Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 45

Silencing the Scary

My granddaughter (hereinafter known as Little One, or LO, for short) has the occasional use of her mother’s iPad.

On long trips or when she has been particularly active and needs some quiet time.

Said iPad has several movies installed. Good movies. Deemed by her mother and/or me to be suitable for a child her age.

Those of us closeted with her regularly hear most of The Princess and the Frog, Wreck It Ralph, Frozen, Big Hero Six, Toy Story (1,2,and 3), Up, WallE, Brave, Monsters, Inc., and many others.

And I do mean ‘most of’.

Because LO will watch a movie closely from the opening credits through to . . . well, let me illustrate.

On a recent trip to take care of errands, she was absorbed in the colourful antics of a little, dark-haired girl with ‘race car driver’ in her genetic code; and a large, lovable troll of a man whose job was to wreck things. The movie was rolling rapidly toward its usual conclusion.

Okay, I admit it, I was absorbed as well.

And, quite suddenly, I was transported to the Deep South as Louisiana jazz filled the car.

I looked at her. “Why did you change it?”

She lifted her head and said, matter-of-factly, “It was getting scary.”

“Oh.” I said nothing more and let myself get carried into the current story: Young woman with dreams and grit and young man with charm and a penchant to idleness on a course toward things life-changing and dark and . . .

“Oooh. Scary.” And once again the program changed. This time to a couple of current enemies and future best friends on their first day of college.

See? ‘Most of’.

But she was happily engrossed and I have a strict policy of ‘never disturb a happily engrossed child’, so I left her alone.

That evening, Husby and I were watching the news just before turning in for the night. And I can think of nothing more likely to induce nightmares than a recap of yet another day in our often-scary global situation.

And, just for a moment, I found myself wishing I could just change the program.

Okay, I know that nothing is accomplished if one simply turns away from unpleasant situations or tasks.

And that if the good stop trying, the bad have free rein.

But, just for a time I wished I could do what LO does. Turn to another program when things get scary. Or better yet, make the scary things disappear entirely.

The children obviously have the right idea.

Pranked

Tools for tagging and/or causing troubleAs the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.Some dire.And some not so much.It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.Brucellosis (a particularly nasty infectious disease caused by bacteria) testing, for one.And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.I should probably mention that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.Proof of the deed.Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.One herd was taking a particularly long time.Unseasoned help?Uncooperative animals?Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.Not a good situation for someone like him.Mischief happens.The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.Dad glanced over.The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there. Together.Hmmm.He reached out with his tagging pliers. And tagged.Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.The work continued.Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.Vaccinated and tagged.And released.Finally, the long job drew to a close.As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.One of the very best things about said world.Back to my story . . .Dad accepted the invite - albeit reluctantly. He knew what was coming . . .The two of them walked to the farm house.And into the back porch.Dad removed his boots.The rancher did the same.Dad removed his coat.The rancher . . . didn't.Oh, there was an attempt.Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.So to speak.Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.He turned an accusing glare on Dad.Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.The tag was easily pried off.And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.But the prank was never forgotten.For years afterward, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.The days come and go on a ranch.But a good prank goes on forever.

Why I Do What I Do

My 3000th Post!
Where it all started... The new barn My big brother and me.
I'm the one in the dress...I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated halfway between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. We learned to swim in that river. We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. I even trapped a full-grown jackrabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. At the time, it was normal. We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. For a child growing up, it was peace itself. The RanchP.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of 2013. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

Kited

A kite is such a wondrous thing,

It’s magic; held aloft with string,

And for a moment, lets you be

At once on ground, and in the breeze.

 

It tugs and tugs, as though it tries

To leave the earth and touch the skies,

And when it does, for you, it seems,

You’re floating there, fulfilling dreams.

 

But did you know that airy kite,

That tries to leave you in its flight,

Simply would not—could not—last,

Without that string that you hold fast?

 

An anchor sure is what it needs,

So it won’t fall into the weeds,

A strange conundrum, it is so...

Must be tied down to make it go.

 

I think, whene’er I fly my kite,

That I am like it, just a mite,

To fly as I am wont to do,

I know I need safe anchors, too.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, will truly be sublime...We will discuss our Valentine!
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!)...

Kites (February 7) Today!

Valentine (February 14)

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)

 

S.W.T.

YD. Not in a Time Out...Shopping With Toddlers. A condition frequently and affectionately known by its acronym of SWT is a one-way ticket to adventure.

Via the crazy train.

And that’s just the beginning…

DIL (another popular acronym!) had spent much of her day shopping. Mother of soon-to-be-six, suffice it to say she had her hands—and her day—full.

Between finding the items she had ventured hesitantly from home to find, chasing down fugitives and side-tracking frequent requests/out-and-out-begging, she was on the downward slide toward exhaustion and distinct done-ness.

You’ve all been there.

Just turned two-year-old Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as YD) was also past finished.

Hungry. Tired. Irritable. All were rolled up into one neat, efficient—explosive—little package.

After a loud bout of screech and flail on the floor of the department store, her mother asked, “Do you need a time out?”

YD looked up at her. “Yes, pease.”

“Fine. Go and sit on that chair.”

YD got to her feet and crossed over to the nearby chair, where she took up a perch.

Once settled, she looked at her mother and sighed. “Sanks,” she said.

If any of you reading this feel the need for some SWT, she’s available to rent ... When Gramma babysits...

Yuk-M-Aid

Mmm. Candy. The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.Well, for most children.Okay, for me.That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience. Or commands respect.And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites. Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.The dishes washed the bathrooms scrubbed with the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.And what 'somethings' there were. Chocolate in its myriad forms. Bubble gum. Wax sticks with sweet, tasty juice inside. Suckers.But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils. Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out. You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.And voila!Tastiness.The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus. We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.An added bonus.It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.Sigh!But I was undaunted. If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.Hmm. Mom had packets of Kool-Aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.Kool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?I had a hazy recollection of something else being added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.I headed for the kitchen.I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky, yet I managed it on several occasions.I was a sneaky little monkey.I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.Back to my story . . .I waited until she headed towards the basement. A-ha! The coast was clear!I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of Kool-Aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.Mmm. Grape. My favourite.Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.Yuck!What was this stuff?Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as Kool-Aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.The nerve.I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.Rip. Taste.Yuck!Lemon.Rip . . . you get the picture.I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.I think she had 'ninja' blood.“Diane!”I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.“What are you doing?”I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”“Well, it's not!”Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.“Clean this up!”I stared in dismay at the mess.Mom sighed and helped me.Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the Kool-Aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.It made really neat little lines of colour.Huh. Kool.Then she put it away. Out of reach.I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary. That stuff really tasted awful.Her Kool-Aid was safe with me.Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient? Maybe the Kool-Aid was worth another try . . .I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.But I'd be lying.Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.P.S. Several of my grandchildren have also tried this experiment. According to their individual results: It was yukky.

The Woes Of the Doze

I think I’m in trouble.

Let’s face it, when one is seated, warm, and comfortable, it’s inevitable.

Okay, I admit, it didn’t used to be. But as I grow older, definitely.

I’m talking about those of us who habitually doze off.

In public places.

Movies. Concerts. Classes. Meetings.

Church.

It is this last that most concerns me.

And the date, February 28, has something to do with it.

Let me explain . . .

On February 28, 1646, one Roger Scott, of Lynn, Massachusetts was rudely awakened from a deep and restful slumber.

By the business end of a tithingman’s long, knobbed staff.

Being energetically applied to Goodman Scott’s head.

I don’t know about you, but being roused by being rapped in the head by a heavy wooden cane wouldn’t bring out the best in me.

Heck, I used to get mad when my dad called to me gently from my bedroom doorway.

It didn’t in Roger, either.

Bring out the best, I mean.

Obviously forgetting he wasn’t in his own warm bed, and just a trifle annoyed at being knocked awake (so to speak), he woke up flailing.

Oops.

Mistake number one: Dozing (gasp) in a public(k) place.

And number two: Protesting the meted-out punishment.

This second mistake only caused further punishment.

Sigh.

Roger, for his actions was sentenced to a public(k) whipping.

And the dark designation of: “A common sleeper at the publick exercise.”

(I wonder if they have T-shirts?)

In a Small Town

I’ve been watching a group of people trek across my country loudly proclaiming their need for freedom. But all I can see in their actions is a gross lack of care for anyone but themselves.It reminded me of the first time I was introduced to ‘opinions’ and ‘prejudice’ masquerading as ‘politics’.It was a very sad day for me... It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.Not a pleasant experience.And I'll never forget it . . .When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.Parents, children.The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Jamie - on the first day of school in September.She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.And freckles.We started visiting.And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.We started to 'hang out'.I invited Jamie to my house.And she reciprocated.I remember my first visit to her home.Her parents were very glad to see me.Almost tearful in their welcome.It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.But I shrugged it off.Because they were kind.And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.Almost like being in my own.They asked me about myself and our family.Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.Served Jamie and I a piece of cake.I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.Though the cake was delicious.Moving on . . .As I was preparing to leave, Jamie's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.I smiled.I liked her daughter.I liked the whole family.After that, Jamie and I were together a lot.Hanging out at school.Hanging out at each other's homes.One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.Visiting.A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.“No. I'm staying here with Jamie,” I told them.“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”I stared at him.The town hated my friend?I had never heard of such a thing.My friends left.But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.The town hated my friend and her family.Hated.Weird.I looked at Jamie.I looked at her kind, caring family.Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.Their almost tearful excitement over Sally having a friend.Their interest in me.I talked to my parents about it.They looked at each other.“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”“But I was told the whole town hated them.”“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”I shrugged it off.And kept on being Jamie's friend.I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.I kept Jamie with me when other kids at school teased her.I didn't understand any of it.These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.Caring.Considerate.How could everyone not see that?One day, Jamie wasn't at school.I walked over to her house.It was empty.She and her family had moved.Gone back to where they came from.For weeks, I was sad.She had been my friend.I had loved playing with her.And now she was gone.A new family moved into Jamie's house.A new leader for her church.Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.They stayed.But I never forgot Jamie.My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

MMMMessages

 Messages so quickly sent,

With flying thumbs, we share. Or vent,

But sometimes, smart phones do take o’er…

Those messages won’t be a bore!

 

And these are actual mistakes,

I promise none made up or fake,

Like singing ‘dead’ for Birthday cheer,

When the word is clearly ‘dear’.

 

And someone saying, I’ll be ‘black’

When what they meant for sure was ‘back’,

And requesting ‘Human’ beef,

When they intended ‘Hunan’. Grief!

 

And one boy ‘killed’ his date out back,

When actually, he ‘kissed’ her. Aak!

Retrieved a pencil from a ‘lover’,

When in his ‘locker’ ‘twas discovered!

 

A friend with ‘red breasts’ from eight grade,

When ‘red hair’ was the course he’d laid,

Admired the ‘dimples’ of his date,

But ‘nipples’ were his sorry fate.

 

Declaring him a ‘gangsta’. Cool.

But ‘hamsta’, less a verbal jewel,

“I hate it when you are so ‘far ’”,

But ‘fat’ is written. Leaves a scar!

 

‘Hermaphrodites’ for ‘Heineken’

 Or ‘Milk’ for ‘kill’, what meaning then?

And somehow going poking ‘beats’,

Instead of ‘bears’—the risk defeats.

 

Messaging’s convenient, true,

But when I type from me to you,

And auto-correct ‘gets ‘er done’,

Somehow the memo’s much more 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 truly will take flight,Cause we will be discussing kites!
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!)... Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.  Today!

Kites (February 7)

Valentine (February 14)

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)

Friendliest

The favourite childhood TV show,

Of Mama’s ‘Diane Dynamo’,

Was one that I’d anticipate,

Forever. ‘Cause it came on late,

My breakfast had been hours before,

(I’d bothered Mom for three or four),

Just wond’ring when would be the time,

My TV world became sublime.

She was crafty, dear old Mom,

Hit ‘start’ before my show came on,

She knew that I would happ’ly wait,

If all she did was lay the bait…

The TV in the corner, there,

Would capture me within its glare,

The moment that she turned it on,

Her little girl was truly gone.

The test pattern was on till ten,

Our anthem started playing then,

And after that, the thrill of thrills,

A big boot standing ‘mid the hills,

And looking up, I’d fin’ly see,

Him drop the drawbridge just for me,

And take me there inside his home,

He’d present Rusty and Jerome,

Then read me books and play his fife,

And make me happy with my life.

Throughout my childhood, he was there,

I’d curl up in his ‘little chair’,

And listen to the tales thereof,

From this person that I loved…

Of childhood shows from coast to coast,

The Friendly Giant, I miss most.

Once a month, Karen's friends participate in a Poetry Challenge on a Theme.
This month’s theme? Our favorite Childhood TV Show!
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