Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 46

The Obvious

 While we're still . . . slightly . . . on the topic of dinosaurs . . .

You see animals. They see . . .Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .Two of our grandchildren were playing.A little background here . . .Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.Animals from every continent of the world.And from every age.Yep. Extensive.He bought them for his grandkids.Or so he says.Said grandkids love playing with said animals.They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.Countless scenarios had been acted out.Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?Well they can.(Maybe we can take a little lesson from this vis-a-vis the conflicts in today's world. Just sayin'.)Back to my story . . .Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.The theme of the day was dinosaurs.Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.Thorin, the same for the triceratops.The two had set up housekeeping and were currently deciding whose turn it was to go for groceries.Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself. And being a child who could accurately pronounce dihydrogen monoxide before her third birthday, she was well-qualified to teach.Ahem . . .“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”Thorin frowned.Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.Rini smiled, too. And nodded. Encouragingly.Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.“Pokies!” he said happily.Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Un-Art

 

I'm not a visual artist.Really.I'm not being modest or anything.I'm really not. Oh, I can paint with words, but that's it.But in elementary school, everyone was an artist.Because the teacher said so.I should probably mention, here, that my painting of a tree looked . . . ahem . . . nothing like a tree.Oh, it had a trunk.Or more accurately, a TRUNK.One large swath of brown paint.Straight from the bottom of the page to the top.Then there were leaves.Okay. Well, I thought they were leaves.My teacher was kind.She merely smiled, tucked my painting away, and gave me something else to work on.A lump of clay.This was more like it!She handed out more lumps of clay. “Now class,” she said, “I want you to make me a dinosaur!”Oooh! That would be so much fun!I tackled my lump of dark grey clay with enthusiasm.Around me, dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes began to appear.Triceratops.Tyrannosaurus.Looking more and more realistic.I looked at my clay.It closely resembled . . . a snake.I worked some more.Molding. Pressing.Then looked around again.Next to me stood a Brontosaurus.Next to him? Stegosaurus.I turned back to mine.A snake.But with legs.I made the legs thicker.Now I had a snake.With thicker legs.I kept at it.My teacher walked by and nodded encouragingly.I thickened the body.Accidentally pressing down on the back end.My sculpture sat up.Yup. Sat up.Huh.Suddenly, it looked like a bear.I smiled and made a large pot-shaped lump and put it between the four feet.It really did look like a bear. Hugging a big honey pot.My teacher stopped beside my desk.“Diane, I thought I told you to make a dinosaur.”“Ummm,” I said.“That's definitely a bear.”I looked down at my sculpture and nodded.“A remarkably good bear.”The teacher sounded as surprised as I was.Again, I nodded.“But you were supposed to make a dinosaur.”“Do you want me to start over?”I asked, my hand hovering uncertainly over my work of art.“No!” she said quickly. Then, a little more calmly, “No. You just keep working on that and we'll see.”I shrugged and bent the legs a bit more around the honey pot.Then I flattened them slightly at the bottom to form paws.Then I stared at it.A bear.Where had that come from?My teacher was just as astonished as I was.She entered my sculpture in the local elementary level art fair.My family and I moved before I found out how it did.And definitely, before I got my sculpture back.But I've often wondered . . .Both where it came from.And where it went.

Pining for a Dixie

 I'm dreaming of a . . . warm summer . . .

Summer. Say ahhhh!It was summertime in Northern Alberta.

The snow had finally gone. (It was nearly July. No self-respecting snowbank would dare stay past the middle of June.)

And the people had emerged into the glorious, life-giving sunshine.

That’s exactly what we were doing.

Emerging.

It was the final day of school for three of my grandkids and celebrations were in order.

A school picnic with friends and family on the school grounds.

We talked and laughed and reminisced about the past year.

Ate hot dogs and bags of chips and drank small containers of chocolate milk.

And then they brought out the Dixie ice cream cups.

My daughter handed me one to feed my granddaughter, seated on my lap.

I pulled off the cardboard lid and, just for a moment, I was remembering all of the times in my childhood that celebrations ended with those little servings of creamy deliciousness.

In a paper cup.

With a small, wooden spoon.

Special school events when I had finished eating whatever Mom had packed in my lunch kit.

And the teacher brought out the large box of little cups with the long strip of paper-packaged wooden spoons.

Church socials when my tummy was groaning with all of the good things I had just stuffed into it and I was sure I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.

Until the Dixie cups showed up.

Family reunions.

Track Meets.

Cattle tours.

All of them ended with those little paper cups of cool, creamy, deliciousness

I looked down at the cup in my hand. White. Vanilla. Just starting to melt around the sides.

Perfect.

I took the little wooden paddle and dug in, then handed it to my granddaughter.

I know what you’re thinking and no, I didn’t take the first bite myself.

Though I wanted to . . .

That slightly rough feel of the wooden spoon on your tongue.

That sweet cream melting and filling your entire being with joy.

The bottom being just slightly too near the top.

Sigh.

That occasional ecstatic moment when a second round appears.

Perfection.

Oh, there were differences.

The cup I held was plastic, as opposed to the light cardboard that used to be.

And the product inside didn’t have quite the ‘cream’ that I remember from my childhood.

But still, it was delicious. (Yes, I did finally sneak a taste.)

And satisfying.

And memory-dredging.

And when the man came around and offered us two more?

Heaven.

Almost Done...

 

His training had been going on for more than just a day,

And ‘learning with the master’ all of his mysterious ways,

From battle tactics, to control, his drills went on and on,

Until his coach admitted that his job was nearly done,

His master set a challenge that would test him fore and aft,

And let him know for certain that the boy had learned his craft,

He leaped from pole to pole that had been set around the room,

Where just one miss would surely spell the perky young man’s doom,

The boy made it look easy, as he leapt like a gazelle,

Not one misstep to make him have to bid this life farewell,

His master smiled and even gave his back a little pat,

“I’m glad you didn’t fall and leave this world as a splat!

“Now one more thing to test you and your schooling I’ll acquit,

But nothing should be easy and I do like opp-o-sites!

You’ve made this task look easy as you leapt from pole to pole,

So now just do it backward and I’ll say you’ve met your goal!

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'll publish our mistakesAnd share the typos that we make!
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!)... Opposite Day (January 24) Today!

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes. 

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)

I’ll Be Here

I'll be here!Every day, while Mama went to work, Tinsey Girl came to stay with Gramma.

Something all of us loved.

There was much hugging and kissing as Mama prepared to go out the door in the morning.

Many ‘I love yous’.

And not a few ‘see you soons’.

Then Mama was off and we were on our own.

We had fun.

There were toys and games to play with.

Books to read.

Plays to enact.

And yummy things to eat.

But Tinsey Girl still missed her Mama.

Now one of TG’s favourite toys was a musically interactive, eminently portable activity board.

On wheels.

There were buttons and keys to push, gears to spin, doors to open and close, and a small, purple phone.

To . . . umm . . . carry around.

And which, until that day, has been MIA.

A cursory and completely fruitless search had been conducted.

And the toy written off as one of those things that ‘will just show up later’.

Our daughter was (and still is) a theatre carpenter. Arriving at work and opening her toolbox, she finally discovered TG’s little purple phone.

Tucked neatly among the hammers and drills of her Mama’s tools-of-the-trade.

Arriving home from work, our grinning daughter triumphantly held up the phone.

TG grabbed it and refused to let go.

It went into the tub with her during her bath.

And ditto when she went to sleep.

The next morning, there was the usual ritual of hugs, kisses and ‘I love yous’.

And her Mama was off for another day of noisy measuring, cutting and piecing together.

As lunchtime approached, she drug out her backpack and zipped it open.

There, on top of everything was TG’s little purple phone.

Our daughter pulled it out and stared at it.

Then she laughed.

The message was finally clear.

“Call me!”

Cockroachless

I love Alberta. It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.
Warm temperatures.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 (C or F) is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Out Bumperd

Or something similar...That day, I lost my crown.

There was no ceremony.

Few tears.

And an audible sigh of relief.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the main drive of the ranch, there was a light/electricity pole.

A large one.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to place it thus, but there it stood.

In the centre of the circular drive.

Any drivers had, of necessity, to be vigilant when negotiating our driveway.

Even though said pole had stood there, unmoving and in the exact same place, for years.

Years.

As a permanent resident of the ranch, I had always known of its existence.

I knew the exact place where one had to turn the wheel in order to miss it.

And just when to swing around when parking.

But this one day, I was . . . distracted.

Have you heard the ads on TV where they caution you not to drive while distracted?

Listen to them.

Ahem . . .

Without thinking, I shoved the gear shift of our large red and white Chevy Beauville 12-passenger van into reverse.

And started backing up.

After a few feet, I felt a rather large thump.

And the van made a sudden stop.

Frowning, I turned to look behind me.

Oh, right.

Pole.

Sheepishly, I pulled ahead.

Then got out to inspect the damage.

The bright silver bumper had been neatly creased just to one side of the center.

A deep enough crease to force both the top and the bottom of said bumper . . . umm . . . out. Quite effectively preventing the back door from opening.

Sigh.

I must admit that when my Husby saw it, all he could do was laugh.

Then saw the top point off the crease so the back door would open.

And laugh some more.

That was nearly thirty years ago.

He has been laughing since.

Then one day, I heard another bumper story. A better bumper story. Told by my good friend, Jen.

Jen was backing out of her garage. It has been sleeting and freezing and her drive way was a sheet of ice.

She backed out cautiously.

After a few feet, the vehicle stopped moving.

Stupid ice.

She pressed harder on the accelerator.

Still no progress.

Harder.

Nothing.

Just a bit more.

Suddenly, the bumper of her vehicle popped off.

The whole thing.

Right off.

And it was at that precise moment that she realized she hadn't, as she had thought, been slipping on the ice.

No.

Her bumper had snagged on the garage door.

The door had won.

She stopped the car and got out to survey.

Then, abandoning her travel plans for the afternoon, she went back into the house and stayed there.

Some time later, her Husby and his dad came to inspect.

Jen watched them as they shook their heads and muttered to each other.

Finally, they picked up the bumper and refastened it.

With cable ties.

It had been 10 years.

They were still driving that car.

And that bumper was still attached.

I happily passed the crown to her.

She’d earned it.

32

A peaceful kingdom. And a powerful sorcerer who simply wants to go home. A perfect setting for Sinbad, the hero of Baghdad. (And for a month of nightmares for an imaginative four-year-old.)

Things looked good in the kingdom of Persia. The neighbours were happy. The king was happy. The princess, Parisa—affianced to Sinbad—was happy. Sinbad had come home safely. All was well.

 Except that Sinbad had brought with him a traveler, Sokurah (EES-Expert of Evil Sorcery), plucked from trouble during Sinbad’s latest adventure. And who, now that troubles were well past, wanted his own bed. On his island.

Not one to brook refusal when it was unhelpfully offered, Sokurah EES curses the princess (see above), shrinking her to ‘Barbie’ doll size. Which Barbie, I should probably mention, hadn’t been invented yet.

Somehow avoiding suspicion it was Sokurah EES, himself who had done the deed, he offers help. IF they take him back to his island where he has the proper ingredients.

Confronted with the choice between a permanently-tiny daughter (under threat from everything including the family cat), and possible death and dismemberment, the King agrees. And equips a ship with men, stuff…and Sinbad.

The voyage is uneventful, apart from a few machinations à la Sokurah EES, one or two life-threatening storms and the agonizing and uber disorienting shrieks of sirens. You know—a normal ocean cruise.

When they come, at last, to the island, Sokurah EES conveniently disappears, taking Parisa with him, and leaving Sinbad and his men on their own. Ugh. Don’t you hate it when that happens?

But will Sinbad allow such small things as dragons, giant two-headed birds, cyclops and drunk sailors to bar his way to tiny true love? You obviously don’t know Sinbad very well. And…no. 

I should mention here that this is where we discover the reason Sokurah EES wanted to come home. It was to get the Genie’s lamp—with the genie—stored with the cyclops’ treasure.

And also: the scene where the cyclops is trying to eat Sinbad’s men by reaching into his treasure cave where they’re trapped? That is what gave me nightmares. Welcome to my world.

Soon Sinbad and his men have left a litter of dead bodies—see above vis-à-vis dragons, two-headed birds and cyclops—and found their way to the island’s very heart. And Sokurah’s very castle.  

Now all that stood between Sinbad and his lady love were three deceptively agile, sword-wielding skeletons. (Note: If they’re such good fighters now, how did they die in the first place? Hmmm?)

Of course, Sinbad wins against the Boney ones and confronts Sokurah EES, who turns out to be rubbish at anything resembling hand-to-hand combat. And of course, Parisa is restored, albeit by sword-tip encouragement.

Sinbad and Parisa flee, making a careful circuit around the dragon who guards the castle—because of course Sokurah would have a dragon guarding his castle—and reach the up-till-now deserted beach.

There they are reunited with the sober-and-still-alive half of Sinbad’s men. There they also confront the dragon, released and egged-on by a rather disgruntled Sokurah EES (some people you just can’t shake off).

There is a short battle between another cyclops who conveniently shows up, the dragon, and the genie (remember him?) in which the cyclops slays the dragon (and—oops—Sokurah ex-EES) and chases Sinbad.

Reduced to throwing rocks (albeit large ones) at the retreating Sinbad and crew, the cyclops then heads back to his part of the island to supposedly live in monocular happiness ever after.

Sinbad and Parisa and the remaining sailors set sail for home. But their surprises are not over. Unbeknownst to them, the genie has magic-ed (Diane word) the cyclops’ treasure to Sinbad’s cabin.

And don’t you love it when that happens?

 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times. 

This month’s word count number is: 32

It was chosen by: Mimi!

 

Check out my fellow bloggers and see how they used the number!  

 

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Irresolute

We’d had our troubles in the past, but somehow we got through,

We'd gotten (fin'lly) to the year of 2022,

And as the New Year dawned, we had resolve, yes, it is true,

And gladly parked ourselves there in the ‘resolution queue’.

 

Perhaps it was a vow to lose the weight once and for all,

Get organized, learn something new, save more, spend less, stand tall,

Quit smoking, spend more time with family, both large and small,

Travel more and read more, don’t just live life at a crawl.

 

Yes, one or more of all these vows, we made while toasting drinks,

To (with the New Year coming on), renew ourselves, one thinks,

But then the days go hurtling past, much quicker than a wink,

And ‘life’ and problems take control ‘fore you can even blink!

 

Then January seventeenth is somehow there once more,

And, sadly, things look much the same as all the years before,

Your resolutions made so firmly had become a chore,

You’d skipped a day, then two or three, then fin’lly closed the door.

 

Please don’t think that those New Year’s vows were more than you could chew,

Allowing thoughts of ‘failure’ to creep in and make you blue,

And don’t be hard upon yourself, just look at what you do,

Achieving in a week what took past kin a month or two!

 

Those resolutions that you made weren’t signed or iron clad,

But mere suggestions you’d considered, be you lass or lad,

So here is my idea that will never make you sad…

Resolve to live each day in such a way that makes you glad!

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're back (or maybe front),For OPPOSITES, we're on the hunt!
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!)... Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17) Today!

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes. 

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)

Wrapping Up the Season

Of course it would happen.

Mort’s eyes were wide as he and Sally charged through the front door. “Hide us!” he screamed.

“What?” I jumped up from the couch where Peter and I had been happily—and normally—looking through a photo album. Why?”

The two of them stopped for breath.

“I don’t know!” Mort said. “The police were after us as we were walking back through the forest!”

“How do you know they were after you?”

“Because they hollered at us to stop.”

Yeah, that would be a fairly broad hint.

Peter had joined me. “Why? What did you do?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

I looked at Sally, who shrugged.

“We were just taking the tree to dump it in the forest,” Mort said. “Like everyone around here does.”

Sally nodded. “Maybe we shouldn’t have used a wheelbarrow?” Sally looked at him, then back at us. “Mort isn’t very good with a wheelbarrow and he lost the tree halfway across the levee. It fell all the way down into the aqueduct.”

“Or maybe it was because we walked across the levee?” Mort said. He looked at me. “Aren’t we allowed to cross the levee?”

It was my turn to shrug.

Peter looked out the window. “They’re here.”

“Oh, man! You have to hide us!” Mort said again.

“Mort, where?! They know you live here. Unless we find a capsule to stuff you and Sally in, or discover a way to transport you instantly to the Old Town and somehow erase our entire external surroundings, they’re going to find you!”

Peter shook his head. “Sally, I don’t know how it is you manage to incite shady activities from the most normal of actions, but, sister dear, this time you’ll have to accept the subsequent consequences!”

Sally shrugged again.

“But we didn’t DO anything,” Mort moaned.

“Then you have nothing to fear.” Peter crossed the entryway to answer a smart knock at the door. “Some in, officers,” he said.

The two men took off their hats as they entered. “We’re looking for Sally Hart . . .” the first one began . . .” Then, seeing Sally and Mort standing there, he put his hat back on. “Sally Hart, Mort Humphries, you need to come down to the station with us for questioning.”

Sally looked at him. “Why?”

“You were seen—by several witnesses—disposing of a body over the edge of the Ferness Aqueduct. Our men are looking for it now. Please come with me.”

“Ooooh!” Sally suddenly grinned and her eyes sparkled. “Can I be handcuffed?”

The man frowned. “Erm . . . yes?”

“Me, too!” Mort said, holding out his wrists.

The men shrugged and handcuffed the pair, then led them out the front door.

“Woohoo!” Sally screeched as they crossed the front yard. She held her hands up. “Mort and me are being arrested!”

Any neighbours who hadn’t been pulled from their houses by the flashing lights of the two police cruisers were certainly attracted, now, by Sally.

As usual.

Sigh.

I probably don’t have to tell you that Sally and Mort were soon home, dropped off by a rather red-faced patrolman who simply nodded. And left.

And that the crime they had been arrested for had not been a crime at all.

Merely, at the very worst, littering.

But, to be absolutely truthful, it was all Sally’s fault.

And she should have been arrested.

For crimes to wrapping . . . 

Our tree.

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.At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.

 

My words for today? subsequent consequences ~ pull together ~ capsule ~ Old Town ~ external surroundings ~ incite shady activities

They were submitted by my friend Tamara at https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/    

Having fun? Here are the links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:
Baking In A Tornado 
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Climaxed