Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 61

Good Remembering

I have a selective memory.

Sometimes, there’s a reason . . .

I was going on a date. A nice young man had asked and we were heading out to see a movie.

It was one I’d seen before. Death Wish. A Charles Bronson getting-it-done, bad-guys-beware sort of movie. 

I had recommended it to my date. I had seen it already and remembered it as a most satisfying experience where the bag guys get got and crime in New York hits an all-time low.

All because of one man who, for some reason, decides to take the law into his own hands.

We pulled up to the drive-in entrance, paid our fee and found a place to park.

“You’ll love this movie!” I told my date as I stuffed popcorn into my mouth. “Charles gets it done!”

The lights came up on the screen. The opening credits. Opening scene.

Two women getting attacked in their own apartment.

I slid to the floor and stuffed my fingers into my ears.

My date, wide-eyed as he watched the screen, finally turned to me. “I thought you said it was a good movie!”

“Oh it is! Is the bad stuff over?”

“Ummm . . .”

I slid back into my seat. “Oh, I love this part! Where Charlie takes out his attackers with a roll of quarters!”

And, just like that, I realized something.

I had never seen the ‘bad part’.

I had covered my eyes and plugged my ears until that scene was over.

Fast forward forty years.

I still do the same. Ignore the ‘bad parts’. Well, first of all, I avoid violent movies altogether, but when I’m sitting through a movie and it unexpectedly dumps a nasty scene on me, I cover my eyes – usually with Husby’s hand. Let's face it, through my lens, Platoon was just a walk through the jungle with some soldiers.
I don't like it when good people get hurt. It happens enough in real life. I don't like it in my entertainment . . .

I’ve seen a lot of good movies.

Just don’t ask me to ‘scene-by-scene’ them for you.I might leave something important out . . . 

Smart or Brave?

In the great Kingdom of Odd, there stands a lake. A great, wonderful lake filled with clear, cold water.

It covers many miles of the prosperous kingdom and provides much-needed life-giving water to people, livestock and crops.

 

Now this lake has been there since anyone—even great Grampa Earnest—can remember. It is a central focal point. A sign-post. A natural, life-giving wonder. Welcome diversion for the foot-sore world wanderer. Even a tourist destination.

 

Its beaches beckon. To the young and high-spirited for parties. To the young families for castle-building and sunburns. And to the middle-aged and elderly for a spot to park their umbrellas and themselves for a much-needed rest.

 

For years, it was simply named: The Lake. Short. Succinct. All that was needed because, it’s the only lake for hundreds of miles in any direction. And easy to remember because, let’s face it, It’s a lake.

 

But then, the name was changed. It was named after a would-be prince for his . . . Exploits? Deeds? Actions? How about we let you decide because this is where our story starts . . .

 

A good, kind and fair king had an only daughter. A lovely, dark-eyed, dark-haired (and most importantly, intelligent) girl. Now, because this girl would one day be queen, her father felt she needed a partner.

 

Someone who cared more for her than he did for fame, politics or money. Who she could turn to for honest advice/encouragement. And would support her in all her royal decisions; and some household ones as well.

 

Now, because there were many, many young men in the Kingdom who possessed at least one of the specified qualifications—ie. they were male—it was decided that a contest would be held. Testing their various abilities.

 

Extended visits with the queen-to-be to ascertain compatible-ness. Debates. Tests of general Kingdom dos and don’ts—legal, ethical and etiquette-ical. Visits to nurseries and pre-schools because, hey, maybe some royal children some day, right?

 

Testing began in July—because that’s when they had time—and was meant to wrap up mid-August, but, because there were many more young men than anticipated (some even satellited in from neighbouring countries) things went waaaay overtime.

The finalists, two of them, were officially announced the first of October in a flurry of balls and celebrations. What followed was an intense week of conclusive competitions, culminating in a final act of supreme bravery.

 

Now this act of bravery was to be chosen by each of the young men who were to disclose it to the king, then set out to fulfill. Whoever succeeded (and/or lived), would become the Queen’s partner.

 

One young man determined to travel to a far-away land and fetch back a magic feather, purported to give its bearer added intelligence, mega experience, bonus lives and/or warrior abilities. And he did. And it did.

 

The other man, had been planning his ‘if-I-get-chosen’ act of bravery for months: he would swim the entire width of The Lake. Now admittedly, this determination was originally made in the summer. For a spectacular summer enactment.

 

Nevertheless (and disregarding the thick layer of Autumnal ice that had formed pre-maturely on The Lake), he chopped a hole just large enough for his handsome self and dove in. Never to be seen by anyone again.

 

After a few days, in the noticeable absence of further competition, Mr. Feather Procurer was declared the winner and he and the future queen were duly married and embarked on what would be a very happy life together. 

 

And now the point of my story: The naming of The Lake. In memory of the brave young man who had risked all in that final act of brave-ry, the name of The Lake was changed. To Lake Stupid.

 

Swim at your own risk.

Today’s post is a writing challenge! Each month one of the participating bloggers pick 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: 37

It was chosen by: ME!

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them out!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

 

Taking the Cake

Today, deliciousness, we’ll take,

We celebrate Raspberry Cake!

Wee Jack was a sparrow of common decent,

Not different from others that came and that went,

He loved looking for seeds in the trees, on the soil,

But for some, in particular, daily, he’d toil,

And what were those seeds that were best of them all?

The ones found in raspberries, plump, red and small.

To discover these seeds, all around our Jack went,

He thought they would fill all his re-qui-re-ments,

Then that day! During searching, he perched for a rest,

On the bannister outside some posh human nest.

He peeped through the glass as he rested out there,

Saw something that caused him to pause. And to stare,

For a human was carrying something quite grand,

That looked most intriguing in that human’s hands,

It was tall and looked frosted (like winter) with ice,

And from every layer, oozed raspberries. Nice!

It had his attention. Let’s leave it at that,

Picture Jack as he was, ‘gainst the window, pressed flat,

Just out of reach were those berries, alas

See him wiping a tear and then licking the glass.

Then he followed from window to window as they,

Tried to carry his raspberry ‘something’ away,

Then horror of horrors, he had to just sit,

And watch as they ate it. Not leaving a bit.

Now if sparrows could cry, you’d see Jack shed a few,

This was more than a sparrow could handle. Times two!

He watched in despair as they ate every crumb,

All his feathers were limp and the rest of him, numb,

Dejected, he leaned ‘gainst a small flower pot

Then he noticed a thing that, before, he had not,

The smallest of humans had left quite a bit

Of the magical raspberry-oozing comfit,

E’en better, the person who tidied the lot,

Threw it all in the trash, left not even a spot.

But Jack chuckled merrily, twitched an eyelid,

Cause he knew where those bags ended up, yes, he did.

Before he had time to give his beak a clack, 

That bag ended up in the can. Out in back.

With that sharp little beak and his needle-like claws,

Jack ripped that bag open. ‘Thout so much as a pause,

He jumped right on in, started stirring around,

I don’t have to tell you just what our Jack found…

Why that raspberry ‘stuff’, there is was, good as new,

So he pecked at those seeds and he started to chew,

Though those seeds were the one thing our Jackie adored, 

He realized something he hadn’t before,

The sweet ‘stuff’ they clung to was so tasty, too,

He nibbled a bit. Nibbled till he was through!

With the ‘stuff’ and those seeds safely housed in his tum,

Our Jackie went home and stretched out in the sun.

That wise little bird, he learned something that day,

Something we learn while just children. At play,

Raspberries? Delish when from bushes we take…

They taste even better when topping a cake!

 

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’ve something new to try...It’s PARENT’s DAY, hope you’ll drop by!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Raspberry Cake Day (July 19) Today!Parents Day (July 26)Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2)Cats (August 9)Tell a Joke (August 16)Wind (August 23)Monsters (August 30)Shoes (September 6) From MimiDefy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from MimiRemembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

Bowled Out -or- Sally ‘Hits’ the Alley

 Did you know you can actually get . . . height . . . on a bowling ball?

Well, it turns out you can.

Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .

Things are opening up in our grand old city. People are starting to do more than peek through their shutters. Now they are timidly peeking around corners and *gasp* stepping semi-boldly out onto sidewalks.

We may just have survived this.

Of course, we’re still living with Sally, so there’s that.

Ahem . . .

Last night, Sally and Mort, in an attempt to mix clay, burned out the motor on the ice cream maker. Mom was less than happy. In fact, I think she was seriously considering enrolling Sally and/or Mort in a do-it-yourself Brain Surgery class--with Mom acting as head knife. And before any of you start to think her reaction a trifle . . . unjust, let me remind you of the 'bear cub' incident. I guarantee speculation will cease. 

Now before Mom could issue her ultimatum, Peter, he of the amazing intuition, suggested the four of us ‘lovebirds’ (my word, not his) should step out for the evening. Let our hair down. Paint the town red. Go a little crazy. Party till you drop.

Of course, he said none of those. I think his actual words were: “How about the four of us go out for the evening?” or something similarly normal.

The rest, my brain added. Because when one goes out with Sally, any or all of the above are a distinct possibility.

Moving on . . .

He then followed his invitation with the memorable words: “The bowling alley’s open!”

And that was all it took.

Sally and Mort were immediately crazy for the idea.

And I went along because, even with Sally in the company, I had Peter.

Things started out—as they usually do—very well.

We got our shoes. We got some snacks. We got the middle lane.

We were set.

The first couple of games were remarkable. (Not for our scores or anything because, let’s face it, I’ll probably never break that #66 barrier. Sigh.)

But because they were un-remarkable.

I even started to relax.

Okay, you who know Sally, also know that that’s the time when things can immediately slide sideways.

It was Sally’s turn. Gracefully, she sauntered out to the lane, grabbed her ball—a bright orange one—and stepped to the battle zone.

She did her wind up.

She swung the ball forward.

And that’s when it happened.

I’m not quite sure how and I really didn’t get a chance to go back and investigate (due to being escorted promptly from the premises), but the ball . . . didn’t let go of her thumb.

True story. It . . . clung.

The unexpected grippage caused it to miss its normal trajectory and veer off somewhat closer to the stratosphere.

But what it missed in course, it made up in speed and precision, hitting the emergency sprinkler in the ceiling with amazing accuracy.

What followed was a confused jumble of scrambling workers and enraged managers.

Which resulted in our finding ourselves outside on the sidewalk with firm instructions that if we ever think of returning, we won’t.

Oh, and the recently-removed Covid signs? They’re back. But they look something like this:

For those of you who think these Sally stories are a little . . . unbelievable. This is for you!

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:  ice cream maker ~ brain surgery ~ unjust ~ speculation ~ bear cub ~ ultimatum  . . .

came to me via Karen from  my good friend Tamara at:  https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/

Thank you SO much! 
Now go and see what the others in the group have created!                            

Baking In A Tornado 

Wandering Web Designer 

Climaxed 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom  

What TF Sarah 

Home to Meet Mama

While we’re on the subject of scary creatures . . .
It really only looked scary.

Maybe I should explain.

Husby played basketball.

Actually, Husby played basketball well. As did his teammates. 

Because of that, they were invited to many different tournaments.

But that has nothing to do with this story...

Hmmm... Wait. He was away playing basketball for the weekend. While there, he found a great store that sold neat things.

He bought something.

I guess basketball has a little bit to do with the story.Moving on . . .

The something he bought was a snake.

A large snake.

Rubber.

Convincing.

He thought it was cool.

When packing up from their tournament, he stuffed said snake into his backpack and headed for the bus. 

The next morning, in a hurry, he dumped the gear from his ‘weekend’ backpack onto his bed to make way for his ‘going-to-school’ backpack.

Something stuck.

His new friend.

He pulled it out and gave it a toss among the other paraphernalia.

Then left.

Some hours later, another day of school behind him, he entered the front door of his family’s home.

And there was his mother. 

Now it wasn’t unusual for his mother to greet her sons at the door when they came home.

Usually it was a cheerful exchange of ‘how-was-your-day?’ or ‘anything-exciting-happen?’ followed immediately by ‘I’ve-been-baking-food’s-in-the-kitchen’.

Today was different.

She was sitting in the armchair.

In the semi-darkened living room.

Actually, ‘huddled’ would be a more accurate term.Husby walked in. “Hi, Mom!”

She turned to look at him. For some seconds, she said nothing.

“Mom?”

“What is that thing on your bed?”

Just FYI. When you bring a friend home from your weekend . . .It’s probably best to tell your mom.

Spidered

Gerry has an intense unnatural horrendous unhealthy paralyzing fear of spiders and all things spider-y.

And members of the same family working in the same place can be a blessing.

These two statements go together . . .

Logan and his mother, Gerry, both worked at the Raymond Mercantile.

She, upstairs: administration.

He, main floor: sales and everything else.

It was a sweet setup.

Most days he would climb the broad, wooden stairway in the center of the store and lunch with his mom in the upper reaches of the store, which, as it so happened, were completely open to the lower reaches, allowing the upper echelons to actually look down upon the lower echelons.

On this particular day, as Logan approached the stairs, he noticed a large bin had been placed as an endcap to the row of shelves nearest the stairway.

Anyone ascending – or especially descending – would get a full view of . . . whatever that bin held.

And that bin held rubber animals.

That would have been okay, except that many of those rubber animals were spidery in shape. And large in size.

He called the manager over. The conversation went something like this . . .

Logan: “Ummm . . . you have to move that bin.”

Manager: “Why?”

Logan: “Because my mom is up those stairs.” Points. “And she won’t be able to make it home because she won’t be able to come down those stairs.” Points again.

Manager (frowning): “What?”

Logan (patiently): “My mom has a paralyzing (see above) fear of spiders. If she sees this bin with the . . . erm . .  . spiders, she won’t be able to walk past it to leave the store.”

Manager: “What? No. Your mom is the most together person I’ve ever met.”

A little aside here. Yes. Gerry is the most together person you will ever meet. She also has a paralyzing fear of spiders. Back to my story . . .

Logan: Picks up a spider. Holds it for Manager to see. Then tosses it backward over his shoulder into the upper reaches of the store.

Pause here for someone to take a large breath . . .

Gerry: SSSCCCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

Sounds of frantic scrambling and furniture flying.

Logan: “See?”Good thing he had her back.

Creative Craftiness

Can't you just see the mischief?Husby is crafty.

And by this, I mean the ‘he likes to make things’ crafty.

Not the ‘crafty’ crafty.

Although with further thought, he qualifies both ways.

Moving on . . .

At times when most young men his age were watching TV or getting into mischief, he was . . . creating . . . stuff.

Some of it useful.

And some . . .

Husby had been busy in the garage and in his bedroom. The periodic sounds of hammering and sawing alternated with the occasional lapse into quieter busy-ness.

Finally, all was silent.

His mother, in the course of her day, went into his room.

He was lying on his bed, reading.

A rope dangled down the wall. She frowned. Surely that hadn’t been there before. “What’s this?” she asked.

Her son looked at her. “It’s a Works Donit.”She stared at him. “A what?”“A Works Donit.”“Okay. What’s a Works Donit?”He smiled. “Pull the rope.”

Now you have to remember that this was the mother of a son who would one day rig his car horn to honk only when the ashtray was pulled out (see here).

Among other things.

She was justifiably cautious.

She looked around the room.

Seeing nothing immediately dangerous, she shrugged.

And gave the rope a pull.

On the far side of the room, connected to a complex network of ropes and pulleys, a trap door opened.

Revealing, in large letters, the words: Works, Donit?

His mother frowned and released the rope. The trap door closed.

Grinning, she pulled it again.

With similar results.

Then, shaking her head, she left the room.

Husby smiled happily. Mission accomplished.

Or so he thought.

A short time later, his mom was back.

With one of her friends.

“Go ahead. Pull it!” Husby’s mom said, indicating the rope.

Gingerly, the friend reached out and gave it a pull.

Obligingly, the little trap door opened, again revealing the aforementioned words.

The friend stared. Then started to laugh. She pulled the rope several more times.

Then, “This is amazing!” She looked around. “I could spend all day down here!”Okay. Now mission accomplished.

Cheering

We humans, we’re a social bunch,

We love to visit over lunch,

Or gather all together to,

Laugh and joke and ballyhoo.

But isolation, we abhor,

In Pandemic, e’en before!

We’re social creatures, to survive,

Those networks help keep us alive,

But as we age, those networks grow,

More limited as people go,

And if we don’t maintain or build,

Important needs won’t be fulfilled,

And real risks are amplified,

Like health, dementia, suicide,

What can be done to help them out—

Those lonely hearts we hear about?

Increase their people, draw a crowd,

Keep them busy, start it now!

Cause growing old’s not meant to be

Done alone. We all agree,

Today’s ‘Cheer Up the Lonely Day’,

To ascertain that they’re okay,

Let’s make a pact when this day’s gone,

We’ll make it daily from now on!

 

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 your breath, we're sure to take,We're celebrating Raspberry Cake!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Cheer the Lonely (July 12) Today!Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)Parents Day (July 26)Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2)Cats (August 9)Tell a Joke (August 16)Wind (August 23)Monsters (August 30)Shoes (September 6) From MimiDefy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from MimiRemembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

Here’s Goo for You!

There is a toddler golden rule:

Silence is golden, except when you have a toddler. Then it’s suspicious. 

I have a new one:

If a toddler is giggling, it could go either way . . .

Our family is large.

Because of that, food is always purchased in quantity.

[A little aside here . . . Our youngest daughter had moved out on her own for the first time and was grocery shopping with her roommates. She made a momentous discovery. One that she had to phone home to tell her mother about. “Mom! Did you know that peanut butter and Miracle Whip come in little jars? Really! I had to buy them. They were so cute!”]

But I digress . . .

True to form, we purchase many things by the restaurant-sized pail.

There is one drawback.

Buying in quantity isn’t always practical when said substance needs to be refrigerated.

Unless one also possesses a restaurant-sized fridge.

Which we don’t.

For that reason, condiments are quite often stored in the garage. In the sun room. Or right outside, depending on the cycle of the Great Canadian Weather at that particular moment.

Our house has another option. When it was built, the contractor neglected to insulate the floor under the back kitchen entrance.

In winter, that floor gets . . . a tad chilly.

Perfect for extra food storage.

And right off the kitchen.

It was in this area that I had placed a bucket (see above) of ranch dressing.

Okay, yes, it was within perfect reach of Grandson #3 (hereinafter known as GS3), but the lid was on.

And let’s face it, even grandma needed help getting that lid off.

I’ve finally gotten to my story . . .

The family was over.

Dinner was done and the older kids had gone downstairs to play.

The adults and those deemed too young for the hijinks of the older crowd were in the front room.

Visiting/crawling about. Maybe I should clarify. The adults were visiting. The babies were crawling about.

GS3 had disappeared into the kitchen.

We weren’t concerned. Everything was buttoned down/closed/out of reach.

He was there for some minutes.

Then the giggling started.

A giggling toddler is a happy toddler is a good sign. Right?

Ummm . . .

A few minutes later, his mother went in to check on him.

“Uh-oh!” Mom-speak for, ‘We’ve just set our levels to def-con one!’

I hurried in.

The walls (and, indeed, every available surface of the back entrance) were heavily spotted in thick, white goo.

GS3 had somehow wrenched the lid off that pail of soppy, white substance. Dunked his little fingers.

Then flung them around.

Numerous times.

Thus, the giggle. 

Mom took the toddler for a needed cleaning and Grandma started in on the mess.

I will say this. The coating proclivity of Ranch dressing has never been fully explored. Someone should get a grant and do a study. Preferably a parent . . .

Also: If anyone needs help removing those impossible-to-remove lids, I have a toddler who can help.

A Real Kick

You un-decorate how you want and I'll un-decorate how I want.It was a party.

And all sorts of things happen at a party, right . . .?

Becoming a teenager was a big thing.

Well, it was to me.

And I was having a party to celebrate.

A different party from any I had had before.

This party was going to include *dun-dun-duuuunnnn!* boys!

Yikes.

I had planned carefully. Games of pool and ping-pong. Music. Dancing. 

Food.

I had even decorated with streamers and balloons and invited everyone – jocks. Cool kids. Regular Joes (my group).

Everyone.

And, wonder of wonders, they were all coming.

It was going to be great.

It was great.

Competitions ongoing in both the ping-pong and pool rooms.

Kids dancing in the family room.

Kids circling the food table. 

But nothing is so good that it can’t be made just a bit better, right?

Wrong.

Toward the end of the evening, I was in the ping-pong room.

A final match had just ended and the champion crowned. 

The lights had been dimmed.

Did I mention that I had decorated with balloons?

I did.

That is important here . . .

Suddenly, I had the fun idea of ending the evening by breaking up the decorations.

And what would I use? My foot.

Okay, I can see the look on your face. But it honestly made sense at the time.

I chose my target - one of the lower balloons fastened to the wall. I took aim.

And kicked.

The balloon gave a satisfying ‘pop’ as it expired.

But it remained fastened where it was, making a dark shadow on the wall. 

A large black shadow.

Weird.

Before I could investigate, one of the cool boys I had been trying to impress all evening decided to take my example and kicked the balloon next to mine.

His results were even more dramatic. His balloon also perished on a lively note. But it must have been a vastly larger balloon because it left a vastly larger shadow.

A foot-shaped shadow.

Oh-oh.

On closer inspection, it turned out that, not only had our balloons been destroyed.

But the wall behind them had, too.

Yep. My party had just turned a corner. The one wherein property damage is considered in the cost.

I managed to stop anyone else from following in my footsteps – so to speak.

But the damage was there for anyone to see.

Anyone.

My dad was in that group.

Shortly after that, the party broke up and peace once more settled across the Stringam household.

I managed to keep my mom out of that room for the remainder of the evening by offering to clean it myself. (Yeah, she was surprised, too.) Alone in there, I turned the lights up and examined the damage.

Yow.

Then I noticed that the drywall (the renovations were ongoing and the taping and mudding and painting had not yet been completed) was a yellow colour.

Hmmm . . . almost the exact colour of the pads of yellow, legal-sized paper on my dad’s desk.

I dashed upstairs and secured two sheets of the stuff and some glue.

Hurrying back to the scene of the crime, I held one of them up to the wall. Eureka! (Don’t you just love words?!) It was almost the exact same colour!

Quickly applying glue, I fastened a sheet of paper over each gaping hole.

Gone!

I will mention here that my parents never mentioned it there.

I mean, the person who finally did the finishing on that wall must have discovered my oh-so-clever camouflage. But my parents sold the house shortly after my party and the paper was still on the wall the day we moved out. 

To this day, I don’t know if they ever knew.

I was always afraid to ask.