Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 49

Getting it Right

 “Wow! That has to be the most amazing tree we’ve ever had!”

Sally grinned at me. “Right?” She moved forward and adjusted one of the lights. “I knew as soon as I saw it that it had to be ours!”

Mort spoke up, “And what makes it truly amazing is the fact that it fits in here like it was made for the space!”

Mom, Peter and I looked around.

Mort had a point. This front, ‘living room’ part of Sally’s house (well, technically, it belongs to her, but the rest of us, except for Peter, also call it home.) with its 30-foot vaulted ceiling, is perfect for a 29-and-a-half-foot tree.

Which is what we were looking at.

A tree that, according to Sally, was just sitting there at the Tree Corral (astute business name) at the end of the block, surrounded by boxes and packing crates and largely being ignored by the passers-by.

Mort and Sally opened the nearest box of decorations and pulled out our tree star.

“Hmmm . . .” Mom said. “Perhaps it’s time for a new one?”

I probably don’t have to say it—that star has been through a lot.

“Mort and I will do that later!” Sally said.

Mom nodded as she also opened a box. Then she looked up at the tree. “I think this is the first tree with enough space for all of our decorations.” She looked at Peter. "Could you fetch the ladder?"

He nodded and disappeared.

Sally’s mouth was a round ‘O’ of excitement. “Seriously?! ALL the decorations?” She dove for another in the stack of boxes. “Even these?” She began to pull out the decorations that were . . . less than perfect. And far from the quality found in your average dollar store at Christmas time. These were the nearest and dearest to her heart. Those she and I had made during our years of school. The flocked, tattered snowmen that had spent as much time in our hands during the season as they had on the tree. The penguins, Santas, angels, farm animals and puppies, ditto; each painstakingly crafted from toilet-paper rolls, wire, string, pipe-cleaners, the occasional light bulb, and tons (and tons) of glue.

Happily, Sally and Mort began to find places for them in the grasshopper-green boughs.

“It’s pretty amazing that you managed to get a pre-lit one,” Mom said as she began stringing endless swaths of garland around the wide girth of the tree.

“I know!” Sally giggled. “I have to keep pinching myself to know that this is real!”

“Well, if you get tired of pinching yourself, I’m happy to help,” I put in.

Sally stuck out her tongue at me. Then reached for another handful of ornaments.

It took the better part of an hour, but, eventually, the five of us managed to empty every. Single. Box.

Whew.

All that was left was the star at the top.

We were standing, looking from our tattered veteran to that one empty spot when the doorbell rang.

Peter, who had just stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water hollered from the front entryway, “I’ll get it!”

The four of us stayed where we were, enjoying the sight of the oversized tree in the oversized spot.

“I thought you might be able to use this,” a deep voice said.

We turned.

Our Peter’s Uncle Peter was standing in the doorway, holding up an oversized star.

Huh. How did he know . . .?

Mom hurried over to him, hand outstretched. “Pete! I’m so glad you could come!”

You have to know that the rest of the household has been watching this developing friendship for over a month now. Let’s face it, when a man’s first introduction to a family includes being covered from tip to toe in paint—and he returns—there is something going on.

He set the star down, took Mom’s hand in both of his and smiled at her, his sun-browned face crinkling at the corners. At times like this, his resemblance to his nephew, our Peter, is remarkable.

“A little bird told me you might need this.” He picked up the star.

I looked at Peter, who winked.

“It’s perfect, Pete!” Mom smiled at him and, for just a moment, my heart turned over. I mean, how awesome would it be for Mom to find someone after all these years alone? My eyes turned unwillingly toward Sally. Well . . . nearly alone.

He and Mom moved toward the tree. “The only challenge is how to get it up there.”

“I can do it!” Sally sang out.

My heart stopped. Please, no.

“We just need the right tool,” Uncle Pete said. “And the talent! I think Mary’s trusty step ladder, here, and a couple of men named Peter can get the job done.”

I started breathing again.

Three minutes later, it was done. Uncle Pete plugged the star into the top string of lights and his nephew plugged the other end into the wall and we were in business.

The tree lit up from bottom to top.

It was . . . magical.

Uncle Pete grinned down at my mom, then turned for a final look at his star before beginning the climb back down. His eyes were drawn to something outside our window. “Huh,” he said. “Why are the cops here?”

Mom’s face went pale and her eyes went, out of habit, to Sally. “C-cops?”

Sally shrugged and wandered back to the tree, adjusting a couple of ornaments. 

“Sally?”

She propped her hands on her hips. “Why does everyone always think it’s something to do with me?”

“Because it usually is,” I said.

Sally sighed. “All Mort and I did this morning was go to the lot. Throw some money at the man. Push the tree over onto the car. And drive home!”

Mom scratched her head. “Really?”

“Really!”

Just then the front doorbell rang.

I clutched Peter’s hand. A reflex thing.

Sally hopped happily to the door and swung it wide. “Hello, officers! Come in!”

“Hey, Sally!” one of the officers said. “We’re here to investigate a theft.” He and his partner stepped into the foyer, which opened directly into the front room—in full view of our new tree. He looked up at it. “Of this tree.”

“Wha-at?” Mom looked like she was going to faint. Uncle Pete put an arm around her.

Sally spoke up. “I didn’t steal it! I bought it!”

The officer frowned. “The tree-lighting coordinator reported it stolen.”

Sally stared at him. “What does she have to do with it?”

“Apparently she and her crew were in the process of decorating. Then they took a break. When they came back, it was gone.”

Sally blinked.

I stared at her. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her actually . . . react to one of her own conflicts.

 “Well why was it at the lot?”

“It was beside the lot.”

“Oh.”

Mort spoke up. “Sally just threw $200.00 at the man and he told her to take any tree.”

Sally shrugged. “I thought that included this one.”

The officers looked at Sally. Then at the tree. Then at Sally again.

“I’m happy to pay the extra,” Sally put in.

One officer stepped back and looked at the great front doors. Then at the tree. Then back at the doors. He grinned at Sally. “How about we come to an agreement?”

It took all of us. We managed to peel off our more precious decorations and speed the tree out those doors and onto our lawn, where it was set up in lonely glory for all to see.

The neighbourhood celebrations were moved to the area of the park across the street and, by the time they started, no one even remembered that Sally (and Mort) had mistakenly stolen Christmas.

The neighbourhood donated a much smaller tree to the Hart household, which was duly decorated, in the shade of its much larger brother in the front yard.

And you know what? In spite of Sally—or maybe because of her, all was merry and bright.

Proving that, sometimes--not often--she gets it right.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

Use Your Words is a writing challenge. Each month we participants donate several words and/or phrases to our noble leader, Karen, who then re-distributes them.

The catch is, none of us knows who will get our words and what will be done with them.

Totally fun!

My words this month were: conflict ~ grasshopper ~ peel ~ speed ~ tool And given to me, by my friend Rena at:  https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog. Thanks, Rena! :)

You've read mine, now hop over and see what the other participants have created!

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking InATornado

WanderingWeb Designer

Climaxed

What TFSarah

Part-timeWorking Hockey Mom

 

 

 

Eighth Grade Education

My Grandma Stringam.
A few years after this story . . .It was 1903 and my Grandma Stringam, just turned eighteen, was asked to teach school in Aldrich, Utah, forty-five miles from her home town of Teasdale.

Possessing only a grade eight education, she felt ill-equipped for such a task and hesitated to accept, but the family who had approached her were insistent, even going so far as to secure a special teaching permit.

Suddenly, she was a teacher.

Her fourteen students from grades one to six - some of whom were even taller than she was - gave her numerous experiences in her little one-room school house.

This is one . . .

In March, the weather was still quite chilly and she had a lively little fire going in the fireplace. Class had just been called to order and she was busily putting work on the board.

Suddenly a shot rang out.

The bullet took the corners of fourteen pages off the reader held by her first-grader, then ricocheted and parted the teacher’s hair before burying itself in the blackboard behind her head.

For a few moments, all was quiet in the room. Then, realizing that someone had to have tossed a bullet into the fire, she scanned the rows of children until she spotted the one with the most frightened look on his face.

She glared at him. “Arthur! Come up here!”

“I didn’t do that!” he said, refusing to get out of his chair.

Again, she asked him to come up.

Again, he refused. “I had fourteen bullets in my pockets when I came to school this morning and I can show you all fourteen!”

She had him turn out his pockets. Sure enough, there were only thirteen.

“That’s all right,” she said. “Give me those bullets and come with me. I’m going to take you home to your parents.”

She told the rest of the class to keep on with their work and she took Arthur home. Handing the bullets to his mother, she said, “I want to see the school board before this boy comes back to school. He can’t come back until I do.”

Arthur never returned.A few days later, she spotted him out on the hillside, cleaning out a ditch. Punishment meted out by his father for a boy who wouldn’t behave in class.

Grandma wasn't tall. But she certainly had, for want of a better term, control.When I grow up, I want to be just like her!
P.S. Grandma had an eighth grade education. That may not sound like a lot, but here is an example of an 8th grade exam from about 8 years before this story took place.I couldn't pass it . . .

Fifty Day Wednesday #18

A game Q and her mama played. Q donned her little firefighter’s hat, stepped into her trusty car, then, using patented ‘finger-and-thumb’ communication, responded to Mama’s ‘emergencies’ around the front room.
Gramma wanted to play. Speaking into her ‘phone’ she 'called' for help.
A flat look. “Gramma. I right here.”

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...

To Recite

Me. Swinging. And reciting.Words are amazing.Descriptive.Alliterative.Explanatory.Lyrical.Adventurous.Romantic...And I love them.I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.Let me explain . . .My Dad loved to recite.Poems, mostly.On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.Or verse.I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.Always there was a story involved.The boy stood on the burning deckHis feet were in the fire.The captain said," You're burning up!"The boy said, "You're a liar!"The telling was truly magical.And often educational.Little Johnny took a drink.But he shall drink no more.'Cause what he thought was H2O,Was H2SO4.I should mention that that particular verse earned all six of my children kudos in high school chemistry class.Moving on . . .I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.Memorizing a poem.She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim. A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.What better poem for a young girl to start with?As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.I followed her around for days.“What's the next line, Chris?”She would tell me.And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.Moving on . . .By the end of a week, I had it.All of it.Then, the fun began.For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.In perfect rhyme.It could only lead to a career in writing.Or the stage.P.S. I still love poetry!

Ice...Creamed!

Her man and she were getting on in years, I’m forced to say,

The two of them were speaking with a friend the other day,

Explained to him that they had problems with their memory,

And he said writing notes would help the wife and her Husby.

They decided they would try it out, and write things faithfully,

Improve communication ‘tween him and his Honeybee.

I’m here to say the trial could be labeled a success,

For though they spurned their friend’s advice, they were happy, nonetheless.

When sitting watching ‘telly’ Husby got up for ice cream,

Politely asked his wife if she would like to share the dream,

She said, “I’d like a bowlful, Dear. But you should write it down.”

He shook his head, “No I’ll remember. What am I, a clown?”

She shrugged and said she wanted toppings on her frozen treat.

Some whipped cream and a cherry, both, would make her bliss complete.

“And please, my dear,” she said again. “You’ve simply got to write.”

He said, “I think that I’m detecting just a note . . . of spite.”

And off he went, quite message-less, into the kitchen there.

And she heard fridge and cupboard doors as something was prepared.

When he’d spent some time, she thought, an inordinate amount,

At last returned. She looked at him. “What have you been about?”

He handed her a plate containing ham and scrambled eggs.

She stared at it, then up at him, and calmly crossed her legs.

And reaching for the plate, she said, “Your mind’s a sieve, at most!”

“And, my dear, you’re getting old, ‘cause you forgot the toast!”
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 dance and shout,Cause MUSIC's what it's all 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!)...
Ice Cream (December 13) Today!Music (December 20)Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

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. 

A Sputterling Christmas: Conclusion

Welcome to the Sputterling Household!
If you missed:Part One, it’s here!Part Two is here!Part Three!Part Four!Part Five!And now to the conclusion of Christmas with the Sputterlings! “Turn on the stereo, Hun!" Norma said. "Let’s bake up a storm and really fill this place with good smells. Mmmmm . . . baking and pine!”

“Okay, Sis.” Obediently, I hit the button on the remote and strains of ‘Christmas in Killarney’ in Crosby’s magical voice drifted through the room.

Now you have to know that, normally, this song can totally get my holiday gears running. Within seconds I’ve been known to be dancing along to the tune and kicking up my heels.

So to speak.

But, let’s face it. With everything that has gone on, this year has been . . . different.

I'm missing Norma.I have no doubt that she is still living. I mean, I hear from her often.A little too often in fact.In the living room when I’m attempting to meet the needs of Reggie, her certifiably mad macaw. (In my defense, he has never really taken a liking to me. The feeling’s mutual.)

In the kitchen when I’m trying, once again, to make something edible out of one of her recipes. (Again, I will cite justifiable confusion here. Her writing is illegible and her instructions . . . well, the word ‘nutty’ comes to mind.)

In the bathroom when I’m . . . powdering my nose.

On the stairway when I’m vacuuming. (Now that’s a story!)

In fact, she seems to pop up (in a manner of speaking) at the most inconvenient times.

But I’m finding that now, as Christmas approaches, I’m . . . missing her. Her physical presence. The goofy things she does . . .I sighed and got back to my feet. Better to keep on moving. I picked up the recipe I had set out before my sister’s voice told me to turn on the stereo. ‘Swedish Meatballs’. A family favourite since there was a family.

“Norma,” I said, pointing at one of the ingredients. “Is this a pinch of pepper? Or a pound?”

“Have you never made anything?!” my sister’s exasperated voice came from somewhere near the corner of the ceiling above the stove.

I shrugged. “You know I don’t cook. I explore the freezer.” I set the recipe down and turned toward the door. “I tell you what. I’ll go over to Costco. They have it all. And I won’t have to do anything more than open and reheat!”

“Pah!”

I sat down again and folded my arms. “Well, I don’t know what else to do!” I shouted at the corner.

“I’m over here.”

I swiveled my head. Sure enough, the voice now emanated from the small patch of peeling paint in that corner of the room. “Stop doing that! I’m getting whiplash!”

Norma laughed. “You can’t get whiplash from turning your head from side to side. If that was so, tennis audiences would be in a lot of trouble.”

I rolled my eyes and reached once more for the recipe. “I’m just so . . . lost, Sis.” A tear blotched the ink on the card, effectively erasing the oven temperature and baking times. “I . . . miss you.”

A hand gripped my shoulder and I spun around.

“Your door was open and I called and I called. I even used my ‘foghorn’ voice. But you didn’t answer.”

I let out my breath and brushed self-consciously at my cheeks. “Hi, Edith,” I said. “You startled me.”

She eyed me for a moment--my reddened eyes. The obvious tear tracks down my cheeks. “You did invite me. Didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“I could hear you talking to someone, so I knew you were here.” She looked around, puzzled. “You were talking to someone, weren’t you?”

I sighed. Okay, I know that Cousin Edith is my closest relative apart from you-know-who. But let’s face it. Hers wasn’t the face I was hoping to see.

“Oh, this is for you.” She held out a basket. “I’m assuming, anyways. It was on your front step.”

I peered at it suspiciously. “On my front step?”

“Yeah. I figured someone must have left it there. It was in a pretty obvious ‘trip-over-me’ location.” She looked around. “Where do you want me to put it?”

I blinked. “What’s in it?”

She set the basket on the table and we pawed through it together.

“Huh. Pre-cooked turkey. Pre-cooked potatoes and vegetables. Pre-cooked everything!” I held up a small, stone crock. “Even pre-cooked . . .” my voice caught, “. . . Swedish meatballs.” I felt a bright stab of . . . something that approached both pain and happiness. “Whoever sent this definitely knows me. This is my idea of Christmas dinner!”

Cousin Edith finished sorting through the packages. “Look! Some nice, rum-filled chocolates to end with.”

“Or start with.” I reached for the box, deftly slit the cellophane wrapping and flipped the lid to the table. Yes. I have to admit, I’ve done this before. “Want some?”

Cousin Edith balled up plump fists and waved them excitedly. “Ooooh! Maybe just one.”

You have to know that, for women like us, ‘just one’ could mean many things. Just one chocolate. Or, more likely, just one row or, better yet, one layer.

Half an hour later, I foiled the last chocolate's escape attempt, catching it before it could roll to the floor. Cradling it in my hand, I sat back and muzzily surveyed the room. My cousin nearly comatose in the chair opposite, the empty chocolate box upside-down on the floor between us, and Reggie looking at both of us in patented bird-disgust.

He ruffled his feathers, clicked his beak and croaked out, “Smelly old broad!”

I threw the chocolate at him and he squawked and said something rude.

I turned away and slumped down comfortably in my chair, certain I was supposed to be doing something. But not caring one whit if it ever got done.

“Ohhhh, my head!” Edith said.

“My stomach!” I said in much the same tone.

Party animals, we’re not.

“I’ll get the Tums.” I got to my feet, then gripped the arm of the chair I had been sitting in as the room assumed a parabolic swing.

“And maybe a cool cloth for my head?” Edith said, hopefully.

I nodded carefully, then with equal care, started toward the kitchen. Halfway across the room, I stopped. Listened. I looked at Cousin Edith. “Did you hear that?”

She looked up at me a bit blearily. “Hear what?”

“Never mind.” I continued across the room and flipped the door back.

Norma straightened from in front of the oven and glared at me. “When I sent this food, I didn’t mean to see it left here on the table to decompose!”

I stopped breathing and just stood there, staring, the effects of my recent close encounter with rum draining away.

She lifted the chocolate box lid and looked around for the chocolates. “I see the most important things got taken care of.”

“Norma?” My words had a hard time getting past my tight throat. “Norma?”

She smiled and spread her arms wide. “Surprise!”

My legs felt rubbery as I gingerly crossed the kitchen. I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Norma?”

“Merry Christmas, Sis!”

I wrapped my arms around her plump form and squeezed. “Norma!”

She hugged me, patting my back as I took a sobbing breath. Then I gripped her by the shoulders and held her away so I could look at her. “Are you all right? Do you need to bathe? Are you . . . hungry?” Okay, yes, I guess you could say my mind was justifiably firing in many different directions.

She laughed. “I’m fine, to answer your first question. Yes, I could use a bath. They don’t have them over there, but they don’t really seem to be needed. And I’m planning on sharing this . . .” she glanced over the pre-prepared dinner sitting on the table, “. . . erm . . . feast with you and Cousin Edith.”

“Norma?”

We both turned. Cousin Edith was standing in the doorway. The expression on her face must have been a mirror image of mine.

“Hi, Cousin Edith!” Norma said, brightly. “Merry Christmas!”

Edith isn’t made of the same stern stuff as me.

Edith fainted . . .

Christmas dinner happened. Probably not as fancy as feasts in other homes.

Or as plentiful.

But, though at least one member of the party was rather peaked-looking, I don’t think there was another celebration that was as happy.

Funny how you don’t really appreciate something—or someone—until they are taken from you.

Fortunately for me, Norma was returned.

Much the same as she had always been.

“Mama’s home, Baby!” she said brightly as she reached into the cage for her looney handful of beak and feathers.

Reggie danced up her arm to her shoulder, sat there a moment, blinking and bobbing, then reached out and bit her on the ear, drawing a bright drop of blood.

“I love you, too, sweetie,” Norma crooned.

Yep. Much as she had always been.

Weird old bird.

A Sputterling Christmas: Part Five

Welcome to the Sputterling Household!
If you missed Part One, it’s here!Part Two is here!Part Three!Part Four!

And now to Part Five of Christmas with the Sputterlings!Saggot jumped back, colliding heavily with the front door and knocking a gusty ‘whoof’ out of himself.The inspector merely stared at the hockey stick, wide-eyed, the colour draining from his face.

“Inspector? Are you all right?” I touched the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t appear to notice.

Slowly, he dropped to his knees and reached a shaking hand out toward the stick.

“Inspector! Don’t touch it!” Saggot shouted. “You don’t know where it’s been!”

The inspector looked up as his fellow officer, his face now suffused with brilliant colour.

Angry colour if I know my shades.

And I do.

The bushy brows had lowered threateningly as well. My late husband used to assume the same expression. I called it ‘dropping his visor’. I choked back a laugh.

“Saggot!” the inspector barked. “You’re off this case!”

The rotund policeman blinked. “But . . .”

“You heard me! Go wait in the car!”

“But . . . sir . . .!”

“Go. Now. Or. I’ll. Have. Your. Badge. And. Gun.”

I was suddenly glad this trim officer wasn’t looking at me. I was almost ready to hand him my badge and gun.

If I’d had either.

Saggot turned and fumbled with the door handle.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, can’t you even open a door? What are our boys in blue coming to?” Norma again.

Saggot froze, his mouth dropping open. His hand dropped from the knob and he stared as it turned smoothly without him. A moment later, the door swung wide, bumping into the stunned man.

“There you go!” Norma wasn’t wasting any time.

Saggot’s mouth snapped shut and, without a backward glance, he bolted outside.

The door closed smartly behind him, rattling the glass.

The inspector had risen to his feet, his arms clasped around the hockey stick. He looked toward the door, then shook his head and turned to me. “Could you ask your sister who . . .” he swallowed hard. “. . . who gave her this stick?”

“Norma . . .”

“I heard him!” Norma snapped.

“Well you don’t have to get snippy with me. I’m just the messenger.”

A sigh. “Fine. I’m sorry!”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“Well I am! What do you want? You want it in writing?”

“Yes, I do.” I folded my arms across my chest.

A paper appeared out of nowhere, and drifted to the floor.

I scooped it up and turned it over. ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!!!!!!!!’ was written across it in Norma’s distinct scrawl, and, at the bottom, ‘You haven’t changed Reggie’s paper today.’

“Drat, Reggie!” I shouted. “He’s your stupid bird! You look after him!”

“I can’t! He’s afraid of me!”

“Well then, he’s finally gotten some sense!”

A distinct sniff. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Norma! This isn’t very nice! Talking to you in the air. Having policemen barging into my home, speculating on my possible proclivity for murder and mayhem.”

“Ooh! Proclivity. Good word, Sis.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you may need this.”

A roll of toilet paper appeared much the same as the hockey stick and sorry note. It bounced a couple of times and came to rest against the inspector’s shoe.

“Why’d you take that with you?”

“Well, one doesn’t know, does one? I mean, isn’t it best to always be prepared?”

I picked up the roll. “I guess.”

The inspector cleared his throat. “May I speak?”

I looked at him and shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Norma?” He looked up into the air. 

“I’m over here, sitting in the chair.”

Both of us leaned over and peered through the doorway into the living room. Reggie, his colorful feathers slicked down tight stared back at us. 

“I got tired of standing around. I needed to sit down.”

“Oh.” Still clutching the hockey stick in both arms, the Inspector maneuvered through the entry and moved hesitantly inside.

“Have a seat.”

“Okay.” He shuffled toward one of the chairs.

“Not this one. I’m in it!”

“Norma, how is he supposed to know! You’re being woefully unwelcoming. You’re usually a bit more hospitable than this.”

There was a pause. Then, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Please take the blue chair, Inspector. It’s a bit more spacious and comfortable. Then we can have a nice, cozy chat.”

He perched gingerly on the indicated seat.

“So you want to know where the hockey stick came from?”

The inspector looked down at the stick clutched tightly in his arms, then over at the chair opposite. “I think I do.”

“A rather nice young man gave it to me.”

The man caught his breath and his eyes filled with tears. “A young man, you say?”

“Yes.” There was a pause and Norma’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, I’ll tell him.” Speaking normally once more, she went on. “He’s here now, Inspector. Would you like to talk to him?”

The man looked like he’d just seen the coming of the Lord. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “C-can I?”

“Well, I think so. I’m not really sure how these things work.”

“Inspector?” The voice was husky, soft. A young man’s voice.

“Yes. It’s me. Inspector Wilson. Who . . . who are you?”

“You know me as Benny, Inspector.”

The man sucked in in a quick, sobbing breath. “Benny?”

“You’ve been looking for me for a long time.”

“You were my first, Benny. The case I just couldn’t solve. You’ve . . . pardon the expression . . . haunted me for over forty years!””

The young man laughed. “Well, I appreciate that you kept on trying. I know it was hard for my parents, not knowing.”

“You just . . . disappeared.”

A sigh. “Well, I can finally tell you. I was playing hockey on the ice on the lake and fell through. I know it was stupid to be there by myself, but I wanted to practice something new on my own. The recruiters were coming and I just had to impress them!”

“So you weren’t kidnapped. Or murdered. Or a runaway.”

“Nope. Just stupid. I’m so sorry.”

“I never figured it out. You were supposed to be at training. It never even occurred to me you were training. Just by yourself.”

“Can you tell them, Inspector? So they can finally stop . . . wondering. I’m . . . my body . . . there’s not much but . . . it’s still there . . .”“I . . . yes, I can.”

“Thanks, Inspector.”

“Thank you, Benny.” The inspector mopped at his face with his sleeve. 

I pulled a long piece from the toilet paper roll and handed it to him.

He nodded his thanks. “Benny?”

“He’s gone, Inspector,” Norma said.

He shook his head and set the hockey stick on his lap so he could blow his nose. “After all this time.”

I touched his shoulder. “What will you do?” 

He smiled wryly. “Go and tell his parents.” He looked up at me. “If they’ll believe me.”

“Well I believe you,” I said.

“And I do as well!” Norma added.

“Well of course you’d believe, you silly old girl. You’re there with him!”

“Oh sure. Cloud the issue with facts!”

“I think I’ll be going,” the inspector said, getting to his feet. “Erm . . . can I take the stick?”

I shrugged. “Norma?”
“Well I don’t want it. What would I do with it?”

I sighed. “Yes, take it.” I followed him through the foyer. “Good luck.”

The door opened on its own as he approached it. He shook his head, then paused just inside. “I’ve been working on this case my whole life. It’s hard to take in.”

“Well take it in and close the door! Reggie will get a chill!”

I rolled my eyes. “I apologize for my sister, Inspector.”

“No need.” He looked at me. “I’ll be in touch.”He pulled the door shut behind him.I turned just as another paper appeared, fluttering to the floor. I picked it up.'Bird cage', it said.I sighed and headed for the living room.
Join us tomorrow for the conclusion!

A Sputterling Christmas: Part Four

If you missed Part One, it’s here!Part Two is here!Part Three!And now to Part Four of Christmas with the Sputterlings! 
I looked through the frosted glass of the front door. The silhouettes of two people could be plainly seen, thrown into sharp relief by the setting sun behind them.One of them was speaking. “We’ll get to the bottom of this real quick, Inspector.”

I rolled my eyes. Officer Saggot was back. And by the looks of it, had brought reinforcements.

One of them put a finger on the bell and left it there.

I jerked the door open, startling the two men standing on the front step. “Officer?”

“Oh, erm . . . Mrs. Sputterling, I mean Kayser,” the officer said. He hitched his uniform up over his too, too solid midsection. “Yes . . . well . . . um . . . I'm back.”

I nodded. I mean, he was standing right there. Hard to miss. I leaned against the edge of the door. “Yes, Officer?”

He waggled a finger at me. “And to make sure there are no more shenanigans, I’ve brought Inspector Wilson with me.”

The way the title rolled off his tongue, I almost felt I should be bowing. I glanced at the man beside him. About retirement age. Short. Lean. With a gleaming bald head and thick, bushy eyebrows. “So?”

Now, I know you know I’m really not a rude person. But I’d been accused of nasty things by this officer and I wasn’t feeling charitable. Plus, I still hadn’t found my sister. Okay, yes, I had spoken to her, but you also know that speaking to Norma without benefit of visual aid is usually . . . unproductive. Or downright confusing.

“Mrs. Kayser.” The Inspector had decided to get into the conversation. “May we come in?”

I stood back and swung the door wide. “Of course. But I don’t know what you are going to be able to do.”

The two men stepped into the front hall.

“My colleague informs me that you have been uncooperative on this investigation.”

I frowned sharply. “I have not!” I snapped. “It’s just that he didn’t believe me!”

The inspector’s eyebrows went up. They looked like two big, fat caterpillars perched above his eyes.

“Did you know your eyebrows look like big, fuzzy caterpillars?” someone asked.

I suppressed a smile.

“I . . . erm . . . what?” The inspector looked around. “Who said that?”

“It’s her! The sister. I told you!” The officer leaned toward his colleague, looking smug. “Still up to their tricks!”

The inspector narrowed his eyes and looked at me. “Would you be so kind as to explain this, Ma’am?”

I shrugged. “I will but you won’t believe me.”

He merely waited. 

I sighed. “This house is haunted.”

The Inspector sucked in a quick breath.

I paused, but when he said nothing, went on. “My sister has been quite friendly with the spirit or spirits who live here. Christmas, BBQ’s. Weekends at the lake. She invites them to everything. Yesterday, she disappeared in the middle of a conversation about going to the ‘other side’ for a visit.”

Officer Saggot snorted. “See? And she expects us to swallow this!”

But the Inspector was looking . . . interested. “Go on,” he said.

I blinked. “Well . . . there’s not much more to tell.” I scratched my head. “I’ve talked with her. She says she’s having fun. Norma never really was much into details.”

“So she’s on the other side right now?”

I nodded.

The eyebrows again as he tipped his head toward me. “Could I talk to her?” 

His colleague looked at him, a sharp frown on his round face. “Sir, I . . .”

“If you aren’t interested, go wait in the car, Saggot!”“No. No, I’m interested,” he said hurriedly.

“Well, we can try,” I told him. I looked up. “Norma? Are you here?”

“Well where else would I be!” Norma sounded a little testy. “I live here, don’t I?”

“The inspector wants to talk to you.”

“I heard!” There was a pause. “So? What do you want to talk about?”

“Well . . . maybe you’d like to describe to me . . . erm . . . where you are?”

“I’m right here!”

He looked around. “I don’t see you.”

“Well, on the other side of right here.”

“Could you describe it?”

A sigh. “Foyer. Stairway. Doors to the front room and the outside. Hallway to the back of the house. My sister and two policemen standing looking around. I don’t know. What do you want to hear?”

“That’ll do.” The inspector was looking more and more  . . . happy? Excited?

“Sir, I really think we should be . . .”

“Quiet, Saggot!”

The officer pressed his lips together and took a step back.

“So you don’t have to wait for night or the light of a full moon or anything like that to talk to us?” the Inspector asked.

“Nope.” Norma was sounding a little more cheerful. “The lines are always open.”

“Are there other . . . people there?”

“Oh, yeah. Lots of them.”

“Any . . . young people?”

I looked at him. His expression had just gotten very intense.

“Oh yeah!” I could hear the smile in Norma’s voice. “They keep things hopping!” Her voice lowered a bit in volume, almost as though she had turned away from us.” “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

“What?” the Inspector asked.

“Oh, I was just talking to someone. I’m supposed to give you this.”

A hockey stick appeared out of the air, narrowly missing Saggot as it clattered to the floor between the two officers.

A Sputterling Christmas. Part Three

And now to Part Three of Christmas with the Sputterlings! If you missed Part One, it’s here!Part Two is here!
Those of you who know me, know I don’t get upset.

Except—I was upset. “I have no idea, Officer . . .” I leaned closer and looked at his name tag, “. . . Saggot. She was here one minute and gone the next!”

He stared at me.

Behind him, Reggie was doing the same thing.

For a moment their resemblance was remarkable.

In another life, I would have pointed it out.

Officer Saggot was the first to blink. “And you have no idea where she went?”

“No, Officer, as I already told you.”

“And she didn’t go out the front door?”

I sighed. “She was pulling a giant, heavy case behind her. In the time between when she left me and I followed her, there is no way she could, physically—”

“Just how heavy was this case?”

My thoughts scattered. I caught Reggie’s eye and deliberately lowered both lids for a moment. “Umm . . . “I don’t know. She struggled bringing it down the stairs so I assumed—”

“A-ha!” he said as though he’d caught me in something. “So she was on the stairs!”

I frowned. “I already told you that. She brought the case down here. Pulled it into the front room where Reggie and I were sitting. Talked to me. Then pulled it back into the hall and disappeared.”

“Reggie?” The man looked around. “Who is Reggie?!”

“The bird behind you.”

He spun around, almost dropping his notebook. “Oh. Erm . . . Hello, Reggie.”

“You never let me have any fun!” Reggie said. He began to preen his left wing.

Now we were both looking at him. He had sound remarkably like Norma.

“Yooouuu nnnneevvverrrr lllleeet mmmeee have anyyyy funnnnn!” The bird rolled the words about in his great beak like he was tasting something yummy. “Yooouuu . . . yooouuuu . . .”

“That seems an odd thing for a parrot to say,” Officer Saggot said.

“He’s a macaw,” I told him, rather absently. “Norma got him from some retired Yale professor.”

“Who taught him to say that?”

“Well, my sister, I guess.”

He frowned and looked at me. “Is this something she said often?”

I felt my face grow warm. “Well . . . no . . . that is . . . I think she said that just before she disappeared.”

“Uh-huh.” The officer scribbled in his little book.

“My life isn’t my own!” Reggie obviously wasn’t through causing problems. “My life isn’t—”

Now the officer was staring at me. “I suppose your sister taught him that, too.”

“Well . . . yes. I guess so. That was another thing she said—”

“Just before she disappeared.”

I frowned at him. “I don’t know if I like your tone.”

He shrugged. “What you like or don’t like is immaterial. What matters now is . . .”

Someone knocked.

I moved past him into the hall but felt him come up behind me as I opened the front door and looked out onto an empty stoop. “Huh. No one here.”

The knocking came again. This time from somewhere behind us.

We both turned.

Another knock. I tipped my head, trying to decide where the noise was coming from.

The officer pointed with his pencil. “I think it’s coming from the living room.”

I made a face as I walked back into the room we had left only moments before. “It couldn’t have come from here—” I began.

Bang!

I jumped and, I’m not sure, but I think the officer screamed a little.

And yes, it was a girly scream. Probably an occupational hazard.

“Is this thing on?” It sounded like Norma’s voice. I looked at Reggie. He was in lethal weapon mode, puffed up to approximately three times his usual size.

Not a good sign.

“Testing. Testing. Can you hear me?”

I looked around, trying to find a possible source for the voice, finally going to the kitchen door to peer inside. Nothing.

“Hello? Hellloooo!”

I was once again standing in the middle of the living room. I cleared my throat and looked up toward the ceiling. “N-Norma?”

“Oh it does work! They said it would!” The voice sounded cheerful. Happy.

I frowned. “What works?” I looked at the officer, who was standing in the doorway, the picture of confusion. 

“Who are you talking to?” he mouthed the words.

“Norma!” I mouthed back, pointing upward.

“Right.” He snapped his notebook shut and stuck his pencil behind his ear. Between you and me, I didn’t realize people still did that. “I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, ma’am,” he said, his mouth twisting into an ugly line. “But there are charges for people who play tricks and waste officers’ time.” He turned and disappeared into the hall.

I started after him. “Honest, Officer Saggot, I know as much about this as you!”

He was already at the door. “I’ll be back,” he said, putting one hand on the doorknob. “To give you and that fraudster sister of yours the dressing down you deserve. One or both of you is going to end up in custody!”

Eep.

A Sputterling Christmas Part Two

First, a little note: normally on Wednesdays I participate in Adela Durkee’s super fun 50 Word Challenge. But this week, due to time constraints, I have to beg off! But please zip over to see what she has done for this week. You’ll be glad you did!
And now to Part Two of Christmas with the Sputterlings! (If you missed Part One, it’s here!)It was snowing.

So both Reggie and I had eschewed the great outdoors in favour of something warmer and more welcoming to old bones.

The front room and the fireplace.

Okay, yes, it was December, so such weather should be expected, but cold and damp is cold and damp, no matter how jolly the season.

Reggie was entertaining himself by whistling rising and falling notes. A sort of a do, ray, mi for birds.

Let’s face it, Julie Andrews, he’s not.Between you and me, he was about two stanzas from joining that old birds home in the sky.

Where birds go up.

And never, ever come down.

Back to my story . . .

Something thumped on the stairs.

Now I know that you know my sister and I live in a haunted house. So strange noises or things that go bump (even in broad daylight) are not uncommon.

The first thump elicited no response from either Reggie or me.

But the second, third and fourth did.

And the fifth, sixth and seventh.

Reggie fluffed out his feathers. His usual reaction when something is happening that he doesn’t understand. I don’t know about you, but nothing shouts ‘I’m-dangerous-and-every-part-of-me-is-a-lethal-weapon’ better than a fat bird.

Me? I lowered my magazine.

Both of us were now ready for anything.

We stared at the doorway into the front hall. The place the sounds seemed to be coming from.

Norma appeared around the corner.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Norma, what are you doing?”

She moved further into the room.

Then pulled a gigantic, obviously heavy suitcase in behind her.

Immediately the noises were explained. Someone had been transporting something much too large down someplace much too steep.

I was suddenly thankful that I hadn’t heard more thumping and bumping. (*snort*)

I raised my eyebrows and looked at her expectantly.

She smiled at me. “I’m leaving,” she announced in the same chirpy, good-news voice she would have used to announce that she’d changed the toilet paper roll.

Yeah, I guess you’d have to know my sister.

“Leaving?” I stared at her. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve been invited for a visit!”

“O-kay. Who and where. And more importantly, for how long?” I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that the two of us were living in Norma’s house—she, because her name is on the deed, and me, by invitation and economy.

“I don’t know for how long.” Norma went for the last question. “Maybe forever!”

My head reared back. “But, but this is your house!”

“Yeah, well, if I don’t come back you can have it!”

“I can have it?”  I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. I gave Reggie a can-you-believe-what-we’re-hearing look, then pinched myself mentally and shook my head. I’d obviously been around him too much. I turned back to Norma. “Okay, you’d better start from the front and take me through your orbit again.”

She sighed and sat down on her suitcase. “Well, you know how sick I’ve been getting. Those fevers and all.”

“Umm . . . yeah. But the doctor thinks he’s got it figured out.”

“Well I was talking to her and she said—”

“Her?”

Norma raised her head and looked up toward the ceiling.

“Oh. Her!”

She nodded. “And she was telling me how no one ever gets sick over there.”

“Yeah. Well, Honey . . . they’re dead.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.” She went on, “And she told me I could come for a visit and see how I liked things.”

“A visit.” I blinked. Then looked around. “Are we on Candid Camera?”

She gave a very unladylike snort. “No! She asked me to come for a visit and I’m going to go!”

I got up. Some things you just have to do while standing. “Norma.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go over there—and then come back.”

“Who says so?”

“Everyone!” I sputtered. “Norma! You can’t cross into the world of—spirits and then come back.”

“Pfff.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I can do what I like.”

I have to admit that this has been Norma’s mantra from day one and, for a moment, the thought crossed my mind that if anyone could do it, she could. But then reality returned. “Norma, you can’t do this!” I was getting a bit desperate. “It’s . . . almost Christmas!”

“Fine!” She got up and started back toward the hall, pulling her case behind her. “You never let me have any fun!” She disappeared through the doorway. “Since you moved in here, my life isn’t my own!” Her case followed her around the corner. “One day, I’m going to—” Her voice quit.

Frowning, I followed her into the hall. “Norma, try to see reason—” I stopped.

And stared.

Norma--and her enormous case--had disappeared.