Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 44

Featherheads

 From 2015...

Admit it. He's cute!
I have birds. 
Zebra finches, to be exact. They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.
I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on since 1997.
It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop loaned us a canary, two doves and a zebra finch.
 A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.
During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.
One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A tiny, rusty, musical gate.)
I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.
The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.
And the little notes kept on.
Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?
My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.
I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.
The third cage.
And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.
My heart was captured.
He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.
She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy popped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)
They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.
My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator.
And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.
They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.
Constantly entertaining.
One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.
In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.
I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go to become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.
It's the one thing I wish I could change.
Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.
I've tried taking them to task for this, using the same forceful, penetrating words as those I used in raising my children . . . you little monkeys! Clean up this mess!
They never listen.
Wait. Neither did my children! Sigh. My private elevator.
Present day...
And now we come to it.
Yesterday, 2 days shy of his fifteenth birthday, my last finch, Whitney, flew home. He's had a rough last six months. He couldn't fly any longer, so I had to put his feed and water on the floor. But he's been happily hopping-and still singing-so all was well. Last picture of WhitneyI don't have the heart to start again. So I'm just ending this chapter with these words: Thank you, my little featherheads. I love you so much!

The Moose(t) Terrified

See? Scary!Gramma Berg's house had a sunroom.A wonderful spot.All windows.And one permanent tenant.The sunroom was wonderful.The tenant wasn't. At least to a very small girl.It was large.Dark brown.With great, glassy eyes, a huge nose, a wooly beard.And large ears.Oh, yes, and an enormous pair of antlers.
Yes, I admit it - it wasn't your normal tenant.It was a moose.The quite obvious fact that it wasn't alive made no difference to its terror factor.I was certain that, if I went into that room, the great creature would blink its eyes and 'get me'.Okay, obviously I didn't think that through. The creature possessed no visible limbs, and for all of my life, had resided in the same place on the wall.Just exactly how it was supposed to 'get' me, we'll never know.But the truth remains, it terrified me.And knowing this, my cousins made great sport of daring me to go into the sunroom.Something which inevitably sent me screaming to some moose-less part of the house.I loved Gramma’s house.The moose and I tolerated each other.So long as he kept his place, and I could see that place from a distance, we got along fine.Kinda like a large spider.But that is another story.After Gramma passed, the moose was donated and hung where it could scare scores of other people.Moving forward fifty years . . .Several members of my family were holidaying in Banff, Alberta.We spent a week scrambling about the mountains and wandering through the townsite.We took the kids to see the 'stuffed animal place'.Or Banff Museum, as it is officially named.It houses hundreds of perfectly preserved birds and animals native to the Banff area.Many of which were present when the museum opened.In 1903.On the second floor, it is quite possible to get up close and almost personal with the head of Sir Donald.A bison.Several of us were standing, looking at the great animal.My six-year-old granddaughter peeked out from behind me.“He scares me,” she whispered, shivering.“But he's dead,” I said. “He can't hurt you. There’s nothing to be scared of.”“He's scary,” she maintained.Quite suddenly, I remembered Gramma's moose. And trembling in fear as my cousins dared me to go into his sunroom.Yeah. It pretty much looks as though neither I (nor Sir Donald in point of fact) had a leg to stand on . . .

Four-Footed Prognosticators

Ha! I KNEW it was going to snow!“Look to the cows,” said Dad, the wise,
“And you will come to realize,
That by their actions, you can tell,
The weather patterns, fair or fell.”

And so I watched, and so I saw
That he was right, my smart ol' Pa.
And he knew what he talked about,
If you're predicting rain. Or drought.

The cows, they crowd together tight
And you know cold will be the night.
They seek the shed and shelter warm
If rain or snow will be the norm.

Then turn their tail and duck their head,
When wind is shrieking round the shed.
But stand out grazing peacefully,
If sun and warmth are meant to be.

But just today, I got a scare,
From cows around me everywhere,
For when I stepped outside my door
And glanced towards the purple moor . . .

(Oops, Alberta's where I live, you see,
And so I meant the wide prairie.)
My cows weren't where they're s'posed to be,
They sat on branches. In the trees.

So now I have to figure out,
What they’re predicting hereabouts.
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 plot and scheme,When DNA will be our theme.
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!)...

Predictions (February 21) Today!

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

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

BBB and Me!

 I'm so excited when it's my turn to host!

Yes, it's BBB (Best of Boomer Bloggers) time once again. That time when I get to show off my friends...and me!

First, Carol of  Carol A. Cassara Writer.

Like most of us at this age, Carol Cassara has been dealing with grief and loss. And even though she has developed helpful tools to help people manage through, she's no stranger to the pain, as she explains in her post, Coping with Grief and Loss

Next, Jennifer Koshak at Unfold and Begin

Valentine's day has come and gone but not the need to focus on ourselves. Jennifer, of Unfold and Begin, wonders if Do you treat yourself with the same importance ad others, especially now with our aging bodies. Join her in learning how to loveourselves during the aging process.

 And Laurie of Laurie Stone Writes

Laurie Stone tried not gazing into the seductive squares of Wordle, she really did. She knew she shouldn’t look when she saw people’s scores popping up all over social media. “Keep scrolling,” she told herself. “You already have enough games in your life.” But one day she was weak and succumbed. Before she knew it, Wordle had drawn her in like cotton candy at the summer fair. Here are three things that maybe pull us all in…

Then, Rebecca Forstadt-Olkowski of Babyboomster 

Has some of the spark in your relationship lost its spark? Many people over 50 are enjoying a platonic rather than a romantic relationship with a partner for various reasons. There are benefits and drawbacks to it depending on what makes you happy. Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com, writes about it in her latest post.

And, Rita Robison of Survive and Thrive Boomer Guide

Keep wearing a mask, advises Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist. Since Dec. 1, when health officials announced the first omicron case in the United States, the share of Americans who have been killed by the coronavirus is at least 63 percent higher than in any other of the large, wealthy nations.  

Then, Tom Sighting at Sightings Over Sixty

Older people are supposed to be wise, says Tom at Sightings Over Sixty. In We Are Old But Are We Wise? he tries to figure out what it means to be wise. We know it probably doesn't involve keeping up with the latest fads and trends, or social media sites. So what is it the wise person knows that the rest of us don't, especially in these changing turbulent times? 

Followed by Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin

There are days in our lives that make an individual realize they are aging. Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin experienced such an episode this week. She recounts the event in this week’s post that made her face the fact that she is now, officially, an old lady.

And finally, ME!

No one has to be told that the world remains in turmoil. In the past weeks, even Canada, known generally as a peacekeeping country, has taken center stage. All of this has gotten Diane thinking about the quiet heroes in our lives. The ones who usually DON'T make the headlines...

And that's a wrap!

A huge thank you to all my amazing friends!

Heroes

The school massacre in Newtown Connecticut has been in the news again recently.

The stories are still branded in the memory.Horrific tales of terror, panic and death.And the agony that followed.But out of those stories have risen tales of heroism and bravery unequalled anywhere in history.The principal and school psychologist who lost their lives as they rushed toward danger when the first shots were heard.The teachers who hid children in closets and cupboards and bathrooms and then kept them absolutely quiet and safe as terror stalked past.And those who used their last shield, themselves, in a desperate and often futile bid to save the lives of the little children in their care.They are true heroes.In every sense of the word.And I weep for them and their sacrifice.It has gotten me thinking of the heroes in my life.The men and women who have appeared, sometimes fleetingly, and had a profound and lasting influence.My Mom, who taught me responsibility, caring for others and to always, always be kind.My Dad, who taught me the value of integrity, hard work and a sense of humour.My eldest brother who taught me generosity.My next older brother, who taught me the joy of friendship.My oldest sister, who showed me true patience.My youngest sister, who is a constant example of focused energy and unfettered joy.My youngest brother, who showed me that one must never quit. That by keeping on, great things are accomplished.There were others.Teachers who spent their entire lives . . . teaching.Store owners who cared.Neighbours who watched out for.People who appeared only briefly and taught me wonderful, important things.And, more recently, the men and women manning the front lines in our own war with Covid.None of them have had to make the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf.None of them will ever appear in a newspaper or on TV as a description of their heroism is proclaimed aloud.But still, they are heroes.And they need recognition.So to those whose actions are so justifiably blazoned across news headlines and TV spots.And those whose quiet contribution is not as noticeable or dramatic.I am offering a prayer of gratitude today.Thank you.All of you.

Writing Better-ly

A guest post by Diane’s chief proof-reader and editor: Anonymous Husby-Figure

As all of you out there in blog-land know by now, my Beloved Diane likes to write. I for one think that she does it very well.  But – horrors! – sometimes she makes a mistake.

Some time ago, she appointed me to be her proof-reader/editor/fixer-upper by insisting that, although she really does proof-read her columns before she posts them, sometimes typos and grammos just slip in there and hide. 

“Grammo” is the pet word I concocted for her very infrequent “grammatical” errors.

 Over the months, the most frequent of her infrequent grammos was the use of the wrong form of “its” or “it’s” as in: “Its simply not acceptable if it’s apostrophe is missing when its really needed  or present when its not.”  

So to speak.

So I do try to catch Diane’s  typos and grammos, because I do believe it makes for a better read not to have them in there, and I believe that it shows respect to you, her readers.

I do not claim to be a perfect writer, but I did learn early while chasing an elusive education the importance of being word-perfect.  So if you will indulge me, I will do as my Beloved does so well and regale you with the story of where my typo-grammo mania came from.

It was the early 1980s and I was in a graduate school senior seminar, learning French Revolution history and cultural anthropology from Dr. de Luna.  (His name of course is of French extraction, and we often heard about his relationship to the moon – “lune” in French.  Some of my classmates preferred to suggest that it was “loon”, others wondered whether there was a vampire connection, but most of us ended by irreverently, although affectionately,  referring to him as Professor De Lunatic.)  Now besides endless etymological meanderings about his name, Dr. De Luna liked to tell us, almost daily, about how any written work, as in papers and articles, that we gave him HAD TO BE WORD AND LETTER PERFECT.  A summary of his reasonings: “It is disrespectful of your reader if said reader stumbles over typos and grammos  WHICH ARE ENTIRELY AVOIDABLE because you MISGUIDED doctoral candidates were TOO LAZY to proof-read it.  Your work is therefore sub-standard because your miserably lame analysis and argument that you think is intelligent discourse is unreadable because your reader is distracted when  having to stop to figure out what it is that you MEANT to say when you made your typo  . . . . . “ 

I think you get the point.  We got the message, many many times over.

Not so lunatic, when you stop to think about it.

So, time came for us to present to the dear Professor our first major research papers; and, a few days later, time to hand the graded papers back and discuss them in seminar.

Dr. De Luna went around the room, handing each paper back to its (notice this is the right one!) author, each with some mostly encouraging commentary and all with some very vociferous praise for being letter-perfect in the typo and grammo department.

All but one paper – the one belonging to a good friend, Ostap.

Now you should know that Ostap had a great sense of humour, was actually a very good scholar, but he had not internalized the message about being word-perfect.  He just didn’t think it was all that important.  At least not yet.

We came to discover, by the Professor’s 10-minute+ recapitulation of the obviously degenerate if not criminal intent and nature of anyone who dared to hand in a paper IN THIS SEMINAR that was anything LESS than word perfect, once again how important this whole typo-grammo business was. 

At the end of his lecture (not the one about the French Revolution), Dr. de Luna passed this last paper to Ostap, with a scowl and a stare, and asked: “So, Mr. Ostap, what do you think I should do about this sort of thing?  Hmmmmm!???”

Ostap quipped back without the blink of an eye:  “I think you should stop worrying about it so much!  You’ll enjoy life a lot more and live a lot longer!”

We weren’t sure how long Ostap was going to survive.

But he did, and went on to a bright future.  

But not as a writer.

Dr. De Luna retired shortly after.  We think it was because of a brain aneurysm.  Caused by the lodging of typos and grammos in the blood vessels of the brain . . . .
And so, my friends, I pledge to continue doing my best to save you from typos and grammos in my Beloved’s columns.

Its the least I can do.  (Oops!)

Seamed

Okay, it seemed bad to me!!!
And ignore the glasses!Okay, it's a very common condition.

But I was twelve.

It was totally the end of the world!

I had acne.

I was devastated.

Looking back, it couldn't have been all that bad, but when I compared my blotched and disfigured face to that of my best friend, with her milky, creamy, clear, totally spot-free complexion, I just wanted to wear a paper bag over my head.

And did, but that is another story . . .

My mom sympathized.

She said she knew exactly what I was feeling. But I had seen clear-skinned pictures of her as a girl.

She wasn't fooling anyone.

But she did buy me different 'cures'.

They didn't help much. But they made us both feel pro-active.

One such cure was a thin, pink liquid that one painted on.

With a brush.

What it didn't accomplish in actual pimple eradication, it more than made up for in unique-ness.

And price.

For months, every evening, I would carefully coat my face, neck to forehead. Then I would wait.

Now, the instructions were very clear on this point. One applied the product to every visible surface. Then one waited.

Twenty minutes. While said product dried and tightened. And tightened. Until one's face was roughly the colour and consistency of a native signal drum.

Then, just as the wearer/owner was certain that all facial features had successfully merged into one great shiny shapeless mass, one could wash.

The relief was instant. And unfathomable. 

Okay, I don't know what that word means, but it sounds distinctly . . . deep.

Which is what the relief was.

Moving on . . .

For many weeks, the process was adhered to.

Without fail.

And also without results, but I'm nothing if not persistent.

Then, one night, I made the fatal error:

I painted myself. Lay back on my bed to wait the requisite twenty and promptly committed the final, unforgivable sin.

I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, my pillow felt . . . strange.

Rather . . . sticky. And at the same time . . . gritty.

What had Mom done to the laundry?

And why hadn't I noticed it when I first went to bed?!

I sat up and stared down at the pillow.

It was covered with pink slivers of  . . . something.

I could see them glinting in the morning light.

Slivers?

Then it hit me.

I gasped and made a record sprint to the bathroom.

I washed. Then, towelled myself dry and leaned in to the mirror for a close look.

And shrieked. 

Lines seamed my normally youthful skin.

Deep lines, following the natural and heretofore unseen creases in my skin and caused by the drying and cracking of the evil pink coating.

I looked . . . old.

At least thirty!

Or a hundred.

My life was over.

I slumped down on the side of the tub and hid my face in my hands.

Mom, who had come running when I screamed, skidded to a stop beside me.She moved my hands aside and looked at me and her eyes widened. "What did you do?"

"I fell asleeeeep!"

She started to laugh. "It'll be okay."

OKAY???! Was she nuts? I stood up and moved, with her, to the mirror.

"Look at me! I look . . . ancient!"

"It'll go away."

I shook my head in disbelief. 

I knew I was forever disfigured.

Nothing on earth could fix this.

I would be regarded as the freak.

The 'Seamed One'.

The . . .

"Breakfast is ready," Mom said.

Okay, my despair could wait until after I had been fed.

I followed her to the table.

For a short, wonderful while, I forgot my troubles in a stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs, bacon and hot chocolate.

My favourite.

But meals can only last so long and the school bus was drawing nearer, even as we ate.

I could put it off no longer.  I got up and made my slow, unhappy way back to the bathroom, feet dragging.

Only to discover that Mom had been right!

The lines were nearly gone. Ah, the resiliency of youth. And youthful skin.

With lighter steps, I bounced back into the kitchen. "You were right, Mom!"

She nodded. But she was careful not to say, 'I told you so'.
I learned from that experience.

After that, I spent very little time 'pimple hunting'.

I really didn't have that many.

And I had definitely seen worse.
P.S. The lines are back. Sigh.

My Robo-Valentine

Continuing with Valentine’s celebrations just a bit...

He was contemplating going...somewhere.

He had gotten out of bed.

And pulled on his easily-donned trousers and shirt.

Then things got...complicated.

He needed his special socks. The tight ones requiring much grunting to acquire.

Then orthotics. Particular shoes.

Good so far.

He fussed with his hearing aids.

Then paused before the dresser deciding between three pairs of glasses.

Finally, his hat, coat and gloves.

And that special scarf that covers his neck just right so he won’t get a chill.

I thought the entire operation was adorable.

Especially when, at the last he stood proudly before me. “I’m ready,” he announced. He turned away and added in a mumble, “Mind you, it was a bit like assembling Iron Man. Without the benefit of robots.”

45 years we’ve been together. He just keeps getting cuter!

And I love him!

Sublime Valentine

Oh, Valentine, my Valentine,Toward your kitchen, I incline.

What ecstasy again is mine,

Your bread is great, your cakes, divine.

At night upon my bed, recline,

For gastronomic Heaven pine

And toss my head, all leonine,

And think of trips so clandestine.I know perfection will be mine,

My engine fueled by food sublime.

Though my figure trends toward ‘bovine’.

Your name upon the stove enshrine.

And write in letters nine-by-nine,My heart is yours, my Valentine!

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 just might have some clout,‘Predictions’ we will talk about...
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!)...

Valentine (February 14) Today!

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

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

And to my eldest granddaughter, Megan:Happy 19th birthday, Sweetheart!I love you!

Almost Sally

Sally is away.

That statement, alone, should guarantee that life for her family will sail smoothly along without mishap.

Right?

Right?!

Sigh.

Sally's movie shoot is somewhere in Tennessee. She says it’s beautiful there. And fairly warm.

Certainly warmer than what we are witnessing here in the good ol’ Midwest. I guess I don’t have to tell you that we are languishing in a very chilly 10F.

Sooo…good for them in Tennessee.

The movie they are working on requires Sally to do something decidedly ‘witchy’.

And I’m not talking about being grumpy or nasty here.

Nope.

I am talking about being a part of a coven and doing spells and all that.

Sally is having a grand time.

And Mort is fascinated. The two of them have spent hours—HOURS—on the phone, talking about souls and all the ‘stuff’ Sally is doing. The spells she is casting.

The potions she is stirring up.

Okay, we all know that all the results of said potions and spells on the set are the end result of many, many clever special effects people.

But I’m not quite sure Mort understands that.

And that brings me to today…

Mort had bounced into the house with a couple of large paper bags filled with ‘stuff’, which he then—rather gleefully—began to arrange on the kitchen counter.

Peter and I decided it was a good time to take a gander, so we walked over and…perused.

Now, admittedly, he didn’t have exactly what was required in all cases. Yes, there was cheese, corn starch, avocados and butterscotch (which Peter and I kept snitching till Mort hit Peter with a spoon). But his dragon’s liver was beef. Dragon claws—his own toenails (ew). Eye of newt—heaven knows. It was something dried and shriveled.

Hmmm…maybe it was an eye from a newt.

Moving on.

There were herbs galore.

And also a large beef bone and a cow’s horn.

????

Once he had arranged everything, a happily-humming Mort got to work.

He pulled out the biggest pot in the kitchen, filled it half-full of water and set it on to boil.

Okay so far.

He then smashed the bone with a hammer and threw the shards into the pot. And started adding other stuff.

He chopped and grated and peeled and mashed.

Then, in his best ‘as seen on TV’ manner, he started waving his hands over the steaming pot and—chanting. What Mort lost in actual technique (or knowledge), he made up in theatrics.

Peter and I just stood there, transfixed.

I finally got up the courage to move closer and peer into the pot.

A thick, viscous fluid was bubbling and burping like the famous mud-pots.

As I watched, it stopped its said bubbling.

Just stopped.

Then I saw that the entire mass was…swelling.

“Duck!” I screamed.

Peter and I hit the floor beneath the kitchen table.

Mort disappeared behind the cupboards.

There was a large, wet, rather muffled kablooie! and the contents of the pot…blew.

Fortunately, the hot…erm…liquid seemed to miss anything important (ie. people), but it managed to coat everything else.

And the stench?!

Surprisingly, though, through skill or happenstance, the potionworked.

It made Peter and I disappear.

 

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 must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, 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 this month are hammer ~ potion ~ languish~ soul ~ bounce ~ happenstance

And were given to me by my brilliant fellow wordsmith, Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Thank you, my friend!

Having fun?

Visit these other Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts!
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The Diary of an Alzheimer’sCaregiver
Climaxed
Part-time Working HockeyMom