Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 96

Ol’ Blue

A horse much better  than the rest, Ol’ Blue,Although you’d have to look for it, it’s true,Cantankerous as a horse could be,Would often hide out in the trees,And even take a nip at me,Ol’ Blue.
She had no mane or tail to speak of, Yikes!Nothing to grab if tragedy should strike,It made her trash for swatting flies,Nothing to comb or braid with ties,But grooming was an easy prize, I liked!
A saddle she would not accept, the pill,And so I rode her bareback o’er the hills,No saddle horn to dally to,So when we’d chase the calves so new,I had to get creative, whew!What thrills!
The hours I spent up on her back, to ride,And o’er the waving prairie grass, we’d glide,Even to the wind and rain resigned, We’d do the work that Dad assigned,Our corner of the ranch aligned,With pride.
I’m sad she’s long gone from my life, Ol’ Blue,She was a scamp, but a good companion, true,She was my blue-haired friend for life,Her leaving cut me like a knife,I’ll see her in the afterlife,My Blue.
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 all of us, together, we,Have crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought,Did we help?Or did we not?
JennyCharlotteMimiMerry Mae

The Ransom of Sally

Sally is a little long-winded today...
Have I ever mentioned that living with Sally is an adventure?Well I should have.The thing is, Mom and I figured that, as she got older, she would be less of a ‘good-lord-harry-what-is-she-doing-now!’ and more of a ‘have-a-nice-day-dear’.We were wrong.I blame Sally’s and my father.I don’t remember him very much. He died when we were six and spent most of those years away.Studying polar bears.Living with the penguins.You know . . . ‘cold and adventures’ kinds of stuff.Mom went with him until I was born, then she more-or-less-happily waved him off from the doorstep and went back to doing ‘mom’ stuff.He died on one of those adventures. Ship lost in a storm.I know it happens in movies.But it also sometimes happens in real life.I probably should miss him more.But . . . Sally.If you’ve been following my journals, you know that, in the last couple of years, she has become a world-wide sensation.Which means that her shenanigans now get full press coverage.Instead of just our neighbours shaking their heads and locking their doors, the whole planet has become involved.Mom and I still aren’t quite sure how we feel about this.I mean, we’re glad for Sally. She’s doing things that make her very happy and actually earning very good money doing it.Not bad for a girl of 18, am I right?But I’m not sure if we can survive this new level of  ‘global’ hijinks.Maybe I should explain . . .Sally’s movie company was shooting some sort of adventure film in South America.Brazil, I think.Over the past year-and-a-half, she has been promoted from ‘stunt girl’ to second banana.Which is movie speak for supporting actress.I watch the Oscars. So I know.For three weeks, she had been sending home a more-or-less regular series of postcards with “Having fun. Wish you were here!” scrawled across them.Then, today.It started ordinarily enough. Which is something Mom and I are still getting accustomed to.I’m sure you know that when Sally is home, nothing is ever ordinary.Moving on . . .We had rolled out of bed. Breakfast-ed.Contemplating actually showering before heading to work.Then we heard the unmistakable sound of Mort’s Volvo, semi-affectionately called the Mort-mobile scraping over the curb in front of the house.Followed by a frantic pounding on the door.You have to know that we hear a lot of pounding on that door. And other stuff. There is even a sword wound that is still waiting to be fixed.Thanks, Cousin Ruth.This time, whoever was pounding didn’t wait to be admitted, but pushed the door open so hard it hit the wall.Mort charged in, his red hair on end, his face so chalk white his freckles stood out in sharp relief.Mom got to her feet. “What is it, Mort?”He stumbled into the room. “Sally!” he gasped out.My heart skipped a beat. Usual with Sally.Mom clutched his arm. “What about Sally?”Mort gulped a couple of times. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.Mom shook his arm. “Mort?”“Sally’s been kidnapped!”Mom gasped and turned paper white.Okay, I was definitely not expecting that.I grabbed Mom and lowered her back into her chair.“H-how did you hear?” Mom grabbed Mort’s arm again and pulled him over to her.“Her fan page!”Mom dropped his arm and sat there, staring straight ahead.I looked at Mort. “But shouldn’t the company have called us? Her family?”“It just happened! Maybe they’re . . .”Another car screeched up in front of the house. Through the still-open front door, I watched as a man got out and charged up the walk.He didn’t bother to knock, but came straight in.He looked from one to the other. “Ummm, Mrs. Hart?”Mom surged to her feet and rushed at him. “What’s happening?” she shouted in his ear.He tried to appear calm and collected, but I could see his hands were shaking. He tucked them into his underarms. “Sally was heading to the shoot. Her driver was stopped at a bend in the road and Sally was taken.”“Taken?” Mom grabbed his arm and shook it. “Did they hurt her?”“Well . . .” he hesitated. “The driver was wounded, but Sally was fine when last seen.”“Wounded.”  This time Mom fell back into her chair.“I’ve come to get you.”“What?”“I’m to take you to the jet so you can join the crew at the hotel.”Needless to say, it was the fastest three people ever got packed in the history of the world. Because no way Mom was going without me. Or Mort.I don’t remember much about the trip. Solicitous attendants on a very quiet private jet. Lots of food and drinks being offered.Mom didn’t touch any of it.When we landed, I remember instantly feeling hot.One of the film company bigwigs was there to meet us and whisked us off in a limo.Amazing how things work among the very rich.And then we were in a room on, like, the fortieth floor of a Hilton.Where there was more food. And dozens of people, including some very official-looking guys in uniforms.One guy in a silk suit sat us down on a couch and told us what he knew.Which was nothing. Basically, Sally had been grabbed out of her limo and taken to parts unknown. They were all still waiting for the first contact from the kidnappers.The guy in charge seemed to act like this happened all the time. He was very matter-of-fact.I decided I didn’t like him very much.Mom had finally broken down and was weeping noisily into a tissue.I went and stood behind her. “So what is being done?” I asked in what I hoped was my most grown-up voice.“Well, you have to know that we really can’t do anything until we have been contacted.”I stared at him. “So we stand here and wait.”“Basically, yes. We have our teams standing by.”“Oh, great. More people standing around waiting.”He eyed me carefully. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Sadly, this isn’t an isolated occurrence. When we host our foreign visitors, we try very hard to protect them, but occasionally, things like this do happen.”“And how do they turn out?”“Well . . . the companies pay and the people are recovered.”Mom lifted her head. “Pay? We don’t have any money.”I spoke over her. “Recovered alive or dead?”He shrugged. “You have to know we are doing the best we can.”I snorted.Just then, the phone rang. The man went over to it, nodded to someone sitting by a recorder at a nearby table, and picked it up. “Si?”He listened for a few seconds, then put the phone down.He turned to us. “That was the kidnappers. They are demanding six million dollars.”Mom collapsed in a dead faint.Everything got a little confused then, what with people rushing to help mom and someone pulling Mort off Silk Suit.He huffily straightened his coat and gave us a glare. “You must understand that we are really doing what we can!”Mort and I just glowered at him and sat there beside Mom.The hours dragged by. Sometimes Silk Suit would take calls on the phone. Sometimes speak quietly to other guys in the room.Mom hovered between asleep and awake.Then the phone rang again.This time, the guy got quite animated during the conversation. Actually looked surprised and . . . pleased?He put down the phone. “You must come. Things are happening.”We followed him down the hall to the elevator and were whisked to the ground floor. From there, we all hurried outside into a square just across the street.Two men were crouched on a couple of benches in front of a group of soldiers. And standing beside them, chewing on what looked like a mint sprig, her head draped in a filmy, blue cloth, was Sally.Mort passed us like a shot and scooped her up. “SALLY!!!”Mom and I were close behind and the four of us had our arms around each other and were just squeezing as hard as we could.When things had calmed somewhat, I realized that Silk Suit was trying to get our attention. “Mrs. Hart. Mrs. Hart.”We looked at him. “These are your daughter’s kidnappers.” He pointed to the two men. “Apparently they are giving themselves up. Something about Sally. They keep on saying ‘never, never again’!”“Nunca! Nunca mais!” one of the men said, shaking his head violently.I looked at my sister.Sally shrugged and brushed some dust off her pant leg. “Sooo . . . anyone got anything to eat? I’m starved. Those guys were terrible cooks.”
Once a month, Karen issues a challenge to her followers.Plus a selection of words, passed from them to her to . . . someone else.This month, my words: polar bears ~ benches ~ mint ~ leg ~ host, came via Karen from my good friend Michelle Mariott.Thank you, Michelle! This was so. Much. Fun!
Now go and read what the others have done with their words!
Baking In A TornadoSpatulas on ParadeWandering Web DesignerFollow Me Home  Part-time Working Hockey MomSouthern Belle CharmClimaxed  Sparkly Poetic WeirdoMedicated Musings

Getting Trained

Sarah, my grandmother, on her wedding day 1905.Life was just . . . different back then.1901.In rural Utah, one made do.And soldiered through.Later, perhaps, one learned the whole story . . .Sixteen-year-old Sarah, fifth of eight children and oldest surviving girl still at home, was put in charge of her younger siblings while their mother went to the big city for several months of formal midwifery training.It was a time of learning.Hard work.And learning.Did I mention learning?Things were going surprisingly well.Then youngest sister, twelve-year-old May, developed a sore throat.A bad sore throat. That shed white ‘pieces’.Older sister, Sarah, thought she merely had a bad throat and nursed her as best she could.Without any outside influences.Like the local Health Officer.She had her sister “gargle everything she could think of, but it was still very bad.”At length, she sought the advice of her grandmother, who lived nearby, and who did what she could to help.Finally, when May was nearly better, Sarah’s Grandmother called the Health Officer.Who told Sarah she had just nursed her sister through Diphtheria.Maybe sometimes we’re better off not knowing . . .

Escaped

“It’ll be a great escape!” said he,“The sun, the sand, the water, me.“Come fly out cross the wide blue sea,“It’s how the winter’s s’posed to be!”
And so I packed my bags and went,The first two weeks moved like cement,With problems, rain, that left us spentI’m sure that wasn’t what he meant.
Then all at once, repairs were done,And in the sky, the shining sun,Soft breezes blew on everyone,So this is what he meant by ‘fun’!
I’ve thrown out all my sour grapes,Bikini’d my amorphous shape,Laid back on my warm, sandy drape,Ahhh. Now it’s truly an escape!

“Come!” Karen said. “Let’s have a ball!”The rest of us all heard her call,And madly scribbled, one and all,While making sense out of the scrawl.
And we present to you our ‘pomes’,Where we have bared our hearts, syndromes,Perhaps betrayed our chromosomes,Now go! And to the others, roam…
Karen of Baking In A Tornado:  Can’t Just Go  Dawn of Spatulas On Parade:     The Great Escape
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Escape the Madness

It’s All Relatives

Two of my relatives.
Gramma and Grampa StringamI love to hear the stories of my relatives who went before,Great Grandfather, whose neighbour’s hammer helped to build a second floor,Then, when he went to lunch, was buried somewhere neath those planks of yore,Discovered when that place was razed at the ripe old age of 54!
For a visit, Grandma took four kids and she was heading home,Was quite a distance train and wagon, that those five would have to roam,When partway there, their not-so-trusty beasts belied their chromosomes,And backed the wagon off the cliff at the apex of the mountain’s dome.
When Grampa found some steer’s legs hidden far beneath the large hay pile,He knew a poacher had been there. He brought police ‘cross country miles,A young dad charged, his starving kin had nowhere they could stay a while,Gramp took them home and had them stay till Dad’s return brought back their smiles.
1918, the world was in the grip it called, “The Spanish Flu”But Grampa’s family lived on onions—seemed to make them all immune,For several weeks, he did the chores of those in Stirling’s small commune,Milking cows and feeding stock from rise of sun to rise of moon.
Gramma, she was famous for the cookies baked at Christmastime,Selections packed in tins, but there was one we all found so sublime,Those were the first that disappeared. Be it snacks or mealtimes.When she passed, she took the method with her. It was such a crime.
My mom was famous for the scrumptious pies that she would always bake,In groups of six, they left her oven, for her fam-i-ly’s intake,Now, once a year, on March 14, we think of Mom as time, we take,Constructing crusts and fillings for our flaky Pi Night bellyache.
When I and Future Husby went for what would be a date, our first,My Daddy locked the door on me, I tell you, it was just the worst,We broke in through a window and I breached the hallowed halls headfirst,And Dad forever teased about our ‘break-and-enter’. May he be cursed.
Each one of them has stories and I’m fortunate I have their store,And as I read them, I’m excited. Truly, how could one be bored?And they must be remembered, so I vow to never close that doorOn those wondrous thrilling tales of relatives who went before.
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besought,To try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughtsPerhaps a grin?So all of us, together, we,Have crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
JennyCharlotteMimiMerry Mae
Next wee, cause it’s my favourite, true,We’ll talk about the colour: BLUE!

Watch-ing

Mark. Keeping watch.1945. Mandatory military training in Cornwallis, Nova Scotia.To the young man attending college in Guelph, Ontario, it was a two-week adventure . . .Canada is a big country.Mark had never been past Guelph, Ontario. Actually, before college, he had never been east of Alberta.Like millions of other servicemen, the military life was his first glimpse of a wider world.The highlight was a stint on the disabled destroyer, HMCS Saguenay, on permanent anchor in the harbour at Cornwallis.While on the destroyer, one of the duties of the young would-be sailors was a turn on anchor watch.A fairly mundane exercise.All one had to do was ‘watch’.You’d think it would be easy.Two things you need to know:1.  There was a strong wind blowing and2.  Mark's friend, Bill, had very poor eyesight.Back to my story . . .It was 2 AM and Bill was just coming on watch.As he stepped up onto the deck, he realized that there was quite a stiff breeze coming in off the water. Quickly, he grabbed the strap of his hat to pull it under his chin and behind his ears.The wind was quicker.It took his hat—and incidentally his glasses—out to sea.As his watch was only two hours in length, he assumed he could get along without the extra paraphernalia and didn’t bother to report the problem.He was wrong.Remember what I said about Bill’s poor eyesight?That comes into play here.Being on anchor watch consisted of keeping track of certain lights on the shore.If the lights were out of position, the boat was out of position.Bill couldn’t see the lights.And when the ship broke loose from its anchor (because of course that would happen now), Bill couldn’t tell.Until the ship ran aground near the shore.The men were jolted from their bunks and the call for ‘All Hands on Deck’ brought them topside.The tide was high and the ship had to be refloated before it went out.Fortunately, there was a tug nearby and the job was accomplished quickly and with little problem.Still, to the land-bound sailors, it was an adventure.And they learned something:Turns out, if someone is on watch, they need to be able to...you know...'watch'.Sooo, if for some reason one can’t do a job, even for a short time, one can’t do a job.Good advice. Another picture of Mark. Also keeping watch. Ahem.

Hooked

1940. Lethbridge Alberta. The Safeway meat department.A whopping $.25 an hour.A fifteen-year-old new employee had just gotten his first glimpse of Heaven . . .Moving into the big city had been an adventure. For a boy used to chores and hard work, it was a reprieve. For someone accustomed to few people, it was an education.For a lad whose only source of income to date had been an allowance, it was admittance into the world of high finance.Mark loved working at the meat counter. He soon got through the basics of sorting, assisting and wrapping and was working on learning to cut—first with knives and then with the machines.Nothing says ‘you’re a man’ quite like a job that involves things sharp and deadly.And/or power tools...And to add to the perks of the job, he got along well with his co-workers.Life was perfect.However, like most work places, there soon proved to be a joker in the midst.Garth, one of the younger cutters, sent Mark on an errand.Back to the storeroom for a ‘sky hook’.Obediently, Mark disappeared.For some time, he searched the orderly shelves and office, growing more and more alarmed when what he sought simply couldn’t be found.Finally deciding he would have to return to Garth to report failure, he started for the door.Another cutter was standing there. He asked Mark what he was searching for.When the young man told him, the cutter smiled. “You’ve been duped, son,” he said.Huh. Mark turned this over in his mind.Remember, this is a boy from the ranch. One who had been the butt of pranks by professionals.He smiled and hurried back to Garth. “We were out of those hooks,” Mark told him. “So I went next door to the hardware and ordered one.”Then he went back to his duties, but kept an eye on the young cutter.He didn’t have to wait long.As soon as he turned away, Garth was out the door like a shot and headed to the hardware store.Oddly enough, Mark never heard the term ‘sky hook’ used again.Yep.There was a joker among the staff at the meat counter in the Lethbridge Safeway.Just not the one everyone knew.

Three Goats. And a Troll

It started with a bridge.Okay, maybe not with a bridge, but with the troll that lived under it.Or maybe with the three goats that simply wanted to get across.Let me start again . . .There were once three goats.Brothers (or Billys) by the name of Gruff.They lived in a meadow at the foot of Cold Mountain. Beside the Whispering Woods.Near Clearwater Stream.You know the spot.It was lovely there. Plenty to eat.Shelter from the occasional storms.Really fresh, cold water.Yep. Lovely.All fall and winter, the three of them ate the lush grass and did goat stuff.Finally, as summer was just starting peep out along the branches of the trees and creep up into the crevices of Cold Mountain, Big Billy Goat Gruff, hereinafter known as BB, made a momentous proposal.“Hey, bros! Why don’t we go up the mountain and eat the new, green grass that is sure to be growing there!”Now, you have to know that, for three goats who hardly—okay, never—went anywhere, this truly was an ‘out-there’ suggestion.The other two thought about it for .68 seconds.“I’m for it!” Little Billy (LB) said excitedly.Middle Billy (MB) shrugged. “Why not? I probably won’t be getting any calls from my publisher any time soon, so what have I got to lose?”“Let’s do it!” LB took off at a run.Little brothers. Am I right?The other two followed at a more sedate pace. Well, MB did.I think it was BB’s turn to do the dishes, so he was a bit behind the other two.It should come as no surprise that LB reached the stout, stone bridge crossing Clearwater Stream quite a bit ahead of the others. Without even pausing to consider the possible ramifications involved in crossing an unknown—albeit local—landmark, he started across.Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!Okay, that probably doesn’t accurately describe the sound made by four small goat hooves on the aged wooden decking of a local landmark.Go with me on this . . .LB had just reached the center of the bridge when something happened.Something big and loud and scary.And no, it wasn’t a broadcast of the most recent out-of-control political discussion.Although that would be equally frightening . . .No. It was a troll.One who had taken up residence beneath that very bridge.And we all know that, in a troll world, possession is 9/10s of the law.Actually more like 35/36s.“Who’s trip-trapping on my bridge?!” the troll shouted, leaping onto the bridge.Do you think this comment suggests another sound may have been acceptable?What are your thoughts . . .“Eek!” LB replied. Then, in a shaky ‘little-goat-brother’ voice, “It is I. Little Tinesy Billy Goat Gruff. The littlest, tiniest, not-much-meat-on-him goat in the Gruff family of fine goats.”The troll blinked. “Umm . . .”LB rolled his eyes and decided to simplify. “Don’t eat me!”“But you’re on my bridge. And anyone caught trip-trapping over my bridge gets eaten!”See? There’s that ‘trip-trapping’ again. Am I right in thinking LB would have done just fine if he’d—I don’t know—salsa danced across?“Oh, but I’m just so wee,” LB said in his tiniest, squeakiest voice. “There’s not much to eat. You’d lose more calories than you gained. Like eating celery. All work. Small reward.”The troll stared at him.LB sighed. “My bigger, fatter, tastier brother is right behind me. Why don’t you wait for him? Much better meat-to-bone ratio.”The troll thought about this for a moment, then finally shrugged. Why not? “Fine,” he said. “But stick around, just in case.”LB didn’t wait for the troll to clarify, but trip-trapped the rest of the way across and out of sight.The troll ducked back beneath the bridge.A few minutes later, MB appeared. Seeing no one and nothing untoward, he started across. Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!Notice how it’s a little louder? That’s called Bigger Font.“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?!” the troll shouted. He leaped onto the bridge in his finest ‘I’m-a-troll-and-I’m-awesomely-scary’ fashion.MB and the troll regarded each other. “It is I. Middle Billy Goat Gruff,” MB said in his most polite voice. “Is there something I can do for you?” “You can bring me lunch!” The troll laughed his most troll-like laugh. Which, you have to admit is pretty rough and creaky and . . . okay, yes . . . scary.“I’d be happy to,” said MB, still in his ‘I-don’t-know-you-but-why-can’t-we-be-friends?’ voice. What is it I can get you?”“YOU!” The troll shouted gleefully and started forward.“Oh you don’t want to eat me!” MB put up a hoof to ward the large, and decidedly over-eager troll off.“I don’t?”“Oh, no! I’m much too small and puny.”The troll frowned. “You look pretty good to me.”“Well, trust me, I’m not. I’m in terrible shape and I never eat a proper diet. My BMI is through the roof! You can do much better.”The troll looked around. “How?”MB leaned closer. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but there is another goat right behind me who is MUCH bigger than I am. And he works out. Totally eats right. Low fat. Low sodium. If you eat him, not only will there be more, but it will be much better for you!”The troll pursed his huge troll-lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said finally. “But stick around, just in case.”MB nodded and completely ignoring what the troll asked, skedaddled.Once more, the troll took up his patented ‘troll’ position beneath the bridge.This may be a good time to explore the whole ‘troll-beneath-the-bridge’ thing. I mean, why on earth would one choose to live beneath a bridge? Damp to wet conditions pretty much constantly. Noisy, as the whole ‘trip-trapping’ would suggest. Subject to the whims of the weather. Fishermen.I mean, really?!And another thing, what makes him think it is HIS bridge? Does he have title?Did he, you know, pay someone for it?These are questions that need explanation.Back to our story . . .BB arrived. Assuming his brothers were trip-trapping happily further ahead, he leaped onto the bridge and started across.Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!Yow! He certainly is a big fellow.Once again, the troll shouted, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge!” And made a truly spectacular appearance on the mountain side of the bridge.I don’t know about you, but I’m scared . . .“It is I! The Big Billy Goat Gruff. And what makes it your bridge?”See? I’m not the only one who is wondering.“Ummm . . .” said the troll.“Never mind. What do you want?”“Lunch!” the troll shouted, pouncing.But BB was very large indeed. And had a fine, large pair of horns to go with his enormous size.Quicker than you can blink, he had used those horns to toss that old troll right over the side.Okay, you’re right, the chances of the old guy getting hurt were probably quite slim.Truth to tell, it was his ego that took the brunt of everything. First of all, he’d been soundly defeated by a goat. And secondly, as he was going over, he screamed like a little girl.I’m not lying. He did.He hit the stream with an enormous splash, then waded to the bank and pulled himself out. He stood there for a moment, turned and looked up at BB, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, then sighed and started walking. Down the stream and out of sight.BB nodded and finished crossing the bridge.The three brothers spent a happy, lovely summer on the slopes of Cold Mountain. Growing fat on the rich grasses and just generally enjoying themselves.As the weather began to cool, they once more made their way back down the mountain to their old meadows.They did exhibit some caution when crossing the little bridge, but the troll hadn’t returned.He was happily ensconced under another bridge further downstream. Finding new goats to annoy.Some trolls never learn.

Half-Way Home

We’ve been on Guadeloupe for a little over a month.
For the first two weeks, we struggled with a plethora (real word) of set-backs vis-a-vis housing.But have really enjoyed the island itself. Warm waters. Soft sands. Lush vegetation.It really is quite a prosperous island. Certainly anything ‘government-related’ (museums, gardens, aquarium) has been uber well done!We are living in Deshaies.Interestingly enough, where they shot (or continue to shoot-I’m rather fuzzy on the whole ‘next season’ info) Death in Paradise. One of Husby’s and my favourite programs.It’s fun. There are pictures all over the town of the actors...acting.We’ve seen the building that ‘houses’ the Honore Police.Eaten at the restaurant that doubles as ‘Chez Catharine’.They even do Death in Paradise tours.Which we haven’t taken...So here’s where I show you what we HAVE done! Little critter we found at the Botanical Gardens.
And no, he wasn’t friendly...
Also at the Botanical Gardens.
Ditto

Sunset over Deshaies.
If you look closely, the Star Clipper is on the horizon.
We’ve sailed on it several times!
Fort Delgris 
More Fort Delgris
The view from...
Getting ready to climb Soufrier
Breakfast in January on Guadeloupe.
Yep. I could get used to this!
The first ‘wetting of the feet’!
Commanding the waves...
And That brings us to today.
It’s sunny and warm. The island breezes are blowing.
I see snorkelling in our future!
Wish you were here!

Sweet Water

For today’s Poetry Monday challenge, we chose the topic of ‘Water’.And oh, the directions that water will flow today...Now the Milk River flowed right around the ranch buildings on the old Stringam Ranch.And in it or on it, we kids spent our childhood days.The best memories...
When I was wee, a sound I’d hear,That could be heard, both far and near,Was water.It flowed around the ranch. And me.In its flight toward the sea,That water.In summer—in it, I was found,With siblings gathered all around,Pure water.In winter, frozen it would be,The skating good, (though hard on knees),Cold water.And now in mem’ry it must stay,Though it flows still unto this day,Sweet water.
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 all of us, together, weHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought...Did we help?Or did we not? 
See what directions the water flows for my friends...Jenny
Mimi
Charlotte
Merry Mae