Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 8

With Love

Mmmm . . . love.We were invited out to dinner one night.Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.And fresh, warm muffins.With a crisp spinach salad.Everything was absolutely delicious.Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .My Mom was a terrific cook.Really terrific.I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.Terrific.But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.Meats.Carbs.Even veggies.All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.And sometimes . . . raw.I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.Uncooked.With dipping sauce.I stared at it.Weird.Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.With cheese sauce.I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.Shortly afterwards, I did.Try it, I mean.I found it delicious.And it opened a whole new world for me.A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.Back to the spinach.Do you know how my Mom always served it?Boiled.Not steamed. Boiled.I kid you not.Then serve it as a glop on our plates.With vinegar.And you know something else?We loved it.Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Having Respect

The work is getting done. Guess who's in charge?Husby is retired now.

As am I.

He had been at the same organization for over thirty years.

He knew the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

But in his organization, a new wave of up-and-comers were . . . up and coming.

They’d not changed any of the policies. Yet.

But they were beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

There are always new and improved ways to do things. I have no problem with that.

What I do have a problem with was the way they regarded my Husby.

Suddenly this man who has been a main cog in the great machine was being regarded as a bit rusty.

Out of date.

Useless.

The fact that he had personally schooled and guided every single one of these young people meant nothing once they’d gotten their momentum.

And they’d definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

I see it happening all around me. Older people who were once at the forefront of their fields of expertise are being sidelined. Disregarded.

Ignored.

Those who, though they may have fallen a bit behind in the technological side, could still be viewed (and utilized) as a source of wisdom and knowledge.

And experience.

Husby and I were speaking of it one morning. The lack of . . . respect.

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

All of this is my long-winded way of telling a story.

Which I’m ready to begin. Finally . . .

During its heyday, the Stringam ranch was a hub of activity and a great source of employment.

Cowhands came and went. Learned a little or a lot.

But left better than when they had ridden in.

And a large part of that was due to my Dad’s example.

He led, choosing to work with the men rather than give orders and watch from the sidelines. He counselled. Disciplined. Instructed. Corrected. Instructed again.

And the men respectfully listened.

Oh, there was the occasional man who didn’t like the discipline that the Stringam ranch demanded. But even they learned to show respect during their short stay.

Most of the men went on to lives of industry. Some to direct their own enterprises.

All spoke of my Dad with respect and affection.

One man came to my parents fresh out of high school and had then stayed a number of years under the tutelage of my Dad. In his quiet way, he soaked up everything he could learn.

Then he married and finally left to begin his own ranching enterprise.

The bond of friendship remained strong.

One day, he called my Dad at Dad’s room in the local senior’s lodge. The man, and his son who was now running their family ranch, had a difficulty and needed some advice.

Who did they turn to?

My dad was nearly ninety.

His days of directing the affairs of a large ranch, riding the range and commanding crews of hired men were long behind him.

But the respect for his knowledge and expertise and the genuine affection went on.

Daddy hung up the phone from that conversation and cried.Is this respect being taught today?

Do we look at the elderly people around us (and they are growing in number) and see someone who is merely old? Redundant? Stupid?

Or do we see the person they were? A person full of life and new ideas. Contender and driving force and world changer of their generation. A person who could still be a fund of knowledge and experience.

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.And a pity.

P.S. About the picture. The guy in charge is the one kneeling on the ground, holding the calf.

Interested in reading and ‘liking’ my semi-finalist short story, Nighttime in Newsome?Go ahead! It’s totally fun!

Nighttime in Newsome

I have some exciting news!A short story I wrote is a semi-finalist in a contest.I would love for you to read and comment...You can find it here: Nighttime in Newsome is the story.A little bit mysterious.A little bit kooky.A whole lot entertaining!
Thank you. I promise to love you forever!

Sea Snacks

Two heads popped up above the surf,Two monsters of the sea, they were,They recently had left their cave,Were sailing west above the waves,And looking for someone to scare,Plus, maybe find some tasty fare.A string of ships were sailing by,A gleam sparked in one monster's eye,And moving closer, took a sniff,Then gobbled that ship in a jiff!The second and the third one, too,He did what monster's always doAnd one by one, he ate them all...His buddy'd watched this all befall,Then tapped his friend upon his neck,And loudly asked him, "What the heck?!Potatoes are what those ships hold!There's better stuff--or so I'm told."His friend just raised his monster brow,Said, "I don't mean to cause a row,I know there's much more tasty fare,In lots of ships tween here and there,Potatoes Ships are snack-y fun,And none of us can eat just one!
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, meHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
Next week'll be an exciting one,With 'Sea Monsters' we'll have fun!Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...
Sea Monsters (August 21) Today!At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)Newspapers (September 4)Remembering (September 11)Cheeseburgers (September 18)Dreams (September 25)Birthdays (October 2)Family (October 9)Dictionary (October 16)Talk Shows (October 23)Mischief (October 30)Watermelon (November 6)Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)The Bus (November 20)A Pet's Life (November 27)

‘Modern’ Health Care

To celebrate Bad Poetry Day, one of Daddy’s favourite stories!
"I insist!" she told the doctor in her firmest, loudest voice,‘Fore out the door he sent her (she suspected was his choice).
"I'm not leaving without answers!" Her voice was now a shout."Is it measles, mumps or hiccups?! I'm prepared to have this out!"
The doctor sighed and shrugged, "You know there's someone I can try.We know the what and where and who, well now let's find the 'why'."
So he found a room and parked her, tucked up snugly in her bed,Tried, some peace, to whisper, and relieve her of her dread.
Then upon her firm insistence. And with no more ado,He left, but said he'd send someone to give that second view.
All at once, her door swung wide, and a cat stepped in the room.She stared at him in silence as he circled in the gloom.
Three times around, he strolled, and he did watch her carefully,Then turned and with a feline grace, meowed to be set free.
A moment more, a dog walked in, with a great big doggie smile,He sat upon his haunches and he stared at her a while.
The dog he left. She sat a while and finally, back he came--Her doctor with some more intel. He called her by her name:
"Well, the catscan's perfect, Ma'am," he said, "I couldn't be more calm.And the Lab work's just as positive, so it's time for moving on!"
So remember when its 'doctor time'. And you ask for more info.Your doctor looks to many views to make his knowledge grow!

Being Neighbourly

Okay, I'm not sure if this is what it looked like,
but I know it had four wheels and seats for all of us . . .My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.
It was our first foray into town without parental supervision.
For the first time, ever, there would only be siblings in the car.
A truly magical night was planned:
1. Great company. (Jerry and George wouldn't tease me, even once. They had promised.)
2. Great entertainment. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - but that is another story . . .)
3. Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
4. An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
5. The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
Best. Night. Ever.
Then, as with any magical night, twelve o'clock came. With some sadness, our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, partway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car. Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired.
I think they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly; they would have loved to crawl over, under and through  . . .
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas. Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And suddenly realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window. The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh tha's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
Oh, goody. They had a shain.
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded—with colourful language and various starts and stops—to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!
Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night. And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot shain . . . erm . . .chain.I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti. (Go ahead, google him. We'll wait . . .)
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.
I have to tell you that was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment.
But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first experience.
I guess 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.

Ship-less

Hours of fun. Or aggravation . . .Mom always appreciated a good joke. Usually, she stood back and . . . appreciated. Occasionally, she was the instigator.
Let me explain . . .
Our family had just been introduced to a new game. Battleship. Actually, an old game, originally played with paper and pencil, now in a new format.
Plastic peg boards of Mediterranean sea blue. With cute little plastic ships.
We spent many hours playing this game, trying to outwit each other with our clever placements.
Very occasionally, we were able to convince one or the other of our parents to play.
Dad was deadly. He systematically shot at your ships.
Every third hole.
You could see his juggernaut (good word) sweeping down on your hapless little fleet and were powerless to stop him.
The game always left you feeling like a butterfly on a pin.
But Mom was a little more. . . gentle. She would destroy your ships using woman's intuition.
You were just as dead, but you felt better about it.
One day, she was playing with one of my younger siblings, Blair. The game had been going on for some time.
Mom: "B-8."
Blair: "Hit." .
Blair: "G-3."
Mom: "Miss."
Mom: "B-7."
Blair: "Hit."
Blair: "G-1."
Mom: "Miss."
And so it went.
Finally, Mom had cornered Blair's last ship and was closing in for the kill.
And that's when Blair got tired of the constant discouragement. "Where are your darn ships anyways?!" he demanded.
Mom gazed down at her board. "Ships?" she said.
Then she grinned.
She hadn't put them on the board.
Game. Set. Match.

Kitten Mittens

Okay, let me state right off the bat that I am rather ‘iffy’ about thewhole ‘kittens wearing mittens’ thing.  Imean...doesn't that just sound rather dirty and disgusting? And unnecessary?
I know the kitties in my life would have a shred-fest if they werepresented with a pair of mittens. Or lose them entirely. Kind of like kids andsocks.
On with my story…So when our story starts, those mitten-wearing kittens have, in factlost their mittens. Okay, they were sad, certainly, but honestly, who did notsee this coming?
Their mother is, justifiably put out. She probably made the mittens. And to have allthree pairs disappear at once? My kitties only ever lost one mitten at a time.Truth.
I don’t know if I agree with the whole ‘no pie’ scenario, however. Amore appropriate punishment would be to teach those little beggars to knit.Maybe they’d be more careful…
Soon afterward, the kittens found their mittens. Rejoice! I’mwondering, though, if it was they who found them? Or Mom. You know the adage:Nothing’s lost till Mom can’t find it!
And their reward? What else? Pie.I approve.A lot of kitties I know would jump through hoops for pie.And if there’s ice cream atop it? Through hoops of fire.
There follows a lot of purring. Again, appropriate.Mittens found. Mama happy. Anticipation of full tummies.This is as close to a kitty paradise as those mischievous littlemonkeys can get!
But alas, in this story, all will not stay serene and happy.And I don't quite understand this next part: they donned their mittensto eat their pie.Donned theirmittens.
Okay, I admit it—when pie is being offered, I ‘gird my loins’ so tospeak. Gloves set aside and aprondonned. That way, cherry filling to the elbows distresses no one.
Except me, who simply cannot lick my elbows. And, please believe me, I’vetried.But these three kittens put on their mittens before tackling their personallittle slices of deliciousness.Cretins.
The outcome is much what you would have expected. Pie-soiled mittens. Remorseful,contrite kittens.And a mama who is out of threats.No wonder all anyone can do is sigh.Sigh.
But in a surprising twist, those three suddenly-resourceful kittens dragout the old wash board and scrub those mittens clean.Their mother is surprised and pleased.Undoubtedly, smiles and hugs follow.
But only briefly.In what one can only assume is a bid to begin training said kittens in theirfuture rat-hunting duties, Mama announces that she smells a rat.Close by.
The story ends there, in a total cliffhanger.My concern is this: Did they wear their mittens?Did they soil them?What punishments should Mama invent for that scenario?Any thoughts?
For your entertainment, my version of The Three Little Kittens…The three little kittensHad no mittensBecause said mittens would have been ridiculous and a hindrance toeveryday life.The end.
The real poem (with apologies to MessyMimi because this part doesn’tfollow the word count!):Three little kittens,They lost their mittensAnd they began to cry,Oh, mother dear,We sadly fearOur mittens we have lost.What! Lost your mittens,You naughty kittens!Then you shall have no pie.Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.You shall have no pie.
The three little kittens,They found their mittens,And they began to cry,Oh, mother dear,See here, see here,Our mittens we have found.What! Found your mittens,You darling kittens!Then you shall have some pie.Purr-rr, purr-rr, purr-rr,You shall have some pie.
The three little kittens,Put on their mittens,And soon ate up the pieOh, mother dear,We greatly fearOur mittens we have soiled.What! Soiled your mittens,You naughty kittens!Then they began to sigh,Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.They began to sigh.
The three little kittens,They washed their mittens,And hung them out to dryOh mother dear,Look here, look here,Our mittens we have washed.What! Washed your mittens,You're such good kittens.I smell a rat close by!Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!Hush! Hush! Hush!I smell a rat close by.
Today’s post is a word challenge! Each month Karen, Mim or I choose a number between 12 and 50 and the others craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.This month’s number is: 31It was chosen by Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings!
Now go and see what my friends have created!
Baking In ATornadoMessymimi’sMeanderings

PassWordHell##

Though I spend a lot of my time staring at ascreen,Me and e-lec-tronics, well, we’re not what you’dcall ‘keen’,And often I am tempted to (what could be called) ‘disjoint’What follows is what I would label as a case inpoint!
I got a message from my server. And it made mequake…“Your password has expired and a new one you mustmake!”I typed in ‘roses’,'cause you know I love them. They’re the best,But my answer? “Too few characters.” was to meaddressed.So ‘prettyroses’, next I tried. T’was simple, so I thought,But, "Sorry, one numericcharacter, please." was what I got.‘1 prettyrose’ I thought would work. I typed it cleverly,And, “No blank spaces.” next they sent. I was notfilled with glee!So I obeyed. ‘1prettyrose’ I thought would do thetrick,And, "10 differentcharacters, you must use." My wrath was getting thick!‘1bloodyprettyrose’was next. The best that I could choose…But, "Sorry, at least oneUpper Case letter you must use."‘1BLOODYprettyrose’I typed. I thought that it would do,But, "No successive uppercase characters for you."‘1BloodyPrettyRose’,I typed. I thought that I obeyed,“No less than 20 characters.” My hope’d begun tofade.‘1BloodyPrettyRoseShovedSomewhere’FYouDon'tGiveAccessNow!’My bland response: "No punctuation." Ithought, Holy cow!‘1BloodyPrettyRoseShovedSomewhereFYouDontGiveAccessNow’,But, "Sorry, that password has been used."I’m done. I’ll take a bow.
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'll be an exciting one,With 'Sea Monsters' we'll have fun!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...
Roses (August 14) Today!Sea Monsters (August 21)At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)Newspapers (September 4)Remembering (September 11)Cheeseburgers (September 18)Dreams (September 25)Birthdays (October 2)Family (October 9)Dictionary (October 16)Talk Shows (October 23)Mischief (October 30)Watermelon (November 6)Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)The Bus (November 20)A Pet's Life (November 27)

A Little Unexpected

First of all, I should tell youthat, following a home invasion a few months ago, Mom insisted Sally have analarm system installed. A loud one.With buttons in every room of thehouse.Which, when pressed, can signal Arcturus.Well, that’s what it seems like.Actually, I was fairly enthusiasticabout said alarm system, being intimately involved in said invasion.On with our story…Okay, I admit it.I overreacted.But when one lives with Sally…Sally and Mort have returned. She was away, filming some sort of thriller—adeparture for her. Mostly she’s been cast in adventures.She doesn’t have to act for those.(snort!)Ahem…Anyways, this film featured Sally (inthe starring role) as a girl who ends up staying in some sort of hauntedcastle. They were filming at a genuine castle somewherein Romania. Where, apparently, the ‘spookiness’didn’t have to be enhanced in any way.‘Nuff said.But since they’ve been back, Sallyhas been…anxious. You know, nightmares. Sleepwalking.Like we didn’t have enough tocontend with when she is just ‘normal’.What am I saying?!It’s been strange because, up untilnow, there hasn’t been anything that seems to disturb our girl. She has handledher usually self-inflicted chaotic life—including kidnapping —with equanimity (look it up) and courage.Anyways, at about 11 pm I kissedPeter goodnight at the front door and waved him off, then headed to bed.Everyone else had already retiredand the house was blessedly quiet.It remained so for a couple ofhours.Then there was a horrendous screamnext to my bed.I am not making this up. The screamwas right there beside me!Of course, it was Sally, on one ofher new sleep-walking dream tours. Something Ifigured out later. After my brain actually caught up.Of course, I sat straight up from mysound sleep.Of course, I slapped the button onthe night table next to my bed.And the aforementioned alarm system?Well, just know that there areemergency workers enroute from Arcturus as we speak.The ones closer by—ie. the police—arrivedwithin a couple of minutes.Confusion, shouting and milling bypartially-awake people along with the screaming ofa very upset baby added to the confusion.Let’s just face it—if anyone in ourneighbourhood—in our city—had been asleep, they weren’t any longer.By the time the police had shut offthe klaxon, ascertained (Ooo! Good word!) that no one had broken in and Sallyet al were safe and accounted for, every light in the neighborhood was on withmost of the neighbours standing out on their lawns. Or ours.Sleep was probably banned forever.Sigh.The police finally left.Mom and Dad took Ivy Jean up totheir suite to calm her down.Even Sally and Mort disappeareddownstairs into their apartment.With stern admonitions for Sally tostay there.And never work on another scary picture.Ever.I was sitting on the front step, enjoyingthe newfound peace when Peter appeared on hisbicycle.In his PJ’s.Oh, I forgot to mention that thealarm also goes off at his house—something he insisted on after that homeinvasion wherein I…never mind. You understand.“Gwen!” he gasped out. He droppedthe bike on the lawn and scooped me up off the step. “Are you all right?”I felt my face grow hot. “Yeah. Itwas a misunderstanding.”“Oh, man! I’ve never been so worried.I couldn’t get you on your phone—or anyone else either.”“Oh, sorry. Things were a little—”He didn’t wait for me to finish. “Thenmy stupid car wouldn’t start!” His hold on me tightened. “The distance fromyour house to mine might as well have been from here to the moon!”“Yeah, I think they heard the alarmthere—”Again he interrupted. “I can’tstand this a moment longer!” He set me down, then dropped to one knee. “Gwen,will you marry me? Please?”
Use Your Words is a writing challenge!Each month, I exchange words with my friend and intrepid leader, Karen of Baking in a Tornado Neither of us knows what the other will do with her words.This month, Karen gave me: found ~ where ~ people ~ return ~ dreamThank you, my friend!Now go see what Karen did with my words!BakingIn ATornado