Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 66

Saving Gwen

I don’t remember coming home. I’m quite sure I must have done so at some point because I’m presently (and pleasantly) perched on the couch, staring dreamily out the window.

Sally, Mort and Scary Gary, are out there, playing some sort of game in which tennis balls, golf clubs, several plastic cups and a large rock feature prominently.

Yeah, I’m not getting it, either.

But I do know that with balls AND clubs in the mix, this can’t end well . . .

I could hear Mom in her room at the top of the stairs. (This house has really good acoustics for listening in on others’ conversations. Just FYI.)

“No, I’m not what you’d call ‘computer literate’. Mom was saying. “I sincerely need training!” Then, “Seriously? No, we each had our vaccination a couple of months ago, when they first rolled them out. The CDC sent a nurse right to our house. Something about Sally being enough of a global threat without adding the whole COVID 19 disaster to the mix.”

She paused. Then laughed. “Right. All of us. I guess they felt as long as they were vaccinating her, they may as well do the same for the poor schmucks who live with her.” Another pause and she laughed again. “Okay, you're right. Those weren’t their real words, but I’m pretty sure I know what they were thinking!” She sighed. “Never a boring moment.”

You have to know Mom usually doesn’t criticize her girls like this. I think she was still steamed about the window. And the TV. And . . .

Never mind . . .

And I don’t know about you, but I was tending to agree with her assessment.

My phone rang and I looked at it hopefully.

Peter (or my Lincoln Park Saviour, as I now call him), said when he took my deets, that he would call.

But, you know, in ‘boy’ time, that could be . . . any time between birth and death.

I had just gotten in.

And my phone was ringing.

Could it be . . .?

I grabbed it. Oh, Lordy Gordy, it was!

Every ounce of calm, cool, and collected that I had ever possessed instantly fled.

I punched wildly at the button, finally managing to connect on the third try.

“H-Hello?” I said a trifle breathlessly.

Okay, in writing that, I’m wondering what ‘a trifle breathlessly’ even means. Certainly, it sounds great in a romance novel. In reality, it’s the condition wherein your breath has bypassed your vocal cords completely and all that left is the tired wheeze of escaping air—like a broken pump organ.

I desperately cleared my throat, told myself sternly to breathe and tried again. “Hello?”

Better.

“Gwen?”

I dropped the phone.

Onto the floor. Where Sally’s cat, Mr. Peebles, who had heretofore been sitting innocently at my feet, promptly batted it under the couch.

Gahhhh!

I fell to my knees and frantically scrabbled for it.

I finally had it! “H-Hello.” I squeaked, desperately hoping to sound nonchalant. Casual. Relaxed. Even blasé.

But with my now-racing heart, I’m quite sure what emerged was panic. Fright. Terror. Fear. Dread. Alarm. And the faint featherings of ‘OhmywordI’mgoingtokeelover!

Not my finest moment.

“Peter here.” He was going on as though I had said something intelligible.

My first impression had been right. And my first impulse even righter.

Hang onto this guy!

Ahem. “Yes? Hi, Peter!”

 “From the park.”

He wasn’t taking any chances on my mixing him up with anyone else. Like I would . . .

“I’ve dropped my nieces off at home and wondered if you and I—the two of us—could maybe get together for a walk? And if things go well, a slushie at 7-11?”

If things go well. I snorted silently.

How could they not?

Just then the front door burst open and Sally stepped in. “Okay, I’m in the clear,” she shouted. Go ahead!”

Immediately, a tennis ball bounced off the door behind her, landing somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen sink and the already-boarded-over kitchen window. For just a moment, I envied that window. It had already given its ‘all’. Its job was well and truly done.

As for the rest of us . . .

“Bulls eye!” Sally shouted, running to retrieve it. She hurried back toward the door. “You got it, Mort! Well . . .” she spotted me, and her trajectory, which would have taken her safely past my orbit, changed.

Oh, dear.

“Whoya talking to, Gwennie?”

“Erm . . . Peter. From the park?”

“Oooh, him!” Sally grabbed the phone. “Peter! If you want her, you’d better hurry! There’s a line-up!”

She winked at me and dropped the phone back into my hands.

Then hurried out the front door.

“Peter?” I whispered into the phone. “Please save me!”

“I’m on my way!”

Each month, a group of us play something called ‘Use Your Words’. A game where our illustrious captain, Karen of Baking in a Tornado challenges us to send her words (and/or phrases) which she then shuffles and re-distributes. The result is unpredictable. And totally fun!This month, my words were: training ~ CDC  ~ vaccination ~ boring ~ computer illiterateAnd came, via Karen, from my good friend, Sarah at https://crazymamallama.blogspot.com/Thank you, Sarah!

Having fun?Go and see what my fellow bloggers have done!

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Tagged

Daddy told me about his favourite game as a child. 

Run, Sheep. Run.

He explained that a group of kids would divide into two teams. The wolves. And the sheep.

The sheep would hide, then send one of their number back to the wolves. This messenger would quickly draw a map illustrating just where the sheep were hiding.

The wolves would then head out to find them.

In the meantime, the sheep could stay where they had last been seen. Or move somewhere else entirely.

Once the wolves got close to them however, their messenger, running along behind the wolves would yell, “Run, sheep! Run!”

The sheep would scatter and try to make their way back to the designated place of safety before the wolves ‘caught’ them.

Dad says he and his friends spent many, many happy hours playing this game.

It sounded like . . . heaven.

During my own childhood, we had many outdoor games that we played. Tag. Anti-Ei-Over, Frozen tag. Capture the Flag. Kick the can. How had I missed Run, sheep. Run?

Moving on . . .

A few months ago, my Husby and I were at Fort Edmonton Park.

Don’t worry. The two will connect . . .

For those not familiar with it, Fort Edmonton is a reconstruction of the original fort for which Edmonton is named. The fort itself is surrounded by several ‘streets’ of differing time periods, each telling of a moment in Edmonton’s past. 

It is a fascinating place. Where people in period costumes re-enact social, political and economic situations.

I know. I sound like a brochure.

I love it there.

The reason for our visit was the fiftieth anniversary of my aunt and uncle.

We visited. Laughed. Ate. Visited. Laughed. Watched their grandkids perform vignettes from their grandparents’ history. Laughed. Visited.

And generally had a wonderful time.

Part way through the day, my Husby and I stepped out onto the boardwalk.

To find all of their grandkids, released from their acting responsibilities, happily engaged in a game of hide-and-seek.

Hide-and seek.

I hadn’t seen kids play that in forever.  Most of the kids I see now have their noses in an electronic device.

But here they were. Ranging in age from 3 to 15, all racing around to find places to hide.

And having a marvelous time.

Huh.

Kids really can (and do) play outside.

Just like my Dad did.

And me.

It gave me hope. [image error] Quick! Hide!

The Lady

Age and/or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"
A little background . . .
Or multiple riders.
That worked as well . . .Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . tail . . . of the herd) and could keep the entire herd going.
With or without human guidance.
So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher. All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns. If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat.
Less, if said heartbeat is slow.
Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was sitting in her saddle.
Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under and her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.
For a moment.
Then he, or she, would discover that the hardest thing about learning to ride was the prairie.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath.
Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many other Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup. To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim: tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco: another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds.
Steamboat: an enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gait that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth.
The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings.
Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on. These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching. Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes. And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true.
We had Lady.
She of the very, very apt name.
Feisty little Rebel

The Amazing Shammy.
Ditto.
Which of these things is not like the others . . . My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With King Prancer. Another early ride.

Familial Feeding

Mark, his wife, and the first two of six.
Feeding the next generation . . .It only ever happened once.

But I’ll remember it forever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I raised six children.

Four of them, sons.

They are, all of them, tall people, ranging in height from six feet to six feet, eight inches.

They were, all of them, big eaters.

And that’s where my story starts . . .

My oldest boy, Mark, ate like a bird. And by that, I mean he consumed his weight in food every. Single. Day.

His next brother, Erik, wasn’t far behind.

We used to joke that we simply gave each of them a trough and a shovel.

And watched the food magically disappear.

The two of them easily ate as much as the rest of the family combined.

It’s true.

In fact, when Mark moved out, our food bill was cut in half.

When Erik moved out, ditto.

But back to that day . . .

It was a coupon day at the local McD’s. Two-for-one.

My Husby (a coupon collector extraordinaire) had managed to hoard a mittful of the colourful, valuable bits of paper.

We loaded the kids into the car for a rare, but fun, family treat.

And we were off.

Feeling distinctly magnanimous, we told the kids to order what they liked.

And Mark did.

His order? Four Big Macs. Two large orders of fries. Two large drinks. And four apple pies.

Did he eat them?

He did.

And, swallowing the last bite of apple pie, he turned to me and said something I’d never heard.

Before or since.

“I’m full.”

Wow.

I stared at him. Had I heard correctly?

He nodded and patted his stomach.

Who says miracles no longer happen?!

There is a little addendum:

As we were leaving the restaurant, I had linked arms with each of my tall eldest sons. We were laughing about something that one of them said. Full and happy.

A woman seated near the doors looked up and smiled. “I just love seeing brothers and sisters such good friends!” she said. “It’s inspiring!”

We smiled back and thanked her, not bothering to explain that one of those ‘siblings’ was, in fact, the mom.A good day on sooooo many levels.

SWS Support Group

 The Monthly Meeting...

“Please tell us of your problem, sir,

We're here to give you aid.

Supporting is how we get through,

Speak up! Don't be afraid!”

“Just look around the circle, Sir,

There’s not but friends you’ll see.

Get the whole thing off your chest,

Then Madge will serve us tea...”

“It started much as any day,”

He said. And then he sighed,

“A run together in the dawn,

I was so proud, I cried.”

“Then changing for the workday, but

A load of laundry first.

Who knew that act would be her last?

‘Twas like we both were cursed!”

“So innocent as soap went in,

Naive as buttons pressed,

Then watched as clothes began to swirl,

And tumble with the rest.”

“All was well until the load,

Was moved into the drier.

And watching it together as

The heat was getting higher.”

“Then she was gone, t’was just that fast,

My love was there no more.

And all I had was memories

Of what we had before.”

“I’ve tossed it round within my mind,

There really is no doubt

As a pair of socks, we two went in,

As a single, I came out.”
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, come give us all a hand,
Pay tribute to the Rubber Band!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday? We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10) Today!
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17) Favorite breakfast (May 24) Memorial Day (May 31) 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)

The Philosophy of Mom

I’ve been reading my Mom’s journals again and stumbled across this gem!

 

My Mom's Philosophy in a nutshell:

Happiness is a direction, not a place.

From her journal:

THE GIFTS WE GIVE OF OURSELVES . . .

GIFTS OF THE HEART: love, kindness, joy, understanding, sympathy, tolerance, forgiveness

GIFTS OF THE MIND: ideas, dreams, purposes, inventions, projects, poetry

GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT: prayer, vision, beauty, aspiration, peace, faith

GIFTS OF WORDS: encouragement, inspiration, guidance, praise

 

Mom, I miss you. Someday, When I grow up, I want to be just like you!

Happy Mother’s Day!

On Being ‘Honest’

Okay, yes. We're a work in progress . . .I taught my children the moral lessons my parents taught me.

Now my children are teaching their children.

Sometimes, their success is . . . uncertain . . .

We were leaving church.

Our daughter and her daughter (hereinafter called HD) were recapping lessons learned that day in Sunday School.

“We learned about honesty!” HD said in her three-year-old, glass-shattering, there’s-a-lot-of-noise-in-this-hall voice.

“And what is honesty?” her mother asked.

She looked at her mother. “Mom!” she said. “It’s when you don’t show your knees. And you don’t show these!” With that last, she pulled down the bodice of her dress, flashing everyone who may have been within eye shot of their little family.

Approximately fifty or so people.

“Aaaah!” Her mother quickly pulled HD’s dress back into its original position. “I think you’re talking about ‘modesty’.

“Oh. Right. Modesty is when you don’t show your knees and you don’t show . . .” This time, her mother was able to anticipate the action and keep her daughter covered.

“. . . these.”

We’re not yet sure about her whole take on honesty.But at least she has modesty . . . down.

Bilingual

 

Language Lessons Yumm. No matter what it's called . . .We live in Canada.

French and English are spoken here.

Quite often in the same sentence.

But that doesn’t mean that all of us speak both languages fluently.

Or at all.

Oh, and my second son, Erik, worked at the local Sobey’s grocery store.

I realize that these facts seem to be irrelevant.

Wait for it . . .

It was a normal day at work.

Erik, one of the numerous stock boys, had spent the day uncrating merchandise.

Stocking shelves.

Packing groceries.

And helping customers find things.

Sometimes, this last duty was the most demanding. And amusing.

A woman had been wandering up and down the soft drink aisle for several minutes.

And had enlisted the aid of at least one other stock boy and, finally, the store manager.

She was growing impatient and a trifle red-faced.

Erik set down the box he was carrying and went over to see if he could help.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the manager was saying. “We simply don’t carry that kind.”

“I got it here!” the woman burst out. “The last time I was in this store! Right in this aisle!”

The manager shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” he said quietly. “We’ve never carried that.”

“Young man! I took it right out of this aisle. Right here!” she pointed. “See? There with all of the grape juice.”

The manager followed the pointing finger. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “Grape juice is all we carry. We have no Raisin juice.”

The woman dropped her arm and frowned. “Are you telling me I’m stupid?”

“No, Ma’am, no!” the manager was quick to disagree. “I just think you may be mistaken. Something that happens to all of us. Me, in particular!” He smiled.

Erik stopped beside them. “Anything I can help with?”

The manager looked at him. “This customer is looking for some Raisin juice,” he said. “I’ve told her we don’t carry it.”

The woman glared at him, then turned to Erik. “And I’ve told him that I got it here,” she said stoutly. “Right here! Raisin juice!”

Erik looked at both of them for a moment. Then he reached out and turned around one of the Grape juice boxes.

‘Raisin’ was plainly visible on the label.

‘Raisin’ is French for ‘grape’. Just FYI.

Both of them stared at it.

“Oh,” the manager said.

“That’s it!” the customer said happily, grabbing the box and departing.

The manager looked at Erik and shrugged.

“Who knew?” he said.Who indeed.

45

I’m so blessed!

I’ve had 45 years with this guy.

45 years of love, talks, kids, school, games, movies, meals, home time, holiday time, work, play, walks, sports, quiet, noise, health scares, fitness efforts, hikes, diets, feasts, failures, successes, pies, friends, family, church, prayer, singing, laughing, crying, glory, pity, teasing, good times, hard times, sleeping, waking...

And through it all, he’s remained steady and sure. 

My rock.

My best friend.

I love you, Grant Lovell Tolley.

And then there's this . . .

Buried Treasures

The theme this week is quite the thing,It’s ‘What I love the most ‘bout Spring’!What about this season makes me sing?You have to know: It’s gardening! A tray of nasturtiums, a little pink hoe,

The widest of smiles, almost ready to go!

She grabbed tiny gloves, in red boots, she was clad,

And three-year-old May went to garden with Dad.

Both daughter and Pop. In the dirt. On their knees.

Teased by a squirrel and the mischievous breeze,

They spent most an hour in the bright springtime sun,

Mom could tell by their glee, they were having such fun!

Soon the squeak of the latch and a “Mom!” at the door,

And the sound as her gloves and small boots hit the floor,

Then the tiptoe of little, sweet, tender pink feet,

‘Twas her May who was plying her brand of ‘discrete’.

She slipped up to Mom, and then peered all around,

“Mama!” she whispered, with hardly a sound,

“I was out helping Daddy. Watched all that he did!

“He buried the flowers. But I know where they‘re hid!”

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 all pay tribute to,

All our lost socks, both old and new!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3) TODAY!

Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10)
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17)
Favorite breakfast (May 24)
Memorial Day (May 31)
Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7)
Monkey Around Day (June 14)
Fathers (June 21)
Bubbles (June 28)