Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 51

Fifty Day Wednesday #16

Marie brought her new boyfriend in and smilingly introduced him.
Her parents accepted his shaved head, piercings and tattoos, but were appalled at his brusque, uncaring attitude.
“But is he a nice boy?” they asked their daughter.
“Pfff…if he wasn’t nice, would he be doing 300 hours of community service?”

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...

Little Girl

Me. And my Daddy.My first experience with the radio . . .Mom must have heard the sobs.

She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Diane?”

More sobs.

“Diane, where are you?”

She followed the heartbroken sounds to behind the couch.

To the little four-year-old who had crawled between the piece of furniture and the large picture window just behind.

I looked up at her.

Can’t you just see the little tear-stained face?

Mom smiled at me and reached out to pull me into her arms. “Diane, what’s wrong?”

The two of us sat down on the couch.

Mom dabbed at my face with her towel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“He left her, Mom!” I managed at last.

Mom stared at me. “Who? Left who?”

“He left her. His little girl. Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face was a veritable cornucopia of expressions.

Worry.

Defiance.

Sympathy.

Defense.

With a large dollop of confusion.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“The man!” I looked at her intently through drenched eyes. Surely she knew him. She had been listening to him. I reached out and grasped her arm, giving it a shake. “The man you were listening to!” I looked away. “He was so sad ‘cause he had to leave his little girl in gings-tin-down.” I looked back at her. “Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh. The radio!” she said.

It was my turn to stare at her. “The radio?”

She cuddled me closer. “Honey, you were listening to a man singing on the radio!”

“But he left his little girl! He said!” I scrubbed at my nose with a slightly grubby hand. “And he was sad.”

Mom smiled. “It was just a song.”

“But his little girl!” I couldn't get past the thought that, somewhere, there was a little girl who was missing her daddy.

“He’s not actually talking about a little girl . . .” Mom began.

“But he said!” I broke in. “I heard him! He said his little girl!”

“In this case he’s talking about his wife or sweetheart.” She tightened her arms around me. “Sometimes men call their wives or sweethearts ‘little girl’.

I felt my face twisting into my favourite - and most effective - confused expression. “What?”

She nodded. “It’s just their way of saying, I love you.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a minute.

Just then the front door opened.

Tears and forlorn little girls forgotten, I leaped down from Mom’s lap and headed for the front hall. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Tall and strong, he was there to scoop me up. “How’s my little girl?” he said.

True story.And here's the exact song, by the incomparable Harry Belafonte. Enjoy!I have Kleenex . . .

When Love is More Than Blue

 Almost fifteen. My friend, Debbie, and me,

Were dreaming of love and a boyfriend (or three!),

 We sat in her bedroom one late afternoon,

Eating some snacks as we listened to ‘tunes’,

She had this small player—held one ‘45’

Two teenagers trying to keep angst alive.

Then she placed a new record on top for a spin,

“Ooh! Listen to this sweet one I just got in!”

And, for the first time I heard  Paul Mauriat,

Piano and strings in a brand new format.

And before ‘Love is Blue’ fin’lly played to the end,

I was totally in love with it, just like my friend.

But, oddly, for teenagers dreaming of love,

It did something else, (What were we thinking of?)

Our class had been reading The Lord of the Flies,

The one with the schoolboys (where somebody dies),

And Debbie talked on ‘bout when Simon was stabbed

By the boys he called friends. Well, it just made her sad,

And she pictured that body out there on the beach,

All by itself, and no help within reach,

Well the thought made her cry. And just then on the air,

Came this song about love, but it had her ensnared,

Thinking of Simon. The tide coming in,

And tenderly lapping his hair and his skin,

Well, I told you the thought of it just made her cry,

She decided right then that she just had to buy,

Though the rest of the world heard with love on their minds,

Deb’s and my thoughts were a far different kind.

You know, more than fifty years passed since that time,

That day (decades later), would look so sublime,

When Deb had me looking at something quite grand,

From a far different angle than the writer had planned.

I wish I could go back—be fifteen again,

Playing those records—of love and of pain,

Our whole lives ahead, no idea of strife,

But making us ready for our future life.

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?

You never yet,met a pet,I can betThat's better than all of the pets WE will get...



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!)...
Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever ( November 22 ) Today!

Chia Pets (November 29)Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)Ice Cream (December 13)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.

Real Estate

Going through some old posts and found this one written in 2014 just after I had relocated Daddy from his condo to the Senior's Lodge a block away.He lived there eight months before he moved again. Home.I miss him so much!
Such bittersweet memories . . .
It's done.Following several thousand man-hours of sorting, packing, hauling, mistakes, searching, finding, more packing, more hauling, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, Daddy is safely installed in his new home.
It was not an easy decision to make.
He loved his condo.
And his independence.
But though he remains clear mentally, his once-robust physical self grows steadily weaker and frailer.
He's better off in a place where his meals are provided and help is always very nearby.
It's bittersweet.
We know he will be cared for.
But the memories of what used to be crowd close.
Bringing tears.
Life on the ranch was an adventure.
Every day a blur of what needed to be done and what happened while doing it. From this... ... to this.But Daddy's favourite saying is: Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened!Life isn't over.Only his piece of real estate is smaller.Here's to new adventures.I love you, Daddy!

The Stop on the Way Home

Future skiers/blessed peopleI love winter.

I just don't like bitter cold.

I love snow.

But not on roads which then become icy and slippery.

And, being born and raised on the prairies as I was, I have a hard time with high places.So explain to me why I would drive, weekend after weekend, on slippery, snowy roads, up into the mountains, to slide repeatedly down high slopes.

I know. It makes no sense to me, either.

But I loved it.

My brother, George, and I would rise at the unbelievable hour of 4:00 AM on a Saturday, drive to West Castle, and spend the day going up and down.

Then drive home again.

Yup. 'Nuts' pretty much describes it.

Most of the time, the roads were fairly passable. Plowed and sanded.

But occasionally, they weren't.

And therein hangs a tale.

So to speak.

George and I had happily spent the day on the slopes.

We were starting the drive home in a pleasantly exhausted state.

All was well.

I don't quite remember what happened next.

It pretty much a blur.

Perhaps I should describe the scene . . .

I'm not sure about now, but 40 years ago, the road to West Castle was narrow.

Occasionally, the road twisted and turned amongst a heavy growth of trees.

But in many places, a sheer drop to the bottom of a rather tall mountain was the only thing awaiting anyone who ventured out onto the non-existent shoulder.

And I do mean sheer.

And non-existent.Remember what I said about heights?

That would be here.
Now back to my story . . .

Someone lost control of their vehicle.

George reacted with his usual skill, twisting and correcting all in one smooth movement.

But our little blue Toyota truck decided, arbitrarily, to go for a spin.

And not in a good way.

Not an advisable thing on a narrow winter road, high up in the mountains.

I closed my eyes as we slid towards the edge.

Then, miraculously, we felt the crunch of gravel under the tires.

Gravel.

Not air.

Strange.

The vehicle stopped abruptly, facing the wrong way and definitely on the scary open-space side of the road.

I opened my eyes.

George was staring straight ahead, his hands still in a white-knuckle grip of the steering wheel.

I looked to the left.

We were definitely off the road.

So what could we possibly be sitting on?

I cautiously turned to the right.

 Nothing but open space.

Okay, that didn't look good.

George looked at me. "Did you know there was a little pull-out here?"

I stared at him. "Pull-out?"

His question was answered.

He opened his door and . . . stepped out.

I watched him.

Then he indicated that I should open my door.

I stared at him like he was a lunatic.

He indicated again.

Cautiously, I opened my door and . . . stepped out onto solid earth.

Huh.

I hurried around to the safer side of the scene.

And glanced back.

Sure enough, there was a little jut of shoulder, just big enough for our little truck.

And we had slid onto it sideways.

With perfect precision.

We collected our thoughts and calmed ourselves a bit, then climbed back into our truck and continued the drive home.

A bit more slowly and with a great deal of gratitude.

Yep.

Skiing requires snow.

And high places.

And driving.

We do our best to stay safe.

But it's nice when Someone Else is in charge.

Fifty Day Wednesday #15

It began with a startling, “Hon, let me do the dishes.”
He rattled and thumped in the kitchen, then joined me in front of the TV. “Done!”Unwiped cupboards and stove. Sink full of pots.But table cleared and washer loaded.
Conclusion?
‘Done’ doesn’t mean what I think it means…

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...

 

Laughter

This story is about laughter.
Oh, and a few other things . . .
There were once three brothers. Two great, hulking brutes and one small, but kind.

One day the eldest went into the forest to chop firewood. At lunchtime, while eating, he was suddenly joined by a little old man, who begged a morsel.

He refused, claiming he had to keep his strength up. There wouldn’t be enough for him. Bla-bla-bla. The old man disappeared and moments later, the brother injured himself.

Yep. He chopped an old tree right down on his own arm, breaking it cleanly. Okay, maybe a bit of Karma at work here? What are your thoughts?

The second brother, (also great and also quite hulking) went out the next day in the elder’s place. I mean that wood wasn’t going to chop itself, right?

Lunchtime saw the same little old man appear to beg a morsel. With equal or lessor results. (I’m starting to wonder if we should question someone’s parenting skills.)

Again the elderly man disappeared and again, the chopper became the choppee. Wherein he chopped; the tree landed on him, breaking his leg, and he went, “Eeeee!”

That sounded better in my head . . . The young man hobbled home, spilling tales of woe and everyone was suddenly looking to the smallest for rescue.

Being the good boy he was, he duly shouldered his brothers’ axe and headed out to where the trees lived. Lunch/Elderly Gent/request for food. Same scenario. Different outcome.

The boy happily shared his meager (with two hulking brothers, you can’t expect there to be much…) meal. Pleased, the old man indicated a certain tree, then disappeared.

Obediently, the boy put the axe to the roots of said tree with vigor. The tree toppled, disclosing a shining, golden goose. Admit it. You weren’t expecting that.

The boy picked up the goose, heading immediately to the city. Hey! If I was poor and gold fell into my lap (figuratively) I’d be heading there, too.

As he passed the local inn, the innkeeper’s eldest daughter, intrigued by the solid gold feathers with which said goose was covered, reached out to pluck just one.

Her fingers instantly stuck. Fast. We’re talking ‘early days of Crazy Glue’ fast here. Like, to get those fingers unstuck would mean, at the very least, skin loss.

Her next younger sister, seeing her plight, tried to unstick her by the patented grab-hold-and-pull method. I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Nope. Younger sister’s hands were stuck also. And it didn’t stop there. Youngest sister, thinking it some sort of silly game, grabbed her sibling’s apron strings. Oh, woe.

Now all three sisters were stuck fast to the goose. And each other. Oblivious (and pretty supremely task-focused) the young man strode on. Ridiculous? You know it.

The young man and his goose and his little parade duly passed in front of the church. In plain view of the vicar—sitting, enjoying his afternoon tea.

Now, this particular vicar was quite attentive to his flock. Seeing what could quite easily be mistaken for tom-foolery (Google it), he decided to . . . step in.

He grabbed the youngest daughter’s free hand and was instantly stuck fast to it. Don’t you hate when that happens? The young man continued. With the girls. And the vicar.

Before long, the vicar’s drinking buddies (yes, he had drinking buddies) happened to notice the unusual procession. Red-faced, the vicar frantically beckoned them. “Get me out of here!”

Doing what any good buddies would, they each grabbed a shoulder of their stalwart friend. And were instantly part of the insanity. Now there were girls/vicar/buddies. Oh, my.

You have to know this kept happening. One buddy’s wife. Her friend and friend’s daughter. Two young hikers. Three minstrels. At least one mule. And the milkman.

When the entourage reached the city, it numbered nearly as many people as the city. If our young man noticed them at all, he certainly didn’t let them distract him.

Meanwhile . . . don’t you just love the sound of that? Meanwhile. So mysterious. Meanwhile, in the city, there was a king. And a king’s only daughter.

She lacked . . . laughter. I know what you’re thinking. A golden goose and a laughter lacker in the same story? Don’t blame me! I’m just the teller.

The king had promised that whoever could make his daughter laugh would earn her hand in marriage. (I know why the laughter was lacking.) Ahem . . .

Now, as our merry band passed the palace, this laughter-lacking daughter happened to be out on her balcony gazing in a luster-lacking, laughless way at the gleaming city.

She spotted our friends almost immediately. I mean, when fifty ‘stuck-to-each-other’ people trail gracelessly past your window, it’s bound to attract attention. Am I right?

The girl stared, then clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted. Yes, princesses snort. The snort was followed almost immediately by peals and peals of princess-ly laughter.

Her father, seated in the next room doing . . . ‘king-ly’ stuff, leaped to his feet and strode with purpose to his daughter out on the balcony.

At first, he just had eyes for his only offspring as she guffawed, chuckled, chortled, howled and roared with long-suppressed laughter. Then he, too spotted the ‘train’.

Well, what would you have done? The king joined right in. Now I have it on good authority that laughter heals. And shared laughter can cure almost anything.

Certainly, it did here. From that moment—and following years of moments—the princess was smiling and laugh-y. Even when the king insisted she marry the young man. 

Of course, she fell in love with the kind, rather quirky young man. Even though their courting included—out of necessity—numerous citizens, animals and assorted tradespeople and musicians. 

Once the ring was on her finger, the spell (Yes, it was a spell) was broken. Everyone immediately started for their almost-forgotten homes and/or places of residence. 

Good thing, too, because, if three’s company, what on earth would 50 be? Besides awkward, I mean. Everyone lived with much love—and laughter—ever after. The End.

Today’s post is a writing challenge! Each month one of the participating bloggers picks 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: 28

It was chosen by: Karen!

 

At the end of this post, you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Keep the party going!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Clean!

This poem’s short. I’m terrified,
I think I’d rather run. And hide,
The time has come, I hope you know,
Unwanted things will have to go,
I have to open up that door,
Ignore the pain and do the chore,
That twice a year or more is done,
And cannot qualify as fun.
But…
I find when more time has elapsed,
Can really help me in my task,
Make cleaning out the ‘fridge okay
When I do it another way…
I ope’ the door and order hence
All foods that have gained sentience.

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?

Have you a fav’rite tune/machine?Out of your past. From what has been?Then you‘ll have fun, next week, with us,Please join us while we all discuss...

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!)...
Clean Out Your Refrigerator (N ovember 15) Today! Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever ( November 22 )

Chia Pets (November 29) Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6) Ice Cream (December 13) 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.

Third Best

Once again, it’s my turn to host my amazing blogging buddies.So many good things here!

Carol Cassara

Sitting over a cup of coffee the other day, Carol Cassara considered how the world's changed over the past two years. She's always tried to see the best in everyone, but these days, she is finding compassion for some hard to come by, as she reveals in her short post "How I'm Falling Short of My Aspirations, These Days"

Laurie Stone
Money is one of those subjects we don’t discuss in polite society. But the other day Laurie Stone of Musings, Rants & Scribbles found herself doing one of several bizarre cash rituals and wondered if anyone else did them. (Already, as she lists these, she imagines the look of horror on her husband Randy’s face).

Rita Robison 

To get ready for her holiday company, Rita spent the afternoon – and into the evening – organizing her garage. Why?

Rebecca Olkowski
Have you ever thought about writing a children’s book? Diane Campbell Green did but what is unique about it is that it’s written about childhood memories that most of us Baby Boomers can relate to.  The Sparkling Adventure of Becky and Friends. Baer

Meryl Baer

Decluttering, painting, new floors, this is what Meryl Baer of Bech Boomer Bulletin is going through. Two bedrooms are now clean, spacious, light and airy. Now she must sift through boxes of stuff packed away before the work began and decorate the rooms. However she is currently prone on her couch nursing a bad cold, as she describes in this week’s post, Confined with Clutter.
Jennifer Koshak
There was a birthday to celebrate last Monday, as Jennifer of Unfold and Begin turned 60 with a reflection back on all the new things that she tried in As So This is 60.  
Tom Sightings

Tom from Sightings Over Sixty has consulted the experts to discover the single most important factor influencing happiness and well-being in retirement. Check out his post to find out other answers to What Makes Us Happy in Retirement?.

Diane Tolley
A trip to the UK 20 years ago to view travel museums as part of her Husby’s work changed Diane’s life.She will never be the same.



Thank you SO much for joining us!I hope you enjoyed your visit as much as I enjoyed bringing it to you!

Covered

Now before you say what we’re all thinking, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So just bear with me . . .

I think I’ve mentioned before that we, Mom, Sally and me—oh, and Mort—all live in Sally’s house.

The one she bought with the money she got when she did the movie Nosedive just before Covid hit.

You have to know that some actors are really well paid.

Ahem . . .

Well, even though it is technically Sally’s house, Mom looks after its care and upkeep.

Because . . . Sally.

Am I right?

So Mom decided that said house was due for a fresh coat of paint on its ‘painty’ areas. All those not covered in stone.

Now Sally could have easily paid to have some professionals come and do the job in half the time and a quarter of the effort, but that’s not how Mom works. She’s all about creatingopportunities for us to learn and grow through hard work and perseverance.

Or something like that.

So Saturday morning found Mort, Peter and me—brushes in hand—swiping an oily coat of primer onto freshly scraped walls.

Mom was just ahead of us, doing the scraping.

Sally was lounging on a lawn chair twenty feet away. Supervising.

In an effort to reassurePeter and I and to ensure herself of our help, it was the only job Mom could allow Sally.

So far it was working.

Work was progressing.

Scraping was happening.

Paint was being applied.

All was well.

You, who know Sally, also know that this is the place where things usually get . . . erm . . . sticky.

Mom finished with the wall before us, then disappeared around the side of the house. A moment later, she reappeared carrying the large, wooden ladder.

The one tall enough to reach the second story.

Keep breathing . . .

Moving said ladder back to the corner, to a place just above where we had all started, Mom clambered up it like a monkey and again started scraping.

Mort, Peter and I kept on painting, moving forward steadily.

Just then, a car pulled into our driveway.

Now you have to know that due to—I’m going to go with ‘Covid’ but it could just as easily be ‘Sally’— we don’t get many visitors.

Intentional ones, that is.

This was cause for all of us to turn for a look.

Mom, came down from the ladder and stood there a moment, squinting into the sun and wiping her hands.

Sally got up from her chair and hurried toward the ladder. “I’ll give it a try, Mom, so the painters don’t have to stop.”

“It’s okay, Hon,” Mom said absently, her concentration on the person climbing from the car.

I guess none of us really noticed when Sally, instead of taking the scraper Mom had been using, nabbed Mort’s paint can and a new brush and scurried up the ladder.

A man was coming toward us, a broad smile on his handsome face, the sun glinting from his ‘just-a-little-gray’ hair.

A man who looked remarkably like Peter.

I looked at Peter, who was sporting a wide grin and an extended hand. “Uncle Pete! When did you get back?”

The man ignored Peter’s hand and, instead wrapped him in a great bear hug. “It’s a surprise, Favourite Nephew!” he said. He stepped back. “I just got home last night.”

Peter laughed and looked around at all of us. “Everyone! This is my Uncle Peter, or Pete to the family. I was named after him. He was just pulled out of Afghanistan.”

Uncle Pete looked around at all of us, finally settling on Mom. Moving toward her, he held out his hand. “Peter Gunn,” he said. “No relation to the private eye.”

Mom laughed self-consciously. Her cheeks went pink. “Oooh!” she said, taking his hand. “I’m . . .”

But that’s as far as she got.

Sally. Ladder. Paint.

You know it had to happen. And it took . . . seconds.

“Oops! Look out below!”

Mom and Uncle Pete were suddenly drenched in a fresh coat of primer.

Head to toes.

Side to side.

Remember when I said things were about to get ‘sticky’? I was right.

Just as a side note, Mom had asked for the paint with the best coverage.

She got it.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: 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 this month? reassure ~ hand ~ try ~ seconds ~ primer ~ create              
They were submitted by my good friend Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com   
 
Are you up for more fun?
Baking In A Tornado
Wandering Web Designer
Climaxed
What TF Sarah
Part-time Working Hockey Mom