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

Thanks Giving

It's Thanksgiving for our brothers and sisters across the border.What am I thankful for?
This will start you out. It started me out . . . My hometown!Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.
Crime hadn't been invented yet.
It was, literally, a different world.
Our doors were never, ever locked.
Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each other's yards and homes and refrigerators.
Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning and doing other 'Mom' stuff.
She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.
Canned soup was something new and wonderful. Always served with yummy homemade bread sandwiches.
At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.
Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.
The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.
At ten cents each.
Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the center of the store.
Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hovan's desk was full of them.
We had our own cobbler, Mr. Szabo, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion great hunks of leather into real shoes with his little hammer.
A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera that magically developed its own pictures while you waited.
Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.
With five cents left over.
Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.
But happy.
The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row. Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.
All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.
Most of it was made on this continent.
Our clothes were mostly cotton.
Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.
Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.
And absolutely everyone attended church.
Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family but any and all extended family members and shoe-horn the entire mob into any available space.
At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the center of the intersection of Main and First streets.
The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season. Well, most of the traffic. Aunt Grace ran into it once.
The arrival of Santa in Mr. Madge's special North Pole plane, a much-anticipated event.
And, once again, everyone went to church.
Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.
We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.
One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.
Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').
There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.
In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in Cubs, Scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.
Mom always made treats.
Yummy ones.
We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.
And all of them were wonderful people and terrific cooks.
Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .
Sports events were exactly that.
Events.
Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.
Basketball was huge.
The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.
Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.
The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.
'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.
The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.
Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.
And everyone knew everyone else.
Their address, phone number (Jody's phone number was 6), family members.
Even pets.
It was a wonderful way to grow up.
Like an enormous, caring family . . .
I loved growing up in Milk River.
It was a perfect life.
But that 'small-town' life has largely vanished everywhere now.
Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.
Friendly neighbourhoods.
Caring neighbours.
So now it's your turn. What are you thankful for?

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!