! And . . .
3.  I just realized that, when it came to cursing and getting after . . . erm . . . someone (see here), my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on.

Heir’s Hairs in the Barber’s Chair

I just had to tell one more story about my dad and his nephew... Don't let the
boy-scout outfit fool you.By request: The further adventures of Uncle and Nephew . . .Influencing the young and innocent. Even in families, it's not always a good thing . . .My Dad was the youngest of eleven children. If anyone asked him if he was related to Owen (his eldest brother) he told them: “Distantly. He's at one end of the family and I'm at the other.”When my Dad was nine, said eldest brother lived close by with his family. A wife and their eldest son, two-year-old Brian.
Brian adored his much older uncle.
He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.
Usually a good thing.
Occasionally . . . not.
My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.
Brian loved to go along.
Just because.
It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.
All was well.
One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.
She combed the unruly locks into submission.
"Ouch!" Brian  said.
"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."
"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"
"Almost through."
"Ouch!"
Brian glared at his mom. "If you do that again, I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"
"I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'."
"What?" she asked again.
"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.
Light dawned an her mouth popped open in horror."You mean 'Son of a . . .'" She gripped his small shoulder. "Where did you hear that?!"
He stared at her, not understanding her panic.
She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"
"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"
Two things resulted from that haircut.
1.  Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2.  "Unca Mark' received a bistering lecture on language and its proper uses.
Oh! And . . .
3.  I just realized that, when it came to cursing and getting after . . . erm . . . someone (see here), my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on.