Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 47

Small Lessons

My Husby had taken me to see The Hobbit.

Wow.

We both loved it.

It is the story of a small, seemingly unremarkable person.

Who changes the course of his world’s history.

My favourite kind of story.

There is a place in the tale, where the man who was instrumental in starting this small person on his remarkable journey is asked why he did so.

Why did he choose as he did?

His answer?

He had noted that it’s the small things that truly make a difference.

The little, daily acts of kindness that matter.

Those ‘seemingly insignificant’ people whose small efforts effect the biggest changes.

I cried.

Because that is my reaction to everything.

And it got me thinking.

A few years ago, I wrote a novel, Magic. It is the story of one person who lives in a world which thinks that the sad, ill treatment of a particular group of people is, woefully, acceptable.

He stands against this thinking.

Alone, for the most part.

It is a story of courage.

A story of doing what is right, even when everyone around you disagrees.

The abused people in the tale?

They react to their ill treatment with kindness.

Patience.

Even love.

In the ensuing years, I have been invited to visit dozens of schools in my area to discuss the lessons in this book with the children. To deliberate with them whether it’s okay for one group of people to treat another group with disdain.

Indifference.

Even cruelty.

At one point, to put things into their perspective, I have asked them to consider what they would do if a bully pushes them down, bruising and scraping their hands.

Then runs away laughing.

And shortly after falls, breaking his arm.

What would they do?

Every student . . . EVERY STUDENT . . . says immediately, that they would go and help.

I pretend to protest. 

“But he has just hurt you! He pushed you down!”

Universally, their answer, “But it’s the right thing to do!”

One young man said, “You don’t want to descend to his level!”

I have learned something amazing.

These smallest, seemingly unremarkable people in our world, are capable of the greatest acts of kindness.

The most forgiveness.

The purest love.

Qualities less seen among the adults. Especially in this present age of political division and differing ideologies.

So when do we lose that ability?

We must have had it.

But somewhere between childhood and growing up, it gets . . . lost.

I know I would think twice before going to help that person who was just mean to me. Or feel sorry for someone who ‘brought it on themselves’.

I think I would do it.

I hope I would.

I hope I would be like the children.

Would you?

The Ol’ Watercooler

Or you could do it that way . . .There was no lawnmower in the early days on the Berg Ranch.

When the grass got long, the hay-mower could be used, but in smaller areas, this proved impossible.

One had to get creative.

The four-footed lawnmowers were brought out.

Usually, the well-trained saddlehorses would take care of the problem—filling their bellies and tidying the area at the same time.

But one year, three angus bulls were given the job. They spent their days tethered out among the trees, contentedly munching the long grass and growing fat in the cool shade. 

For water, someone would untie them, lead them across the yard to the trough by the barn, then take them back to continue their ‘work’.

It worked well. Till the ‘incident’.

Anyone who has lived on (or near) a farm can tell you that there is no such thing as a ‘normal’ day.

Usually the dust-ups and uh-ohs are just something to laugh at.

And that was the case here.

One evening, several of my Berg uncles were leading the three members of their lawn maintenance crew to water. Grampa Berg happened to be standing there beside the trough as they approached.

Meanwhile, across the barnyard, two salesmen in a car slid to a stop. Seeing Grampa out in the yard, they started toward him.

All went well to this point. Bulls. Uncles. Grampa. Salesmen.

Now the bulls were used to their Berg attendants. And knew all of them by sight.

But these salesmen were new.

Strange.

The inquisitive bulls decided they were worth investigating.

At a run.

Towing the boys.

The salesmen were understandably alarmed. And decided, individually and collectively, that their best course was to run.

Which they did.

Right into each other. 

Resulting in two stunned salesmen trying to crawl away along the ground.

The bulls stopped short and stared. Yep. Here was definitely something new . . .

I know you'll agree with me that there is all sorts of entertainment for us humans at our local ‘watering holes’.Turns out it’s the same for the four-footed variety as well.

A Day in the Life

Berg Family about 1940. Front row far left: Leif
Just off camera: PatsyWithout Patsy, things could have ended much differently.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Patsy was a German shepherd dog. Unremarkable in looks.

But loyal, playful, smart, fun, an excellent companion and confidante and—as you will see in this story—attentive and protective.

Patsy was little Leif’s constant companion.

Where the one went, so did the other.

If Mother was looking for her small son, she simply stepped to the door and called Patsy.

Who immediately steered her young companion home.

On a large mixed farm like the Berg family ran, it would have been easy for the youngest son to find himself in difficulties.

But not with a Patsy as companion.

And that’s where our story begins . . .

Leif and Patsy had been playing in the warm sun of a late summer day. Their explorations had led them to a large field of grain immediately adjacent to the farmstead.

The combination of the warm sun and tall, ripened grain were most inviting to a small boy and a snooze seemed appropriate. He curled up in a comfortable spot and nodded off.

At the same time as our little explorer drifted off to sleep, his elder brother and their father arrived with tractor and binder to begin harvesting the field. A small boy happily, rosily asleep in one of the furrows was completely invisible to them.

As they approached the place where Leif was asleep, they noticed Patsy.

Remember where I said ‘constant companion’?

Well that comes into play here.

The faithful dog was standing guard at the edge of field. They decided to stop the machinery and take a moment to check things out.

Patsy led them to where Leif was sleeping.

The boy was roused. With Patsy in close attendance, the two started the trek back toward the farm.

Instead of tragic, the incident was written off as 'another bit of farm life adventure'.

Just a regular day in the life of a good dog. 

Too Peculiar

Let's celebrate peculiar people!

A man rode into town, ‘twas at the very end of day,

He and his trusty steed had both been long upon the way,

A drop of whiskey’s what he wanted; water for his horse.

Followed by a bite to eat and comfy bed, of course.

 

The only person moving in this most peculiar town,

Was the sheriff crafting gallows. The man looked them up and down,

The man, he saunters over, asks the sheriff, “Who’s the dupe?”

The sheriff answers, “Come on down and I’ll give you the scoop.”

 

“We have a most peculiar man in town, named Brown Bag Pete,

“And everything he wears? Made of brown paper. Head to feet,

“His hat (it’s true!), his boots are too, his shirts, his chaps, his slacks,

“Why even all his underwear—like big ol’ paper sacks!”

 

The man looked at the sheriff, then he frowned, “But tell me why

"You’d hang a good man just because he’s a peculiar guy?

“Is peculiarity a crime? For it, you kill him dead?

“What else has he committed, friend?” “Rustling,” the sheriff said.

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 when we all come to play,It's 'Ditch Your Resolutions' day!
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!)...Peculiar People (January 10) Today!

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

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)

Getting the Point

I had saved forever!It was mine!It's not fair!Maybe I should explain . . .In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.Okay, yes, they still do.But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight. Isn't it a beauty?At least it was for me.Probably because it didn't happen often.Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.“Dad! Is there anything for me?”He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”“Diane!”“Sorry. Nope.”“Darn.”I got smarter. Or at least more efficient. “Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”But the answer seldom changed.“Sorry. Nope.”“Darn.”But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.Free stuff. Lots and lots of it. The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.It was a whole new world.I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff and sent out dozens of requests.Then started receiving packages in the mail.Pictures.Books.Games and puzzles.It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.Now he no longer asked what my name was, he simply handed me packages.Ahhhh. Valhalla.Then I discovered something else.First a little sidenote: Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.For special times.Birthdays.Anniversaries.Desserts.Tuesday.We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.Bummer.But that was all right because we received permission a lot.I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with ordering stuff.That part comes now . . .The ice cream treats had wrappers. Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose. Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.From 'Popsicle Pete', whoever that was.Offers for 'free' stuff.Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.But I digress . . .If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.I studied the selection.I made my choice.And hoarded my wrappers.Eons later, I finally had enough. I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?Oh it wasn't just any knife. There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.It was to become the heart of my collection.Of stuff.I sent out my wrappers.And waited.And waited.Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.I tore into the paper and triumphantly held up my knife.Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post.) Mom grabbed it.“Diane! What are you doing with this?”I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”“You can't play with a knife!”“I wasn't going to play with it!”“What were you going to do with it?”“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.The one above the fridge. Incidentally, the only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.“Mom! I bought that!”“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”Ten?Ten?! That was forever!I stared up at the cupboard.Then at my Mom.She couldn't possibly mean it.“But . . . I bought it,” I said again, weakly. Maybe it would have more impact this time.“I know, dear,” Mom said.“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.That's when the tears started.Even those failed to move her.Sigh.For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard. Not to be discovered until we moved.“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said. I took it from her and looked at it. “Cute.”“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.Age? Ten.“Sure.”I handed it to him.One should never have to wait for their fun.

98

Today is my Mama's 98th birthday!
Last year, I posted an excerpt from her journals that encapsulated her core beliefs.
Today, in her honour, I publish them again.
I miss you, Mom! Happy Birthday!

My Mom's Philosophy in a nutshell:

Happiness is a direction, not a place.

From her journal:

THE GIFTS WE GIVE OF OURSELVES . . .

GIFTS OF THE HEART: love, kindness, joy, understanding, sympathy, tolerance, forgiveness

GIFTS OF THE MIND: ideas, dreams, purposes, inventions, projects, poetry

GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT: prayer, vision, beauty, aspiration, peace, faith

GIFTS OF WORDS: encouragement, inspiration, guidance, praise

Mom, when I grow up, I want to be just like you!

Fifty Day Wednesday #21

The line-ups were long. I was 9 carts back.

Suddenly the man fourth before me screamed and punched the guy in the line ahead of him, then fell sideways to the floor. His eyes rolled back and he had spittle coming from his mouth.

“New variant!” someone shouted.

Pandemonium.

0
Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Getting Bouncy

Or something similar . . .I had just turned four and had recently discovered a new and wondrous activity.

Which I had to keep very, very secret.

Because for some reason, my Mom didn’t approve.

Weird . . .

I was a fresh graduate of my toddler bed (the one with the kitty on the headboard) and had definitely moved on.

My new bed was a big, old, iron monstrosity with heavy bars forming the head and foot boards.

Did I mention big?

And old?

Well, both were appropriate.

It was about six thousand times the size of my old bed.

And a million times taller.

True story.

When my mom introduced us, we eyed each other distrustfully.

Okay, well, I eyed.

It just . . . sat there.

Looking huge.

Mom lifted me and set me on it.

I went very still. Then looked around.

The chenille bedspread was soft and neat.

I lay back. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

I stood up.

Wait a second. This bed was really . . . bouncy.

Really. 

Bouncy.

Heyyyyy!

I started to jump.

Mom came back into the room and saw me. “Diane, don’t jump on the bed. You might hurt yourself.”

I stopped and sat down.

Mom bustled out again.

I looked at the bed. The big, soft bed. How on earth was it going to hurt me?

I stood up. Waited a moment to make sure she was gone.

Then started to jump again.

She stuck her head back inside. “Diane!” 

I stopped. Man, she was good!

She picked up my laundry basket and headed for the kitchen.

I started to jump.

“Diane!” Warningly from the dining room.

Geeze. That woman was everywhere!

This time, I waited until I heard her doing things to the wringer-washer in the kitchen.

On the second bounce . . . “Diane!”

Okay, that was freaky.

I heard the washer go on. Ha! No way could she hear me now!

I bounced a really, really big bounce.

The biggest bounce of my very short career.

And bounced my nose right into the metal headboard.

Crunch.

You know that pause between the thump and the wail?

It takes that long to discover that one has been injured.

That said injuries hurt.

And to draw a great, big breath.

“Waaaahhhhh!”

Mom was there in a heartbeat.

Holding a cloth to a nose that was streaming blood.

Both from the business end.

And from the bridge, where it had been broken.

I have the scar, still.

There is a moral . . .

When Mom tells you not to do such-and-such because you might get hurt?

Believe her.

Just FYI.

Lost Among the Stars

 Sherlock Holmes and Watson headed out to forests deep,

Thinking they could get away and catch up on some sleep,

They’d enjoyed the forest stillness and expected lack of crime,

And sitting by the fire just delighting in downtime.

 

But finally, they grew sleepy as they stared up at the trees,

And climbed into their tent so they could catch up on some zzzzz’s,

The rustlings of the forest soon lulled both of them to doze,

And ‘In the Arms of Morpheus’, were finding some repose.

 

Then sometime after midnight, Holmes shook Watson wide-awake,

His friend yawned and rubbed his eyes and gave his head a shake.

“Tell me, John, what you deduce by gazing at the stars?

“I know that there are many, but I’m thinking now of ours.”

 

“I deduce just by the number that the universe is vast,

“Containing billions of these stars—quite bright when they’re amassed,

“I’m sure these stars have planets, and deduce, statistically,

“Intelligent life exists as well, on one or two or three.”

But Holmes just looked disgusted as John attempted to sound smart,

So John tried to think of something Sherlock couldn’t take apart,

“I guess that philosophically, when compared with what’s out there,

“We’re really insignificant, far less key than we’re aware.”

 

But Sherlock shook his head, “My friend, you’ve really missed the mark,

“Speculating numbers of the stars there in the dark,

“When trying to impress me with your philosophic bent,

“Somehow you missed (with your remarks) …that someone stole our tent!”

Thank you for being my friends!

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?

We might have only heard of some,    But some we know a mite,PECULIAR PEOPLE, we'll discuss    Our lives, they do excite!
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!)...

Sleep (January 3)Today!

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

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)

The BBB and Me!

 

Once more, it is my awesome opportunity to host the Best of Boomer Bloggers!

This week, our beloved Boomers discuss everything from overthinking, travel, financial planning, and economic inequality to falling asleep. With a new blog thrown in! Enjoy!

I love my people!

Are you prone to nervous spells? Overthinking? Sweating not just the small stuff but everything? Then like Laurie Stone, you may be neurotic. Over the years she’s learned certain situations trigger the anxious, jumpy rabbit in her. Yet the good news is she’s recently learned this fascinating coping technique.

 

When CarolCassara was diagnosed with sleep apnea, she was told to have a sleep study. Since a home-based study was impractical, she had to sleep in a lab for a night. And, as usual for her, it did not go quite as planned. Here's her humorous take on that night, with more to come. 

Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com, has been busy setting up a new blog expressly for her adventures in Los Angeles called BoominginLA.comand has moved some of her posts from her main blog there. She will continue to write on both sites but wanted her local stuff to stand out more.  Please give it a visit here.

The holiday season was subdued again this year, at least for Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin. She stayed home and spent time doing…not much worthwhile. On the last day of the year, she took a walk, as she recounts in this week’s post Year End Interlude. 

Rising prices? Supply chain issues? Vaccines? Poor customer service? Climate change? Check out Rita R. Robison’s consumer and personal finance blog to see what she’s picked for the top 10 stories of 2021.

Tom fromSightings Over Sixty has done some homework over the holidays. Now ... does he want to Blame the Upper Middle Class for all our economic woes? It's not clear whether he does or not. But two recent books do take on the professionals in the upper middle class for their smug self-righteousness and their role is perpetuating economic inequality. Check out his blog post and see if you agree.

 

 

And now me, Diane. Happily writing fiction about the scariest woman in the neighbourhood. Who just might not be that scary after all.
A story very much based on my Aunt Emily.