Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 64

See. And Do

Grandma was babysitting.

Cousins, the two-year-old (H) and the three-year-old (B) had been playing in the front room.

Occasional outbursts over the train.

The doll.

The stroller.

The spot on the couch.

Whose turn it was to breathe the surrounding air . . .

Had been painstakingly and endlessly sorted out.

Silence had descended.

There’s nothing quite as suspicious as two toddlers who have gone quiet. 

Grandma hurried to investigate, skidding to a stop in the entry to the living room.

The two little girls were still playing. But had changed things up a bit . . .

B held a tiny water paint set in one hand. In the other, the dry miniscule brush. “Look at me, please,” she said.

H was seated, facing her older cousin.

B was ‘painting’ H’s face. “Look at me, please,” she said again. She applied a couple of strokes. “Look at me, please.” A couple more.

Grandma smiled and stood quietly watching.

Have I mentioned that B’s mom is a face-painter? Well, she is.

A good one.

It doesn’t matter what we try to teach them, kids do what they see us do.

 Actions definitely speak louder than words.Although in this case, the words are nice, too . . .

The novice The professional
The result

Stringam Travels

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, semi-hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

The Stringams join the end of a line of cars.

Dad peers ahead through the windshield. "Huh. Weird." 

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom spits on a Kleenex and starts to scrub the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet. But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along. The Stringams creep along behind it, more cars joining them every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster."Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, is standing on the front seat and has started doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here." Mom pulls the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear. We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because the Stringams will be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss." She turns to Dad. "How long till the turn?" 

"At this rate? About three days."

The family is heading to the relatives for dinner. Mom and Dad are beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.She glances around at her brood. Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine. Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses. The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms crossed on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap. "There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

Dad glances back at his second son. "There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" 

"You can have some of mine!" Anita offers her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red and makes a face. "That's okay. I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.Again the potty comes into play. Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad again leans forward and peers through the front windshield.

"I'll tell a story!" Mom volunteers. She proceeds to drag out her Reader's Digest and regale the family with a humorous gem about being raised in the ghettos of New York.The story winds down and she closes the magazine.George sighs. "I'm bored."Mom blinks. That was fast. Then her face lights up. "Let's play a game! How about 20 questions?"

Jerry drops his magazine to the floor. "Okay! I've got it!"

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Is it dead?"

"Maybe."

"Hey! You can't have maybes! Only 'yes' or 'no'!"The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad grins and points. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often!"

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he shouts with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver shouts back. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" 

They wave to each other and the Stringam car moves off.

Just another family car trip.

On Doing It Yourself

Let's run through this again . . .I'm a people-pleaser.Or try to be.Call it a weakness.But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.Most of the time, it's fun.Occasionally, not.Let me tell you about it . . .When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.I worked hard at it.Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.I had meals ready at meal times.Kept the laundry done.Cleaned the house.Ran errands.This went on for some time.Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.And probably should.Case in point:Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.True story.Can everyone say “gullible”?This went on for nearly three years.Then, one day, we were at a reception.My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.And that's when I hit him.Oh, not hard.Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.Ha!There.I said it.Kleenex, anyone?P.S. On occasion, he still tests the waters. The waters still refuse to throw out his used tissues.Forty-five years and counting...

Friend, the Best

 

I have a friend. I call her best.

For she stands out from all the rest,

She’s fiercely loyal, caring, kind,

Encouraging and quite refined.

She believes in me, is fun and smart,

But I almost missed this friendship’s start.

Wounded, aching, recovering slow,

My Man and me, we’d had a blow,

That rocked our family to the core,

Our hearts were broken, tattered, torn.

T’was when this single mom asked me,

To watch her girls. She’d pay a fee.

But I was hurting, my heart sore,

I really couldn’t handle more,

And so I let her down that day,

Turned her little girls away,

But she was patient. Just one year,

Had passed. And she again appeared.

Once more she asked, and I agreed,

 Her girls joined mine in thought and deed,

But it’s not there the story ends,

Their mom became my lifelong friend.

Through good and bad, we two stayed close,

And helped with things that matter most.

Years of friendship we have had,

She supported me through good and bad,

Through marriages and births and more,

And grandkids, whom we both adore.

And coasting toward that Old Age ‘Hill’,

I find that we are best friends still. 
I think about it quite a bit,

And her request to babysit.

When I was feeling sorry for

Myself. And what had gone before.

And somehow, I just can’t dismiss

You know, I might have missed all this.
Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com Cause 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'll monkey 'round a bit,Please don't miss out, it'll be a hit!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday? We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks... Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7) Today! Monkey Around Day (June 14) Fathers (June 21) Bubbles (June 28) Bikinis (July 5)Cheer the Lonely (July 12)Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Personal Chef

He's a little taller now...
I had a project.Or more appropriately a PROJECT.And a household to run.And three little boys, aged six months to four years.I needed help.Let me explain . . .My Husby was the director of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police Museum.And he had asked me to create a display for it.A secret display.Does that make sense?Moving on . . .I was to create, in latch-hook, the RCMP crest. No small feat.I had a pattern.I bought the materials.I started in.Now, I should point out, here, that my pattern had originally been designed to create the picture for a 'petit-point' medium.250 stitches wide by 250 stitches long.And should end up about four inches in size.It could also be used for cross-stitch.Which would make it about twelve inches.I was doing latch hook.Six feet square.Enough said.A project of that size and scope naturally was going to take time.But the board of the museum was awaiting my 'surprise'.Anxiously.I had to speed things along.How to do that with three little boys.Hmmmmm.Some of my usual duties were going to have to be shared.Someone was gong to have to take over the cooking.And the most likely candidate was my oldest boy, Markie.Have I mentioned that he was four?He was.But, for six weeks, my four-year-old did all of the cooking in our house.We ate fruit.And anything he could manage to cook in the microwave.We had hot dogs.Fish sticks.Soup.Lots of hot chocolate.Oatmeal.Cream of wheat.Bowls of steamed vegetables.Our menu was rather unvaried, but at least we ate.And at the end of six weeks, fitted with an old barn wood frame created by my Husby, my RCMP crest was unveiled to the world.The world liked it.And I was able to smile and go back to being a Mom.And relieve Markie of his cooking duties.Everyone was happy.
There is a codicil . . .To this day, Mark loves to cook.His menu has grown vastly from hot dogs and anything 'microwavable'.But when he's puttering in the kitchen, I still see that little boy.The one who had to climb up on the cupboard to reach the microwave.My little chef. Picture it six feet square.
On a red Background.

Bitten by the Clean Bug

Don't let the outside fool you . . .Mom was a 'clean machine'.
She loved swept floors, made beds and clean surfaces.
And spent her days with a dust rag in her apron pocket and a broom in her hands.
She often requested assistance.
But her six kids and assorted hired men didn't always comply.
She never gave up.
She was nothing if not persistent.
"Pick that up!" was a favourite saying.
Followed closely by, "Make sure you put that away when you're done!"
Which went with, "If you had put it where it belonged, you'd be able to find it now!"
And there was always the ever popular, "Be sure you leave a place cleaner than when you found it!"
Yep. My Mom.
She tried hard.
But her offspring and assorted other residents were slow to take up the slack.
My brother, George, 'got it' first.
Dad had built a new shop, to my two older, mechanically-minded brothers' specific specifications.
It was a beautiful shop.
Brightly lit.
Containing all of the newest and best of equipment.
And organized to the 'nth' degree by George.
He spent a lot of time there.
Organizing. Mechanic-ing.
One day, Mom needed something.
Her quest took her into the hallowed halls--and remember, this is a place wherein cars and the occasional motorbike are diagnosed, dosed and periodically disemboweled.
She opened the shop door and stepped inside.
George looked up.
"Wipe your feet," he said.
Mom's legacy truly lives on.
The apple definitely stayed in the near vicinity of that tree.

When Rudest Wins

Pre (and hopefully post) Covid, our family loves taking holidays.And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.
We have had wonderful experiences.
Sunsets over the Mediterranean.
Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.
Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.
A wild bus ride through the streets of London.
The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.
The bustle on the streets in Paris.
But, sometimes, like everyone who travels, we have . . . 'adventures'.
Let me explain . . .
We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.
And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.
We wandered into a very popular tourist site.
And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.
These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.
At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.
They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.
And I do mean 'knot'.
Pretty.
Then stand back and loudly demand money.
Great scam.
We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.
“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.
“Don't let them grab you!”
I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.
And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.
The tourist's best friend.
If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.
This didn't work here.
If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.
One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.
There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.
You would be forced to pay.
We managed better than most.
You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.
But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.
An outspoken girl of 21.
She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.
Firmly.
Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.
Politeness and patience were wearing thin.
And not working in the slightest.
The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.
She shifted back and forth, eluding them.
We started towards her, intent on rescue.
We weren't needed.
Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”
Did I mention outspoken?
All heads in the square turned.
Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.
The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.
Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”
They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.
There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.
Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?
I was proud of my daughter.
She had tried to be polite.
She had tried to be firm.
But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.
And won the day.
This was an isolated incident.
Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.
But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .
Good old 'country spunk' will.
Travelling?
Take a farm girl. "I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

Blessed Mother

My Mom.
She of the wicked pen . . .
and wonderful cooking.

I wish I'd found this for Mother's day a few weeks ago. But it's wonderful no matter when I share it!
This is 'verse' written by my mother so many, many years ago.

Blessed art thou, woman.
For thou shalt be called 'Mother'.
Yea, and thy tasks and thy chores shall follow thee all the days of thy life.
And thou shalt eat the bread of thine own baking.
And thou shalt dwell forever in a dirty house, if thou dost not choose to clean it thyself.
Thou shalt arise before the cock croweth.
And thou shalt say unto thyself, "Where are the offspring which were given me? Yea, the sun has risen high in the sky and the hour grows late, wherefore I have been long at my labours."
And thou shalt go and find thine offspring prostrate in their cot.
And thou shalt say unto them, "Haste, arise and shine, for I have many labours for thee to perform; wherefore I have been many hours preparing the way."
And thine offspring linger in sleep and shall say unto thee, "Thou didst not watch the late, late, late show as I did last night and mine eyes are heavy and mine bones acheth."
And thou shalt say unto thy offspring, "Get thee up from thy cot; ere I lay a hand upon thee, and go ye hither and scrub a sparkling tub, for thou hast left black rings upon its sides."
And thy offspring shalt say unto thee, "I will go and do thy bidding - in a minute."
And thy rage shall know no end.
And thou shalt weep and wail and gnash thy teeth mightily.
Never-the-less, thou shalt scrub a sparkling tub thyself and glory shall be added unto thee, for thou didst not strike the lazy beast.
Thou are blessed above all others and thy descendants shall call thee 'Blessed', for thou preparest a table before them. Thou cookest meat and all manner of tasty vittles and they shall sit at thy table with thee and partake with thee.
And they shall add glory unto thy crown for they shall let thee also wash the dishes, if thou wilt.
And when the night falleth thou shalt be deflated, and thy offspring shall say unto thee, "She is an old woman, wherefore she neither goes dancing, nor does she watch the late, late, late show."
Thy art and thy craft shall make thee called upon and thou shalt labour at many tasks in thy kingdom for whosoever asketh.
Thou doest his bidding.
Thy back shall acheth with arthritis; thy cane and thy husband shall be thy support.
Thy veins shall be varicose in thine aching legs, but thou shalt do thy duty with a smile; neither shalt thou complain.
Thou are blessed with a crown every second Sunday in May.
Wherefore, thou art blessed above all others for thou are 'Mother' and thou shalt find joy in thy offspring forever.
If thou endureth to the end!Thanks, Mom.

Memorial

 

The peace and freedoms we enjoy come to us at great cost,

Paid by precious few who did not shirk when lives were lost.

But the sacrifice wasn’t solely given by those who went and fought,

But also by those left behind, who by the heart were caught.

Now Bernard was my Dad’s best friend, the brains behind the pranks,

That boy that other boys all love, but parents don’t give thanks,

An independent sort of boy; his father didn’t ‘get’,

They quarreled over something and the boy left home upset,

Though just 16, he went to the recruitment place downtown,

Put two years upon his age, swore not to let them down,

His dad, when he discovered it, went to bring him home,

The boy was underage, he’d tell him, ‘Never will you roam!’

But on the way, he thought about the wild boy, his young son.

And that the army surely’d do what Dad could not get done,

And so he turned around and left his boy there at the camp,

Thinking army life would make a man out of his scamp.

Bernard went through basic; he was in his element,

Mixed well with the men and did the work that he was sent,

Finally, Dad’s friend was shipped right to the battlefront,

Prepared to face the enemy with all the other ‘grunts’,

Lacking heed, he charged in like he’d always done so far,

But this was not the schoolyard, no. This was different: WAR!

Bernard had served for just three days when he paid the final price,

Dying in a soggy field of vegetables and rice.

His father never did recover, mourned from that day on,

Thinking, if he’d just gone on, he could have saved his son,

He blamed himself for failing to retrieve his teenage boy,

The tragedy went both ways, ever robbing all of joy.

On this Memorial Day, let’s honour all who blow the horn,

But let us not forget their loved ones, who forever mourn.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com Cause 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?

I hope this week quite soon will end,Cause next week's all about Best Friends!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday? We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks... Memorial Day (May 31) Today! Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7) Monkey Around Day (June 14) Fathers (June 21) Bubbles (June 28) Bikinis (July 5)Cheer the Lonely (July 12)Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Craze-metics

 My eldest sister, sweet and kind,

So talented in deed and mind,

Has skills that never seem to end,

And some I cannot comprehend!

With all she does she still looks nice,

(I’ve noticed maybe once or twice.)

Cosmetics are her special gift,

To give her skin that crucial lift.

Morning routines, evening, too,

She knows how to apply the goo,

And look resplendent, glowing, young,

Till praises from our lips are sprung.

Those crèmes and gels to lave her face,

Her regimen requires space,

And one time when we two did roam,

Two bags she parked in our new 'home'.

A tiny one, with clothes and such,

This trip would not require much,

The other, larger, she did lug,

“Cosmetics.” She did happ’ly shrug.

I know her methods seem to work,

Her skin is glowing, hair so pert,

Make-up to show her features best,

With elegance, she clothes the rest.

I wouldn’t know which crème went where,

I’m lost with things for face and hair,

The one advantage I can see,

(Though I may resemble a banshee!)

But happily, when travel bound,

I’ve not so much to haul around!

Each month from Karen, we accept,

A challenge to our gifts adept,

A theme she gives, a poem we craft,

Write draft on draft on draft on draft.

(Please, I’m just kidding, one’s enough

To prove that we’ve all got The Stuff.)

So now we will present to you

What we have made for your review!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado