Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 57

Snow-d

A beautiful young woman, former princess/heir to the throne, takes up residence with seven men, then marries another man she met only once.

Sound a little unrealistic? Like a story of courage and fortitude with more than a dollop of ‘from the frying pan into the fire’?

Stay with me, won’t you, please? Because the telling of the whole story is even weirder. As in most of our beloved fairy tales.

Snow White, she of the aforementioned princess/heir status ended up in the home of the seven men because she fled her step-mother.

Perhaps I should mention: SW fled SM because the older woman was a tad psychotic and intended to rule. Over Snow White’s dead body.

And achieve star-studded ‘First Beauty’ status with the same knife thrust. See? Psychotic. And a little obsessed with the ol’ reflection. Still with me?

Fleeing to the forest, SW was immediately befriended by many gentle woodsy creatures (Google: REALITY) and led to the home of seven brother miners.

Who were immediately captivated by her charm and beauty. As well as her ability to create delicious victuals using only gleanings from the forest.

Let’s face it—with no neighbourhood Superstore, this frugal ability would definitely be highly prized by men who regularly dined on REAL mud pies.

All was well. But you have to know the story gets tricky here. Because heaven forbid they should all live ‘happily ever after’. Yet...

Now the SM turned out to be a witch with some semi-astonishing magical powers and she discovered her initial plot against SW had failed.

Please see: Magic-Mirrors-I-Have-Known-and-Loved/Hated-Because-They-Let-Me-Down-Just-When-I-Needed-Them-the-Most-Boo-Hoo.

So SM conjures up an astoundingly beautiful (poisoned) apple just for SW. Hmmm…something beautiful outside and ugly within. Are we seeing a pattern here?

Then disguises herself and trots happily off through the dark forest to the cottage of the seven brother miners where her nemesis innocently awaits.

Now SW should have been suspicious right from the start. I mean who delivers apples in the forest? I can’t even get a pizza.

SW takes one bite of that nasty ol’ apple and falls to the ground. Apparently lifeless. SM, cackling merrily, runs off into the forest.

Now the story could have easily ended there. Except for the wisdom of those aforementioned gentle woodsy creatures who uncharacteristically knew what to do.

Quickly they ran to fetch the brothers, bringing them to the scene of the crime just in time for them to glimpse SM. Leaving.

I probably don’t have to describe the breath-catching chase or its inevitable end as a charred and smoky witch plummets to her doom.

Or the tears as the brothers then gather around SW’s still-apparently-lifeless body. And their efforts to build a glass coffin to house their beloved.

The winter passes. Eventually. And spring brings with it a young prince—glimpsed only once in SW’s garden shortly before this whole debacle started.

He sees SW in her glass coffin and immediately orders the crypt opened. I know what you’re thinking. There’s a word for it. Ew.

Then he takes the lovely maiden in his arms and kisses her. Whereupon (good word) the bite of poisoned apple slips from her mouth.

This conjures up the ‘how-long-can-you-keep-a-bite-of-something-you-hate-in-your-mouth’ contest. Till now Granddaughter held the record: 3 hours with a mouthful of oatmeal.

SW awakens from her slumber and, with a complete disregard for (surely) the worst case of morning breath ever, happily kisses the prince back.

He then carries her back to his kingdom, marries her, and they live there (yes, this is where this comes in) happily ever after.

Or at least until their daughter loses her golden ball down a well and kisses a frog… But that is a whole other story.

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: 24

It was chosen by: Mimi

 

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

Super-stitious

Those superstitions that we prize,

Call them silly, call them wise,

(Despite the knowledge that we’ve gained,)

They still have power. Let me explain…

 

There’s Black Cats Crossing o’er Your Path,

A tempting of a witch’s wrath.

Or Walking under Ladders, sure,

Will make your sweet life less than pure.

 

A Mirror you have that’s Less Than Whole…

May indicate a broken soul!

A Friday, bad. The 13th? Worse!

Be careful, or you’ll end up cursed.

 

Umbrellas opened, not outdoors,

Will cause much harm to lives—like yours!

And oh, that Crack—Breaks Mother’s Back?

In truth lets evil ghosts attack.

 

Don’t spill that salt, you’ll be chastised,

Toss some away, ‘fore spirits prize!

An itchy palm means moneys come,

Don’t scratch! Or it’ll be undone!

 

To knock on wood means your ‘UN-jinxed’

(So good won’t be erased, one thinks.)

Those lucky pennies? Just make sure

Their heads are up. (Or please detour!)

 

Don’t Stand Your Chopsticks in Your Food

It forms a number 4. You’re screwed!

Your mirrors shouldn’t face their friends,

A portal forms which never ends!

 

No Happy Birthdays said before,

No coming in a different door,

Dropped keys on tables says, “You slut!”

No complimenting. It’s bad luck…

 

With all these fears and many more,

With consequences by the score,

One thing I’ll say—you’ll be relieved… 

They get their power when you believe!

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?

The music system you like best?Try 8-Tracks. Better than the rest!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi Today!Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another MimiAsk a Stupid Question (September 27)Golf (October 4)Throw a Party (October 11)Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)

Opera (October 25)

 

Train-ing Day

 You know the word: Serendipity? “The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way: "A fortunate stroke of serendipity"

I’m beginning to believe . . .

 

“But you’re sure it’s okay that we’re here?”

Sally turned from the large, covered birdcage she had been contemplating for the last couple of minutes and shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“I mean, won’t we be in the way?”

She looked puzzled. “Not if you stay . . . out of the way.”

She had a point. Mom and I looked at each other and Mom shrugged. I should probably mention that our discussion was moot. Mom and I were on the train with Sally and her movie people, barreling toward the destination of her newest shoot.

And, apart from jumping off, superhero/train robber style, while the locomotive was under full throttle, we were pretty much committed . . .

The day had started out fairly normally.

Sun rising.

Breakfast.

Sally packing to leave for her next job.

Then the phone had rung.

From what I had picked up from Sally’s end of the conversation, their location had just been cancelled—not an unusual occurrence in the modern, Covid ‘filming world’. And, wonder of wonders, a similar location found just outside our fair city.

Okay, you have to know that this doesn’t happen often.

In point of fact, never.

So our family was a bit excited by the prospect of Sally filming somewhere close.

Then when she had turned and invited Mom and me on the set, that ‘bit’ of excitement . . . blossomed.

And here, not two hours after that initial phone conversation, we found ourselves enroute to sharing Sally’s exciting life.

I know what you’re thinking. Sally’s exciting life is often—usually—a bit more exciting than the normal person is ready for.

What can I say? Covid has been boring.

Sally turned back to the cage and, with a single pull, slipped the cover off, disclosing the fat, green parrot that resided there. It blinked at her ‘owlishly’ for a moment or two.

“Hey, Herc!” Sally said, “say something funny!”

The parrot blinked one dark eye at her and dipped its head. “Pleased to meet you!” the bird said.

Mom and I burst out laughing. “Did it say that by accident?” Mom asked. “Or in response to . . .?”

Sally made a face at her then turned back to the parrot. “Herc! Am I bothering you?”

The bird turned its head upside down. “Nope. Not listening!”

This time, even Sally laughed.

She looked at us. “This is Hercules. Isn’t that the perfect name? What could be better than a parrot named after a demigod?”

“What, indeed?” I muttered under my breath.

“He’s the co-star of my new film, Jailbird. Sort of a ‘James Bond if he was a bird’ theme. He’s super clever!”

“Smarter than you!” Herc said, bobbing up and down.

Mom frowned. This was getting a little scary.

“He’s so clever that they have to put a special lock on his cage. He’s gotten out of everything else!”

Herc walked along the perch to the lock on the door of his cage and pecked at it a couple of times. Then he looked at Sally. “Please?”

“No way, Herc,” Sally said, laughing. “I’ve heard the stories!” She turned back to us. “See? It takes two hands to make it work.” She demonstrated.

The lock clicked free and in that moment, Hercules launched his bright green and not unsubstantial self at the door.

It burst open, knocking Sally aside, and instantly, a feathered ruffian was leaping and flapping about the car amidst cries of “Not again!” and “Herc, you idiot!” and “Eeeeeeee! There’s a bird in my hair!”

The door at the front of the car opened suddenly, disclosing the movie’s director, Jamie Lassiter, whom Sally now knew on a first-name basis. The woman instinctively ducked as Herc made a bid for the openness of the open road—or whatever lay on the other side of the door Jamie had just exited—and, in that split-second, Herc succeeded.

He didn’t escape totally.

I know you were probably worried.

Nope. Instead, he made it as far as the next car. The locomotive.

I probably don’t have to describe the chaos that ensued. The shrieking engineers—did you know that a burly, coverall-clad man can scream just like a little girl when properly motivated?

Yeah, it was news to me as well.

The shuffling and dancing of rotund male figures and the subsequent and frantic application of brakes that effectively tipped nearly every passenger—and much of the stored cargo—out of their seats and/or places of security.

The breathless pause as everything finally came to a halt.

You know that pause—the one the precedes the looks of venom as everyone begins to sort out a mess.

“Oops,” Sally said.

“Salleeee!” Jamie shouted.

Sally bounced to her feet. “Yeah, Jamie?”

“This was you, wasn’t it?!”

Sally shrugged and grinned.

I closed my eyes, expecting at any moment to see my sister’s fair head rolling freely up the aisle.

“Please tell me someone had a camera going!”

A short, rather squat man seated up the aisle from us with a camera pressed to his eye, got to his feet. “Always, James!”

“Thank God,” Jamie said. “Print!”

See? Serendipity.

What, for anyone else on the planet, would have been a complete and total disaster was, for Sally, a career enhancer.

Yeah, I don’t get it either.

Use Your Words is a monthly word challenge that I totally love!
Each month, we participants submit words to our intrepid leader, Karen, which she then redistributes.None of us knows who will get our words or what they will do with them till now.We're as surprised as you are!

My words this month were:cage ~ demigod ~ locomotive ~ theme ~ green
And given to me by my amazing friend, Rena at: https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog
                             
                    
Enjoying yourself? Keep the party going with these other “Use Your Words” posts:
 
Baking In ATornado
Wandering Web Designer
Climaxed
What TFSarah
Part-time Working HockeyMom

Re-Union-ed

 I live in the past.

It's peaceful there...

The group. Husby is in the back row. With the whiskers.
Donny is directly in front of him.
Reunions are so much fun.

Spending hours - sometimes days - remembering the fun times.

Oh, and sometimes commiserating together over bad times, too. But even those, shared, become good memories.

Husby and I spent the a weekend immersed in his reminiscences. He and twenty or so of his schoolmates, as part of a grand twelve-class reunion, assembled for a wonderful couple of days.

Husby was speaking to his high school best friend, Donny MacLean. The conversation went something like this:

Husby: Remember our trips to the dump?

Donny: The TVs!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was the sixties. 

Two fourteen-year-old boys were looking for something to do.

They decided it was a good day to ride their bikes over to the dump. Just to see what amazing things they could discover.

In case you’re wondering, this was a favourite pastime. Twenty years BE. (Before electronics.) And before the town dump was regulated. Or controlled.

And before the invention of germs.

Or good judgement.

Or danger.

Husby was carrying his twenty-two rifle. (All of the above.)

Because.

The two of them scrambled around for a while.

Then discovered a heap of old TVs dumped and forgotten by who-knows-who.

To me, such a thing would have suggested storage units.

Or display cabinets.

But these two boys were a little more knowledgeable. 

And knew about vacuum tubes.

And, more specifically, what would happen when something disturbed or upset said tubes.

Gleefully, they lined up the TVs.

Then they backed away to a safe distance. Roughly a quarter-mile.

Carefully, the first shooter took aim.

Pulled the trigger.

And the two of them stared at the spot where the TV used to be.

The bullet had struck the screen (actually the front of the vacuum tube) and the entire thing had exploded. 

I do mean exploded.

A sheen of shiny dust that used to be a glass object, and a few splinters of wood littered the area.

The two boys stared.

Then grinned.

And took aim at another TV . . .

The two grown men laughed together over this memory.

And their survival.

Fifty Day #5

 

Gramma Tolley had bins of toys.

Bins.

But the toy that everyone wanted? Fought over?

A necklace made of  spools. The kind that used to hold thread.

30 years have passed.

Recently my daughter presented me with a precious gift. All for myself.

I cried.

We’ve come full circle…

Today is Fifty Day!

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 . . .

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

Leave your contribution in the comments...

A FRIENDly Pie

 

Home economics for girls and shop class for boys.

The 1960s pigeonhole view of the world.

In Milk River, where I grew up, it was a tradition long set.

And trying to buck convention didn’t work.

Trust me, I tried . . .

They had the wondrous world of power tools to explore as they overhauled engines and built furniture.

We learned the proper use of a skillet, how to clean anything and sewing our sleeves in backwards. (Okay, they really didn’t teach that last – that’s just how I did it.)

Mostly, it was all right.

I mean, I like cooking and cleaning and sewing.

But when you do it at home a lot, there’s really not much excitement to doing it at school, too. Right?

Well, there wasn’t for me.

Every day, when we reported to our Home-Ec lab, it was not without a longing glance at the line of boys heading in the opposite direction.

In Fort Macleod, where Husby grew up, it was the same. The girls went one way.

And the boys the other. But that wasn’t the end of their perks.

Not only did they get to fool around with potentially life-threatening implements, they also got to eat whatever the girls had whipped up.

Can anyone spell n.o.t. f.a.i.r.?

Sigh.

One such day stands out in Husby’s mind . . .

The aromas wafting from the kitchens down the hall had been teasing the young men all afternoon. Causing them to be even less attentive than usual.

I know that’s hard to fathom but stay with me.

Just as they were threatening to fall to the cold cement in a hunger-induced swoon, the door opened and manna from Heaven walked in.

Fine. It was several girls carrying slices of pie.

Sheesh.

There was only one thing wrong.

There weren’t enough pieces of pie to go around.

Rather than start what was sure to be a battle to the death, the teacher announced that each boy could have exactly half of one of the slices.

Numbly, they agreed.

Husby and his good friend, Donny MacLean were handed one of the plates.

Husby, ever the gentleman, told his friend to eat half and then give the rest to him.

Donny nodded happily and Husby turned away, intent on whatever he had been doing when their class had been interrupted.

A few moments later, Donny nudged Husby with the plate.

It was finally his turn.

Eagerly, he reached for his share of the treat. And found himself staring at a gaping, empty shell. He turned and glared at his ‘friend’.

“I saved you half,” Donny said, shrugging.Pie with friends. Brings a whole new meaning to ‘taking your half out of the middle’ . . .

Eyesore No More

Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva Berg

As with many rural families in Southern Alberta in the 1950s, Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva Berg carried on without the benefits of indoor plumbing.

They made do with the little building out back.Also known as (but not limited to): John, backhouse, outhouse, privy, johnny, two-holer, little house, one-holer, crapper, biffy, can, garden house, outdoor library, reading room, toilet, shanty, white house, rest room, big John, half-moon, outdoor plumbing, dooley, half-moon house, jo, little house behind the big house, Roosevelt, stink house, baggy, bank, bass house, bath with a path, biffy, Big Bertha, boonie, bughouse, Casey Jones, comfort station, corner house, courthouse, cribby, depository, does and bucks, doll house, dollar house, first national bank, going out back, going out to mail a letter, going to see the president, going to take a walk, gooseberry grinders, gramma's house, head, hers and his, hooter, hoover, Jones house, jug, latrine, little brown shack, little house out back, little shack out back, opera house, path house, privy house, queen's throne, roost, sears-roebuck library, shanty house, sheriff, superintendent's office, Uncle john, Uncle Sam's roost, dunny.

And many more too numerous (or PG) to mention.

Back to my story . . .

Also, as with other rural families of . . . (see above) Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva built onto their house and added a (gasp) modern bathroom with (bigger gasp) indoor plumbing.

Their day had come.

No more quick dashes along a frozen path in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. No more Uncle Gordon warming up the car so he could drive as close as possible to the privy and then warm up as soon as possible when the ‘chores were done’.

Paradise.

But now, with installation of the ‘new and improved’, Aunt Eva was determined to get rid of the ‘old and outdated’. And the sooner the better. According to her, it was an eyesore.

Uncle Bern agreed in principle. But turning that agreement into something more proactive took time. After all there was a lot of nostalgic history attached to the little shack. To quote him: “Much important planning had been carried out in silent, undisturbed contemplation in that quiet, dark space over the years.”

But in case you're wondering, Aunt Eva won out.

Apparently her friends are a little more influential than his.

One day, a tornado touched down on their ranch.

Exactly on that little house.

It plucked the little building from the ground and carried it a quarter-mile away—finally dropping it near the canal.

When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. 

Shoe-d

My first were red and kinda cute,

White stitching made them pop,

Protected little toddler feet,

When cows were wont to stomp!

 

From there I learned to lace and tie,

White runners were the thing.

Until the day that I found out,

They don’t do well in spring.

 

From there, a lot of shoes went past,

Both feminine and not,

One thing they had in common were,

They were by Mama bought.

 

The sling-backs from my outfit broke,

My teen-aged heart broke, too,

I carried one, and wore the mate,

Told friends the break was new.

 

Competing for the Hereford Queen,

Dad said to dress the part,

Fine, handmade boots, he bought for me,

Convinced that I’d look smart!

 

Poor newlyweds. The shoes I bought,

Though cheap (and from a bin),

Well, when I finally wore them out,

‘Twas just like losing kin!

 

My running years saw shoes galore,

Some cheap, some with a bill,

But, oh the miles they helped me run,

I wish I had them still!

 

And now I look from here to there,

At shoes I loved or scoffed.

Some comfort now, is all I ask…

And easy on and off.

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?

A superstition you'd defy?Next week, we'll give it our best try!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Shoes (September 6) From Mimi Today!Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from MimiRemembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another MimiAsk a Stupid Question (September 27)Golf (October 4)Throw a Party (October 11)Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)Opera (October 25)

A Hot Hand

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friendsMom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with their friends, the Jones - their nearest neighbours.

At the Jones’ ranch fifteen miles away.

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steadily losing battle.

Another hand was dealt.

And Casey loudly voiced his displeasure at yet another 'bad' hand, then sighed heavily and played his bad hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel suggested refreshments and got to her feet. She bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom followed her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Moments later, Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands and announced that their game had officially concluded.

Casey had thrown the cards into the stove.Yep. Something had to be done.Good thing he was on hand to do it.

Breaking Bread

Worth fighting for . . .In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
Bruised but triumphant, the winner would carefully carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, the sacred placing of the bread was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Soon, the instant the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won. Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but tastier.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread. (Okay, remember what I said about manners? Forget it.) Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .
Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .