Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 9

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The Alexander Bros were sipping moonshine on the deck,They’d been sipping for a while and both were feeling rather wrecked,It was their newest batch and had been left a little long,And—let’s just face it—one word to describe it now was ‘strong’!
Well, as they sat and sipped a truck went past with rolls of sod,And Archie spat across the rail and gave that truck a nod,Said sadly to his brother, Lenny, “What I wouldn’t do…To live life like rich people can when they can hire a crew!”
Then Lenny looked at him, said, “Archie, what you on about?What is it ‘bout that truck that’s gotten you in such a pout?”Said Archie, “I just want to get the things that I am owed…When I win the lottery, I’ll send mylawn out to git mowed!
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?

Roses are red, or sometimes they're blue,Come join us next week, we'll have roses for you!
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!)...
Moonshine (August 7) Today!Roses (August 14)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)

Not Forgotten

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.My roommate got home from work just after I did.“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”“Soo . . . let's go.”“What? Now?!”“Sure.”I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.And that the party was already well under way when we got there.Food. Drinks. Laughter.Loud music.And lots and lots of people.Lots.We edged our way in.“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.“Oh.”“Come on. He wants to meet you.”We worked our way through the crowded room.As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.Bright and shining in the dim room.“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.And the current song ended.My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.Which it had.It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.Obviously a quadriplegic.“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”The man was drinking a beer through a straw. He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.“Would have come in quite handy.”“Yeah,” I said again.My roommate and I moved on.“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.But definitely time to head home.After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.Along with most of the people in the apartment building.Always, he was cheerful and smiling.And welcoming.With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.My roommate was right.I never forgot him.

The Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.My mom was an ironer.

A Demon ironer.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine. No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing. Everything had to be done just so. I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron. She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Once in a while.Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there that's a women's size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

Collared

Dad on Shaker.
This really has nothing to do with the story.
I just like the picture!Ranching is an adventure.

Sometimes a tad uncomfortable.

But always entertaining...

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a coupled pair of calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

He flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. A

n adventure.
You get the picture . . .

Over Collared

Dad on Shaker.
This really has nothing to do with the story.
I just like the picture!Ranching is an adventure.

Sometimes a tad uncomfortable.

But always entertaining...

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a coupled pair of calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

He flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. A

n adventure.
You get the picture . . .

Dishters

My older sister and me.
Oh, and George.
And part of Dad
And a little bit of Jerry and Blair.The food had been, as per Mom’s usual standard, delicious.

The conversation had flowed, eddying around such topics as - the day. School. Ranch work. Friends. Town politics.

I was sitting in a contented stupor.

Well fed.

My favourite people in the world around me.

Life was better than fabulous.

“Chris and Diane,” Mom said, smiling at us. “You girls are on dishes tonight.”

And, just like that, my euphoric bubble burst. I could almost hear the ‘snap’ of its passing.

We looked at each other.

“Okay!” Chris said, bouncing to her feet.

Have I mentioned that my older sister is one of those people who is always willing and cheerful?

She is.

Most of the time, I liked it.

Just not tonight.

My reaction to Mom’s announcement was anything but enthusiastic. “Dishes?! Mooom!”

Okay, I admit that my reaction was purely for selfish reasons. I was in the middle of a good book and my plan had been to drop straight back into it after supper.

But Mom’s word was law and I dragged myself to my feet and helped my perky sister scrape and stack the mountain of dishes.

We did fine to that point.

Now here is where the differences between her way of accomplishing the task, and mine, met.

And clashed.

When she washed, Chris liked to leave the tap on just a tiny trickle. Then she could wash, rinse the item by passing it through the stream, and set the dish into the draining board.

I, on the other hand, preferred the ‘turn-the-tap-on’ method.

Wherein one would turn on the tap each time one was ready to rinse.

In my opinion, it wasted less water.

Here is where I admit that Mom simply put some rinse water into the second sink and . . . dipped.

But who wanted to do it Mom’s way?

I was washing. So I got to choose.

Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Why don’t you just leave it on a trickle?” Chris asked. “It saves time.”

Already feeling disgruntled, I mumbled, “I prefer it this way!”

Big sigh from older sister.

Wash. Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Diane, this is really starting to bug me! Just leave the tap on!”

“Fine!” I turned on the tap and let it trickle.

Chris smiled and continued to dry dishes.

I washed something. Then, out of habit, turned the tap, forgetting that it was already on.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Another dish.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Right.”

Another dish.

This time, I turned the tap a little more forcefully than usual.

Not a problem if it wasn’t already on.

Which it was.

The water splashed out, soaking every available surface.

And my sister.

“Diane!”

Oops. “Umm . . . sorry?”

“Ugh. Get out of here and just let me do it!” She reached for the wash cloth and, just like that, I was out of a job.

I stood there for a moment and watched her.

Then I shrugged and went to find my book.

Sisters.

Pffff.                                              

Avoca-do

 I love avocados. Yes, you knowI truly do,Eaten peeled and sliced or simplysmashed into a goo,They are my go-to nibble when I’mneeding just a nosh,Or added to my salads when I’mwanting to look posh!They grow in lots of placesround the world—both north and south,And all will taste deliciouswhen you get them in your mouth,But there is something ‘boutthem which I’ll bet you do not know,And that is how those avocadosgot to where they’d grow…A giant ground sloth, Lestodon,he lived in olden days,He, too, loved avocados andupon them, he would graze,He (and his buddies), all ofthem, would then walk all about,And then they’d give newmeaning to the graphic words: ‘pooped out’!So everywhere they went, theywould ‘deposit’ avo stones,And that is why we find thefruit in many different zones!So know that as you eat them,how it was they came to be,One of those good things ‘comingfrom within’ for you and me! 
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?

In the sky or bottle, we will (all of us) be fine,Because next week our topic will be all about moonshine
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!)...
Avocados (July 31) Today!Moonshine (August 7)Roses (August 14)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)

A Little Bug-gy

The family had gathered for their evening meal that night,Mom and Dad and siblings, and the youngest—small and slight,Partway through the meal, that little boy said—from his seat,“Dad, I was just wondering if bugs are good to eat?”
His father shook his head said,”Son, let’s not discuss that now,No need to talk of icky things when we are eating chow,After we are done’s the perfect time for us to talk,Now eat your supper, Son,” he said. “And after, we’ll take stock.”
“But, Dad!” the boy protested. Said his father, “Son, stop there,“I’m not discussing bugs while we are eating tasty fare,“So tuck into you dinner, son, I promise afterward…

“We’ll talk of bugs forever—till your eyes start going blurred!”

They ate their meal in silence; cleaned and tidied up the room,

The boy forgot his question as he swept round with the broom,

And after all was finished, Dad gave his young boy a hug,

And told him, “Son, now is the time to ask about your bugs!”

The boy just shrugged and told his Dad, “It really matters not,

“Cause I’m no longer focused on the answer that I sought…

“There was a reason that I asked that question while we supped…

“You had a bug there in your soup, but you just ate it up!”

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?” We write because she's the Bee's Knees!And we love her, you know that’s true,So this is what we writers do . . .We craft a poem based on a theme,With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,Each month we write and have such funWe can't wait for another one,With BUGS this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too!

Baking In A Tornado: Bug Me 

Messymimi’s Meanderings

 

 

 

 

Talking Turkey

I am bilingual.Oh, not in the way you imagine.My second language really isn't that practical.Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.But the fact remains that I can speak another language.Maybe I should explain . . .My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.And a small town.Comprised of 'dated' streets.1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.It was (and is) fun.And we loved it.We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.Walking on stilts.Playing games.Eating baking fresh from the ovens.Visiting the shops.Inter'acting' with the actors.It was a great way to spend a day.Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.And I could mimic it.Really.You want to talk talent?We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.The male got quite animated.He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.It was very entertaining.The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.And the turkey would get apoplectic.We even drew a crowd.“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

A Winning Talk

For a few glorious months I exercised horses at the racetrack.

It was a perk to dating a young man whose uncle kept a string of racers.

Picture it: Cool early morning of a summer day. The sky is lightening to a cloudless blue overhead while the horizon glows a clear apricot.

The smell of fresh hay and grain and horses and manure as men and women begin hauling feed and cleaning stalls. Grunted early morning greetings as humans pass.

The metallic ring of tack as saddles and bridles are inspected and fitted.

The snort of a horse. Stamp of hoof.

The track, groomed and dampened by a couple of passes of the rakes and water truck, gives off its own distinctive smells of wet earth and sawdust.

The morning of a perfect race day.

There is a whole production before, during and after the actual running of a horse race. A coordinated and extensive ballet of people and horses, all moving in and amongst each other. Grooming. Inspecting. Saddling. Wrapping. And each with the same goal.

The finish line . . .

It was my duty as second horse-exerciser to also do that most mundane of jobs, the grooming.

And I loved it. 

To run the brushes over the sleek coats. To pause and bury one’s face in the neck of one’s horse and just . . . breathe.

Paradise for the horse-lover.

Which I was.

I remember the first horse I readied for a race.

A three-year-old clear bay filly whose complex, hyphenated name escapes me, but who I called, ‘Lemon-Go-Lightly’ after a popular hair-lightener of the day.

Well, it made sense at the time . . .

She was slated for the two o’clock race and I had half an hour to get her ready for it.

I spent most of that time brushing.

And talking.

Yes. Talking.

I told her how beautiful she was. And how fast she would run. And how she’d leave all of the other old nags in her dust. I whispered into her ears and wrapped my arms around her neck and whispered into that as well.

Over and over, I told her how amazing she was and that she’d be running the best race of her life in just a few minutes.

Then I handed her over to the tack team with the words, “Today, she’s going to win!” They stared at me, then proceeded to saddle and wrap and lead my pretty baby out to her rider.

I started grooming another horse, but listened to the familiar sounds of a race being run.

I really wasn’t surprised when she came back - a winner by more than three lengths.

I knew she could do it.

After all, we had discussed it.

What I didn’t expect was her owner following her to the barn.

He stared at me for a moment. Then, “How did you know she was going to win?”

It was my turn to stare.

He went on. “This was her fourth race and she’s never placed above ‘show’. How did you know?”

I should mention here that race people are, quite often, a little superstitious . . .

I blinked. “We discussed it,” I said finally.

“Discussed it?”

“Yeah. While I was grooming her. I told her that she was the world’s fastest runner and that she was my pretty girl and that she was going to win.”

He frowned thoughtfully. Then turned and left.

I shrugged and went on with my tasks.

But later, I noticed that all of his groomers were talking to their horses. Whispering inanities into their ears. Praising them.

Labelling them winners.P.S. I hear it works on people, too.