Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 84

60 and Counting

For my baby brother and all those turning this year.... I can dimly remember it...

At 60 years old, your birthday suit requires regular ironing.They put all 60 candles on your cake, but by the time they get the last one lit, the first twenty have already burned out.People call you “spry” and you’re not offended.It’s time to start yelling at the television.Fortune tellers read your face instead of your palm.
Your favorite station on cable is the Weather Channel.
Target and Walmart is where you shop for great, stylin’ clothes.
You know your way around but you really don’t want to go anywhere. Ever.
Your wife suggests you pull in your stomach and you get a hernia doing it.
The 60 candles on your cake set off the sprinkler system.

You miss your high school car, but you can’t remember your classmates.No More Tank Tops. It's a rule.
Your pants creep upward as you age. By 60 you’re a pair of pants with a head.You can still chase women. Downhill.
When someone leaves you a sexy mirror lipstick message, your first reaction is how to clean it off.
Your favorite classic rock? Elevator music.
You wonder why the TV remote isn’t working, then realize it’s a cordless phone.At the gym, you mostly do squats because of how they help you in the bathroom.
When classic movies come on, your comments are: “She’s dead. He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
Your childhood toys sell for a fortune on eBay.
The sheer quantity of gold in your mouth would make a decent retirement plan.
Your parties never even wake up the dog, let alone the neighbors.Sucking in your gut can blow the hair right off the top of your head.
When you sit and relax on a park bench, boy scouts offer to help you cross … your legs.
Not wearing a bra tugs the wrinkles right out of your face.
Just saw this headline: "Godzilla turns 60." Life was pretty good before I knew I was OLDER THAN GODZILLA.
It took me awhile, but I’m finally a 60-year-old senior. How much longer till graduation?
Two of the most important things in life are bowel movements and nose hair.

Birthday thrills: more pills, more chills, more bills.
You can start bragging about your age. How else are you going to get your senior discounts?
“Chasing girls” refers almost exclusively to granddaughters.
Turning 60? Look on the bright side: you’re still younger than Mick Jagger.
I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again. But I wouldn’t mind looking like one.


Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 74. 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: 60It was chosen by: ME!At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what numbers they got and how they used them.  Links to the other Word Counters posts: Baking In ATornado Messymimi’sMeanderings 

Responsibly Irresponsible

My Grampa and me, we’re a pair, it is true,And when we’re together there’s lots we can do,Sometimes we go fishing, sometimes weed the yard,We really have fun or we work really hard,He says that those things he is teaching to me,Are summed in one word: Responsibility!
One day while we two were just lying around,A spider crawled over to him, there on the ground,And took a big bite out of Grampa’s strong arm,Grampa jumped up and was filled with alarm,I laughed and said, “Grampa, you’re fine, I am sure!“That spider’s not toxic. Your life is secure!”“You don’t understand, Son, just what is at stake,“I’m for being responsible, make no mistake,“But this sense of duty’s much more than I’d planned…“At my age I can’t handle becoming Spiderman!”


Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try and make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, 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, cause I happen to like them a lot,
We're talking 'tomatoes'. From home or store-bought...

Cookie Sail

I had been happily in dreamland.Happily.In. Dreamland.I want to stress that because what follows did not promote any form of happiness.Or dreams. Other than wishing the whole horrible experience wasone.I’ll start from the beginning…I was happily in dreamland (see above).When Sally jumped on the bed.Scaring the snoo and almost something else out of me.“Gwen!” she shouted. “Come on! Get up!”“Gurfuzzitz?” Okay, I’m not at my best upon waking.“Come on! It’ll be fun!” She grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the bed and onto the floor.“What? What are we doing?” I looked up at her.“Fundraising!” She bounced out of the room.I blinked. Fundraising? She pulled me from my nice warm bed to go fundraising? I heaved a regretful sigh and got to my feet.Okay. I was up.“Gwen!” Sally shouted from the first floor. “Hurry!”I threw on some clothes and ran a quick brush through my hair. Then I grabbed a mask and left my room.Sally, masked and ready, was waiting just outside the open front door. “Come on! He’s already gone!”I hurried down the stairs. “Who? What’s going on?” I looked around. “Where’s Mort?”Sally rolled her eyes. “He’s gone already. And is probably well on his way to outselling me!”I had reached the doorway. There beside her on the bricked patio was a bright red wagon stacked high with boxes of cookies, each colourfully wrapped and emblazoned with the crest for our local charitable children’s organization.Sally grabbed my hand. “Come on, Sis! Mort and I are having a contest to see who can sell the most cookies!”She hurried me along the path to the sidewalk. Uh-oh. Sally. And a wheeled object. Going door to door.I tried to turn back.But her hold on my hand tightened. “Come on!”Sighing, I followed her.It was a beautiful summer day. Blue skies. Light, very light breeze.Bright sunshine.Kids were playing all over the neighbourhood.People busily worked in their yards, visited with each other (properly socially distanced, of course), tinkered on cars.It was a normal, perfect day.We pulled up to the first house.Mrs. Michaelson was deadheading her prize roses. She looked up. “Sally!” She quickly got to her feet and stepped between us and her flower bed. “Ummm…what brings you by?”“We’re selling cookies, Mrs. M.!” Sally said brightly. “Fundraising for S.O.F. You know. The children’s organization. They do good stuff for kids!”“I know it very well.” Mrs. Michaelson looked toward the house and bit her lip. Probably she was weighing the prospect of being able to make it to the house, either to hide or to find her pocketbook before Sally accidentally set her house on fire. Finally, she reached into the pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got…twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five…thirty-five dollars! Will that be okay?”“Perfect!” Sally said excitedly. “That’ll get you seven boxes of cookies!” She started to count them out.“Never mind, dear,” Mrs. Michaelson said hurriedly. She gave us a brief smile. “I don’t really eat cookies anymore. Just take the money and…” She bit her lip again.“Super! Thanks so much, Mrs. M. I make out a receipt.”“Never mind that. It’s fine.”“Well, I’ll drop one off, then.”“How about I stop by your house and pick it up?”Sally nodded happily. “That’ll be great!” She started to move up the street. “See you!”“Ummm…yeah…”At the next house, Bill Baggins (and yes he gets teased and no he’s not related to Bilbo) loomed over us at the end of his driveway, arms folded.Sally began. “Hi, Bill…” “How much to keep you out of my yard?”I snorted.But Sally took it in stride. “Buy all the boxes and you’ll never see me again.”“Done.”I gaped at her. We were at our second house and already Sally had moved her entire inventory.“Let me help you with them,” Sally offered.Bill held up a hand. “I’ve got this,” he said. He called his sons over and each of them took a stack.Fortunately, he had five little Bill’s and so the wagon was soon empty. The oldest one smiled at Sally. “Your last picture was great, Sally,” he said. “I especially liked the part when you…”“Hurry along, son,” his dad said.The boy blushed and hurried toward the house with his armload of cookies.“That’s forty boxes of cookies at five dollars each.” Sally said. “So you owe me two hundred.”Bill nodded and reached for his wallet. He laid a couple of fifties into her palm, then added a stack of twenties. “There you go.”“Can I make you out a receipt? Your donation is tax deductible.”“Never mind,” Bill said. “It’s for a good cause.”“Any more of those cookies?”We all looked up.A young boy with tousled, red hair and freckles stood a few feet away.Sally tipped her head to one side. “I don’t know you.”“I’m Gary. My family just moved in.”“Oh! You’re one of the Townsends!”He nodded.“Hey Gar! We’re almost ready!”He looked over toward another boy on a lawn a short distance away. “Hang on!” He turned back to us. “So do you have any more cookies?”“I’m sorry, but we’re all sold out.” Sally crouched down beside him. “So do you like it here?”“Yeah. It’s cool. Well, I gotta go!”“What are you doing?”“My brother and me are going to set off our rocket!”“That sounds exciting! Can I watch?”He shrugged. “Sure.”Sally abandoned her wagon, and me, and followed him.I weighed my options. I could do the same.Or I could leave quietly before chaos started.I decided to stay. Things had been rather dull lately.Gary and another boy had a little rocket set up on a small home-made Launchpad. The other boy, who looked a little older than Gary, but with the same red hair and freckles held a lighter.“I’m ready to light it, Dad!” he shouted.A man waved from the shadows on the front deck.“Wait!” Sally said. “What if we were to move it over there! There’s a bit of a rise. It’ll go way higher!”The two boys frowned, then nodded. “K,” the oldest one said.He grabbed the rocketand Sally brought the Launchpad. “Ooh. A bit rickety,” she said.“It’s okay if you prop it up on this side.” Gary pointed.“Like this?” Sally braced one of the legs against the platform.“Yep.”“Ready?”“Countdown: Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition!” The older boy touched the flame of his lighter to a short fuse at the base of the rocket and all of us stepped back.“Oh, wait!” Sally darted forward. “The leg’s fallen over!”She reached for the rocketjust as it sputtered and ignited…And tipped over.With unerring accuracy, the small missile shot toward the house, shattering the huge front window and disappearing inside.There was a shriek and the twins sounds of thumping and crashing and the rocket suddenly reappeared through the same hole, startling all of us. It lay on the lawn, still sputtering but obviously almost out of oomph.A red-headed woman appeared in the space left by the now-missing pane of glass.The two boys had been staring aghast at the damage, but now lifted their eyes to her.“That’s our mom!” Gary gasped out.Sally smiled. “Hi, Gary’s mom!” she said brightly. “Welcome to the neighbourhood!”

Each month Karen’s fans donate words to the cause.Karen then redistributes said words among all of us.And thus, the ‘Use Your Words’ challenge is born. appear ~ dreamland ~ horrible ~ rocket ~ startleThis month, my words came from my wonderful (and knowledgeable) friend, Rena at Wandering Web Designer. Thank you so much, my friend!
Now go and see what the others have done with their…assignment!Baking In A Tornado Wandering Web Designer Climaxed     Part-time Working Hockey Mom

DogGONE Dog Days

The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer. They were historically the period following the rising of the star system Sirius, which has routinely been connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.
Homer had it.From Homer’s Iliad: The baleful effects attending the return of Sirius:
…Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky
On summer nights, star of stars,
Orion's Dog they call it, brightest
Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat
And fevers to suffering humanity…

My take is a little different:
It’s summer (at long last), I’m glad to report,I’m out of my long johns and into my shorts!The sun overhead is as warm as can be,And it’s toasting my toes as it smiles down on me.I lie in my hammock, too lazy to read,Eyes closed in content, I’m in Heaven, indeed,Beneath me, flat out, is young Pandy, my dog,My companion, it’s true, but eschews dialogue.She rolls over and gives out a big, happy sigh,I smile and then, lazily, bat at a fly.What more could I ask you when all’s said and done?But a cloudless, blue sky and a hot, happy sun?You know that the weather in Canada’s rough,Of these ‘dog days’ of summer, there’s never enough!
Each month, our dear Karen, a challenge portends,And ‘Dog Days’ went well through her legions of friends,This theme, for the most part, was easy to pen,I will need to recall…when it’s winter…again.
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: A Dog’s Day

Over Dreamt

My Mom and Dad on their anniversary...The day before their thirtieth, a woman woke from sleep,“I had the strangest dream,” she said. “Twas something really deep.“A gift box you did give me, to celebrate our day,“I gave you a kiss, and tore it open right away.“Inside that box, I looked and found another box. It’s true!“I smiled and gave another kiss. Just happy ‘twas from you.“I opened up the second and found there inside a third,“Though it seemed a little strange, I set to work without a word,“And there, behold! I found a fourth. (Now this was getting weird!)“But I was sure it couldn’t be as strange as it appeared.“So I opened up the fourth and there inside I found a ring!“A diamond, much more big and bright than any other thing!“So I’m wondering, my darling, if this dream’s a thing foreseen?”Her eyes, they sparkled brightly. “And if so, what does it mean?”
That night they went to dinner, just they two, to celebrate,And as things were winding down, he set a box beside her plate,Smiling, she opened it and what should be inside?You're absolutely right, there did another box reside.And in that box another box, each wrapped so beautifully,She hated to unwrap them (And you almost would agree!)Then next she found a fourth box (just exactly like her dream!),By now her hands were shaking and her eyes were all agleam!With much anticipation, she tore off the wrapper there,The contents were surprising, she did nothing else but stare,Some people seem to heed. But what they hear’s not what it seems…Inside the fourth box was a book—"HOW TO INTERPRET DREAMS".
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besought,To try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, 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?

Berry Good Pies

It's that time again! Berry season!The sweetest part of the summer.And it brings back so many memories...
On the prairies, pies come in two forms.The edible.
And the inedible.
One kind is made from prairie fruit.
The other comes from cows.
One smells wonderful.
The other . . . doesn't.You must choose carefully.
Just FYI.
Sooo . . . prairie fruit.
This comes in the form of raspberries, strawberries, some apples, chokecherries and saskatoons.
The first three are grown mostly in gardens.
The latter two, in the creases and folds of the landscape near water.
The first three can be picked at any time during the summer, as they ripen.
The last two need planning.
Especially the saskatoons.
Their picking requires a family adventure.
And that's where the fun comes in.
Sometime in the summer, Mom's stack of pails would magically appear.
It was the signal for all of us kids to quickly get into our swimming suits because we were making a trip to the river to pick berries and go for a swim.
The best of times.
Mom had several favourite berry-picking spots.
All of them thick with bushes.
And none of them near our house.
She would load us, our pails and our towels, into the car.
And in a cloud of dust, we were off.
The saskatoon bushes started at the top of the cliff.
And grew downward.
Toward the river.
You had to move carefully.
And hang on.
Like little goats, we would scamper all over those bushes.
Picking.
And . . . well, let's just stick with picking.
Mom's plan was always to have each of us fill a bucket.
Simple enough.
If kids hadn't also come equipped with mouths.
One handful into the bucket.
One handful into the mouth.
And so it went.
After a while, each of us would have half a bucket of berries.
A blue mouth.
And full tummy.
With the hot, summer sun shining down, the smell of baking sage and grass in ones nostrils, and one's family gathered around, it was pure heaven.
Then we would swim.
And to top it off, fresh saskatoon pie when we got home.
Did I mention the best of days?
P.S. Picking chokecherries wasn't nearly as much fun.
For one thing, they are SOUR.
But they make the nicest syrup.And that is another story...
And now, my berry pickers!

Dramatically Wounded

My little soldier.My kids belong on a stage.Case in point:It was a hot, sunny, summer afternoon.We sometimes get those in Edmonton.Seven-year-old Erik was riding his bike on the sidewalk.Along a street that closely resembled the frenetic scramble of frantic ants when someone has stirred up their nest.Dozens of neighbourhood kids of every size and variety screamed/shouted/laughed.Scenarios were being enacted.Dares carried out.Counter-dares being proposed.And through it all, Erik rode his bike serenely up and down.Up and down.Up and . . . oops.Right at the foot of our neighbour’s lawn, in an effort to avoid a collision, he turned.And toppled off his bike.I had just come to the door, carrying a bowl of freshly-washed raspberries to offer as a mid-afternoon snack. I watched him go down.In slow-motion.Scraping one knee.He rolled onto his back and, for several seconds, lay there. Then he looked up at me. “Mom!” he shouted. “I fell!”“I saw you!” I called back. “Come on! Let’s get you fixed up!”Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach. Then, with kids running back and forth and even leaping over him, started crawling--crawling--up the lawn toward me.Dragging his wounded leg.He looked like a soldier crossing a battlefield.I shook my head and watched him.Finally, he reached the steps and flung himself onto his back.“Mom! I hurt my knee! I think I have gangrene!”I handed him the raspberries and went to get the band-aids.Two minutes later, he was back on his bike.Dangerously-wounded-obviously-going-to-fall-right-off knee pumping madly as he rode.Yep. Kids belong on a stage.

All Gummed Up

Or something similar . . .We were driving to town.
Maybe that doesn't sound like earth-shattering news to you, but we lived a half-hour away.
When the roads were good.
This was an event.
Mom piled us six kids into the car.
Inquired as to bathroom status.
And started out.
I should mention, here, that the roads into Milk River were never great.
In dry conditions, they were a narrow, dusty, dirty track between two deep ditches.
In wet weather, they were a narrow, greasy, slippery amusement-park ride.
That was anything but amusing.
And they had to be navigated with utmost care and caution.
Always.
Picture my Mom's 1964 Envoy hurtling along at 65 MPH.
With six kids rolling about like dried peas.
But we were safe.
Mom had both hands on the wheel.
She would put out her arm if she was applying the brakes.
All was well.
Suddenly, we reached a stretch of road that had been 'graveled'.
I use this term lightly, because said gravel was uncrushed.
Fist to shoe-size. It would probably be more accurate to say it had been 'rocked'. Or 'bouldered'.
Not good.
Mom slowed down, but rocks still spun and bounced, hurtling off into the ditch or hitting the underside of the car with deadly accuracy and vicious intent.
Finally one rock, a little larger than the others, hit with a metal 'clang' that shook the entire car.
Mom applied the brakes.
And deployed her patented arm gesture.
We all got out.
The smell of gasoline was strong in the dusty air.
We leaned down.
The last rock had put a hole in our gas tank.
Precious fuel was escaping, even as we looked.
Mom straightened. What to do? What to do?
My oldest brother's jaws were moving, rhythmically.
For a moment, Mom stared at him.
Then she pounced. "Jerry! Are you chewing gum?"
My brother froze.
In our family, one wasn't allowed to chew gum in the car.
Because.
"Is anyone else chewing gum?"
We all stared at her.
She turned back to my brother. "Spit it out!"
"Um . . . why?"
"We can stuff it in the hole and fix the tank!"
"Oh."
Weird.
But Jerry complied. Spitting a large wad of pink gum into his hand, he wriggled under the car and applied it.
We all bent down and looked.
It seemed to be working.
"Everybody in!" Mom said.
We lost no time, but scrambled back into the car and resumed our journey.
When we reached town, the car slid to a stop and we all piled out and bent over to look.
The gum had worked!
No more leak!
"We patched our gas tank with gum!" I proudly told curious passers-by.
They glanced at Mom's red face for confirmation.
She nodded.
Sheepishly.
Gum saves the day!
There is a codicil.
The shop that could have repaired our tank was closed for the weekend.
They used to do that in the early 60s.
Mom had to drive home with her gum-patched tank.
Then drive back into town the next day for Church.
And back to the ranch again.
Then into town on Monday to finally effect repairs.
That gum not only got us into town, but it got us back home, back in, back home and back in.
Miraculous.
I defy duct tape to perform as well.
Or taste better.

Masked

I wear a mask when I go out,Safety’s what it’s all about.War’s been declared, fills us with woe,The enemy’s a savage foe,Some little soldiers we can’t see…They’re out to damage you and me.And if we’re not attentive, thenSTATISTICS for some future pens!So we stay home, or if we’re out,We all are wise (without a doubt),And do the things that we can do,We wash our hands. Contact eschew,And just to add that one last touch,We wear our masks—it isn’t muchThat we can do for safety’s sake,(Now we’ve banned hugging and handshakes…)And yes, there’s some will tell us that,To don one proves we’ve brains of gnats,They won’t protect us. They won’t heal.And they look stupid? What’s the deal?Who knew one insignificant act,Would cause such ire? Opposing facts.But though the mask’s so vilified,That it can help can’t be denied.(Well, for the wear-er, maybe not,For those we meet, it helps a lot!)So know as now my mask you see,That I’m not doing this for me,This mask I don through much ado,I’m doing this, my friend, for you!And…That future day when we ‘high five’?We’ll be alive, yes. Still alive.
Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besought,To try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?Jenny, 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 a special kind of theme,We’ll talk of dreams. Yes. Special dreams.

Uphill Both Ways

Recently, there has been a lot of discussion about the kids going back to school in the midst of a pandemic.
Although Husby and I are firmly in the 'need an education' camp, we are also firmly in the 'safety' camp.
Because both of us are, through no fault of our own (I blame my mother for having me in 1955), in the 'at risk' camp.
But all this talk about school and 'having it rough' has brought back my memories of school in the small southern Alberta community of Milk River in the early '60s.
When I rode the bus...
 Picture it with a few more bumps and bruises.
You've heard the stories from the past where kids had to walk to school through eight feet of snow.
Uphill.
Both ways.
Husby's stories even include having to carry his horse!
Well, those didn't apply to me.
I rode the school bus.
Which was an adventure in itself.
Stay with me . . .
School buses in the early sixties were very similar to those driven today.
Yellow.
I'm almost sure there was an engine under the oversized and bulbous hood.
They had a driver.
Seats.
Windows.
And lots and lots of kids.
But busses in the sixties had a few 'extra' features.
Forms of entertainment that simply don't exist in our more modern world.
Too bad.
Busses today have powered windshield wipers that are sturdy, dependable and have several settings.
They keep on working through rain, snow, sleet, hail.
In fact, anything that may be thrown at the all-important front windshield.
The bus that carted me to and from school had wipers, too.
Just not the kind you see today.
It had what is known as 'vacuum' wipers.
I'm not sure what made them work.
But I know what didn't.
Revving the engine.
If it was raining hard and the road was on an even grade with no challenges, all was well.
But if the bus was required to do something untoward . . .
Like move faster.
Or go up a hill.
The engine would rev.
And the wipers would quit.
The driver would have to roll down the side window and stick his (or her) head outside so they could see.
If the driver took his foot off the accelerator, the wipers would start again.
Push the pedal down? They stopped.
It was enormously entertaining.
But not nearly as much fun as when the bus was required to go up Angel's Hill.
Yes. We really had an Angel's Hill.
Oh, it's not what you're thinking.
It was simply the hill that led to the Angyal family's ranch.
But I digress . . .
Our rather aged vehicle had a hard time going up that hill.
Sometimes, if we had a larger than normal load (perhaps all of us kids had eaten breakfast, for example), the bus wouldn't be able to make it.
We'd have to get off and trail along behind till it reached the top.
Well, we younger kids would trail.
The older kids would push.
Whereupon (good word) we would all clamber back aboard and happily find our seats once more.
Huh. I just realized that we did have to walk uphill to get to school.
Both ways.
Pushing the bus.
Beat that!