Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border

Who does that?I mean, seriously, who?Maybe I should explain…
Jared was a prince. A real, bonafide prince.The ‘son of a real king and queen’ sort ofprince.I know it probably sounds awesome, and formany years, for Jared, it was.Friends. Tutors. Travel.But recently, it had become, well, a pain.Stay with me, children, I shall tell all…Jared had ‘come of age’, which, in normalyou-and-me speak means he was old enough to get serious about finding The One.*cue romantic music…Now if it was us, we’d probably design aheart-stopping page in the ‘Swinging Singles’ or, depending on our age, maybethe ‘Sagging Singles’.Or get a cute puppy and appear at the park.Jared didn’t have those options.I mean, there really isn’t a dating site forthe ‘Stately Singles’ or ‘Stuffy Singles’ whatever it would be called.Nope.Jared was stuck with the girls his parentsmanaged to find among their Rolodex (Google it) of royal friends.Most of whom he’d known since childhood.Can we just say none appealed and leave it atthat?He searched.Oh, my yes, he searched. Austria, Italy,France and the many and varied countries of continental Africa elicited no onewho even remotely appealed.He even put on his galoshes and winter coatand huffed and puffed his way across Canada.And we all know just how attractive thoseCanadian girls can be!Ahem...But still no one seemed to strike that spark.Or if they did, they couldn’t prove they were ‘royal’.(Or at least ‘royal’ enough to suit hisparents…)Yep. Jared was in a pickle.One evening, as he and his parents stood onone of the myriad balconies bedeck-ing their palace, enjoying the awesomelightning display accompanying a Hollywoodish rainstorm, there was a knock attheir royal door.Jared and his parents frowned.“Maybe it’s a princess come to look for me fora change!” Jared said.They all laughed.Just then their Major Domo, Domo, came to thebalcony entrance.“A young lady has been caught in the storm,”he said. “She says she’s a princess and seeks shelter.”“But of course!” the queen said quickly.“Bring her in!” the king added as he usheredhis family inside.Domo disappeared.“Wouldn’t it be amazing if she turned out tobe…erm…amazing?” Jared asked.“And a real bonafide princess,” his motheradded.“Yeah. That.”Just then a young lady appeared in thedoorway, with Domo behind her.“Here she is, your majesties,” he said,bowing.She was a rather sodden young lady, whoselong, red hair hung in dripping hanks down what looked to be aformerly-pristine, decidedly expensive crystal-beaded dress.She sank into a deep (and shivering) curtsey.“Your Majesties,” she said in a very polite, decidedly royal way.No, I don’t know, either. It just sounds good.Then she gave a massive sneeze.“Oh, excuse me!” She dabbed delicately at hernose with the back of one dripping wrist.“Oh, my dear, you must be frozen!” the queendeclared, rushing forward. “Domo!” she waved a hand. “Prepare a bath in the RedRoom and fetch some dry garments!”The man bowed and left.“Come, dear,” the queen went on. “Let us getyou clean and warm!”The girl stretched quivering, blue lips in asemblance of a smile. “I am so sorry to come here alone and unannounced. But mycarriage shed a wheel at the bottom of your drive and my driver sent me on tokeep me warm and safe.” She looked down and smiled a little half-smile. “Itwasn’t raining then.”“Well, never you mind,” the queen said. “Let’sget you warm and comfy!”She put her arm about the shivering girl and steeredher toward the doorway.“Now, tell me, my dear,” the queen said asthey stepped out into the hall. “Domo was saying something about you being a…”Their voices faded.“…princess?” the king finished the queen’ssentence. He looked at his son a moment. Then grinned and waggled his eyebrows.Jared was staring at the doorway where thegirl (and his mother) had disappeared.“Son?” his father said.Jared blinked. “Is there really a silly rulethat says I have to marry a princess?” he asked.The king laughed. “I’m afraid so. Why elsewould you have been charging all over the globe these past few months?”“Why, indeed.”I don’t know about you, but I think I’m seeinga whole love-at-first-sight sort of…thing.Who’s with me?Meanwhile, down in the Red Room’s dressingroom… (The dressing room of the Red Room? The big room’s little room? Oh, nevermind.) …the girl was happily (and modestly) soaking in a tub of hot, soapywater.At the same time, the queen was directing avast army of servants in the placement of 40 mattresses atop the Red Room’sbed. The bed in the Red Room? Belonging to the Red Room?Why am I having so much trouble with this?Did Twain have this kind of distress? Or Dr.Seuss? I think not.Moving on...Unbeknownst (Oooh! Good word!) to thepile-ers, the queen had first placed a small, ordinary pea under the bottommattress before the ‘pile-ing’ began. A pea that was now covered by, not 1, but41 mattresses!I know. Weird, right.I guess she had her reasons.Maybe she wanted to pre-pea the bed? *snort*Sorry about that.I digress…When the girl emerged from her bath all warm,glowing and with her hair newly cleaned and arranged, the queen gasped.Even in borrowed nightclothes, she truly wasbeautiful.Some people are like that.“Daphne, your bed is ready,” the queen said,patting the pile of mattresses.Oh, right. I forgot. The girl had told thequeen her name.Daphne.Daphne blinked, but obligingly climbed theladder to the top, then snuggled down into the soft blankets.“Have a good sleep, Dear,” the queenwhispered.But Daphne was already there.The next morning, a smiling (and totallyrested and happy) young face appeared at the breakfast table.“Good morning, everyone!” Daphne sang outcheerfully.People do that…in stories.The king, queen and Jared looked up andsmiled. The king and Jared rose to their feet and Jared reached for her arm ina gentleman-ly ‘let-me-be-attentive’ fashion.“Oh Daphne, my sweet girl, it’s so nice to seeyour bright smiling face at our breakfast table!” the queen said graciously.She patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Come and sit next to me!”Jared led her over and released her arm.Daphne sank into the proffered chair.The queen smiled and pressed Daphne’s hand.“Now my dear, tell us how you slept. Every detail!”Daphne smiled back. “Like a dream,” she saidhappily. “I can’t remember when I’ve slept so well.”The queen blinked and frowned slightly. “Oh.Really? Well that is…wonderful.”A sudden chill seemed to fill the room.Ignoring it, Daphne chirped happily on. “Yes.I think I could happily sleep on a stack of mattresses for the rest of mylife!” she said.“Oh. Well, I’m not quite sure…” began thequeen.“How we’ve missed meeting you all this time,”Jared broke in. He smiled warmly at the girl. “I think this is the beginning ofa beautiful relationship!”Okay, yes you’ve heard something like thatbefore.Go with me on this…Well what did you think? That placing a peaunder 40+ mattresses was going to make a bit of difference? I mean, I’ve sleptlike a baby (or like a teenager because we all know babies don’t sleep) with atree root under my camping mattress.Jared and Daphne were soon an ‘item’.Then quickly moved from there to ‘affianced’.The queen confided to Jared the whole ‘41mattresses and one pea’ story the evening before his wedding day.When he asked her why she merely shrugged.“Mother always told me that a true princess should be as delicate—andbruise-able—as a rose petal.”“Well that’s stupid,” Jared said. “How couldshe withstand the rigours of life?”You’re probably wondering what rigours aprincess/future queen would have to withstand?All I have to say is: childbirth...And you know what? It wasn’t important if shewas a ‘real’ princess or not because to Jared, she was his princess.And that’s all that mattered.
It's Fly on the Wall Day!!!My favourite Friday of the Month, where my blogging sisters and I treat the rest of you to a glimpse into hearts, lives and minds.You've visited mine.Now go and visit theirs!You'll be glad you did!
Karen at Baking in a TornadoMarcia at Menopausal Mother

 

I have to say I totally understand her position.I mean…she did the work, shouldn’t she get thepaycheck?Ahem…Miss Betsy, heretofore known merely by herdescription, ‘Little Red Hen’ was a sturdy, dependable sort of being.Hard-working. Honest.Creative.Now our Miss Betsy was tired of her usual farm diet(ie. Bugs. Worms. And good grief, who can blame her?!) and decided what she’dreally like was a nice, fresh loaf of bread—or something similar.But, living in a farmyard as she did, theopportunities for the sale or procurement of such things as baking stuffs waspretty nigh impossible.Privacy was also at a premium. Just FYI.Moving on…Then one day, our Miss Betsy found several grainsof…grain that had fallen out of the farmer’s wagon.And she was struck by an idea.She could grind up this grain and make that lovely loaf of bread—or somethingsimilar—that she’d been dreaming of?Between you and I, a truly lovely idea!Sadly, she knew that the few grains she held would bewoefully inadequate for such an undertaking. Taken to the mill and ground, theywould produce…maybe a tablespoon, at best.But what if she planted them?!One grain of wheat, properly planted and nurturedcould reproduce itself a hundred times over, right?All one needed was a patch of ground.Some water.Sunlight.100 to 130 days of frost-free weather.And patience.Okay, let’s face it—making a loaf of bread in thismanner isn’t something one does in a hurry.But there were no other options and Miss Betsy, notone to be easily discouraged, decided to go for it.Being the happy little community member that she was,she decided to offer her idea to the…erm…community.“I found some grains of wheat!” she said, asexcited-ly as she could.Let’s face it—with the indolent crew that ‘peopled’the barn yard, she would need to sell the idea to get anyone up off their…indolence.“Yay,” said the cat. Who then yawned.“Yay,” said the duck. Who flapped his wings idly andsettled in for another nap.“Bring them here. I’ll take care of them,” said thepig. Who then rolled over.Not one to be so quickly discouraged, Miss Betsy triedagain. “I’m going to plant them and then they’ll grow and mature and produceenough grain that I’ll be able to grind them and make a lovely loaf of bread!”She paused, a big, hopeful grin on her face.Okay, yes, she’s a bird…with a beak. Go with me onthis…The cat stared at her. “That sounds like a lot of workfor a very little reward.”“Trust me on this,” said Miss Betsy. “It’ll be totallyworth it! Who wants to help plant it?”The cat fluffed up his fur. “Not I,” he said. Then hebegan to lick his left leg.“I have to agree with my feline friend,” said theduck. “Not I.” He tucked his head under his wing.“Call me when you have real food and not thisimaginary stuff,” said the pig. And slid happily back into his dream world.“Huh. Well. I guess I’ll just have to plant itmyself!” said Miss Betsy.And she did.A few days later, several little, green shootsappeared in the rows where Miss Betsy had planted her precious grains.“Oooh!” she said excitedly. “Look! Everyone look! Mylittle seed-lies are sprout-ling!”“Uh-huh,” said the cat, duck and pig together.“Who wants to help me water it and weed it?”“Your joking, right?” said the cat.“Nope. Who would like to help? It’ll be a lot of fun!”Just a side note here. I’ve tried this with mygrandkids. But it seems that infusing your words with a lot of enthusiasm onlyworks if there is an obvious—and visible—reward.Sigh.Back to our story…“Not I,” said the cat.“Not I,” said the duck.“Not I,” said the pig.“Fine. Then I’ll do it myself!”And she did.The grain grew tall and healthy and multiplied ‘exceedingly’.And in all that time, Miss Betsy tended it faithfully.And, after 130 days, as spring turned to summer andthen to fall, the tall, heavily-laden stalks were ready to harvest.“Oh, yow! Look at those!” Miss Betsy said. “Did youever see any wheat stalks as tall and straight and full?!”“Can’t say that I have,” said the cat. “Of course, Ihave to admit I’ve never really taken notice before.”“You’re doing good work, Bets,” said the duck. “Keepit up. You’ll have your loaf of bread in next to no time!”“Zzzzz,” said the pig.“So who wants to help me harvest it?” Miss Betsy (everthe optimist) asked.“Not I,” said the cat, stretching out in the autumnsun.“Not I,” said the duck, preening his feathers.“Zzzzz,” said the pig.So she did it herself.You should have seen the yield! Yow-zas!But then, the next step in the interminable (this is reallytaking a long time!) process.“Who wants to help me haul this haul to the mill to beground into flour?”“Are you kidding me?” said the cat, duck and pigtogether. Translation: Not I!‘Sigh,” said Miss Betsy. Translation: Sigh.“Then I’ll do it myself.”And she did.Now she had a sack of flour, perfect for that perfectloaf of bread.Things were starting to heat up at last.“Who wants to help me make the loaf of bread?” MissBetsy asked.She was nothing if not eternally positive.“Call me when it comes out of the oven,” yawned thecat.“Ditto,” said the duck.“Achoo!” said the pig. Translation: I say we just eatthe flour like it is!So Miss Betsy made it herself.Finally, after the months and months of work andwaiting, a big, golden loaf emerged from the oven, proudly carried by MissBetsy in her brand new oven mitts. “Now, who will help me eat this bread?” she asked.“I will!” said the cat.“I will,” said the duck.“I will!” said the pig.“You won’t!” said Miss Betsy.And they didn’t.But she did.Then she also went and got some better friends.Moral: One-way friendships can work for a while, buteventually, they just grind you down to nothing.The end. 
It's Fly on the Wall Day! The best day of the month!When my sister-bloggers and I share what's been happening in our homes and minds and hearts for the past month.You've read mine.Now go and see what my sisters are up to!You'll be glad you did!Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia of Menopausal Mother

First of all, I present here an abbreviatedversion of the poem.

Because…hey, I’m not getting paid by theword!

And because…good gravy this poem isrepetitious! Yikes!

So for those of you who like repetition…youcan add as many lines as you want.

Just please, not near the rest of us… Ahem…

Oh, and even abbreviated, there are a lotof uh-huh’s.

Sorry…

 

Froggy went a courtin’ and he did ride, uh-huh With a sword and a pistol by his side, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. First thought out of the gate is…actuallytwo thoughts. One, how is Mr. Froggy riding?And two, why does he feel the need to carry both sword and pistol when he’sgoing courting, hmmm?Now I’ve seen a few frogs in my lifetime.Kissed a few, too. If you catch my drift. (Snort!)And none—not one—has ever been ridinganything. Except maybe a lily pad. Or a water current.True story.And also, there has been a complete dearthof froggies carrying swords and/or pistols.I think they would have no problem grippingsaid swords and/or pistols. But their ability to, say, pull a trigger remains highly doubtful.And, most importantly, why would he feelthe need to carry any weaponry at all when hisdeclared goal was courtship?Perhaps we’re rightly sensing some sort of discordbetween the Frog and Mouse families?Tragic… He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door, uh-huh A place where he had been before, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Not much to comment on  here.Obviously, if he was intent on courting theaforementioned Miss Mouse, he would have been therebefore.Although I’ve heard that some do theircourting quite successfully sight-unseen, not so in our story. He said, “Miss Mouse, will you marry me?uh-huh And oh so happy we will be, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Ahhh!Spring is in the air!Soft breezes!Blossoms in the trees!And a young man’s fancy turns to love…Okay. It’s a frog and a mouse.Go with me on this… “Not without Uncle Rat’s consent”, uh-huh “I wouldn’t marry the President,” uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Now I don’t think she’s saying that Mr.Froggie is the president.Although, considering the world's choices in thelast hundred years or so, he may be a strong contender.What she’s meaning is it wouldn’t matterhow important someone was (or thought they were) she stillwouldn’t accept himwithout consulting a person she loved and trusted.Right?Which brings us right to Uncle Rat.I wonder if he appreciated the influence he hadover the younger members of his family.Let’s just say ‘yes’ and move on…Because… Uncle Rat, he went downtown, uh-huh To buy his niece a wedding gown, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. I’d venture this denotes agreement, even supporton Uncle Rat’s part.What are your thoughts?Oh...right.Maybe we should withhold opinions until wesee what he bought.If it was something soft and filmy, okay. Support.If it was made of cast iron or anythingresembling armour, less likely. Where shall the wedding supper be? uh-huh Way down yonder in the hollow tree, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. I’m good with this.A frog and a mouse party should be in arotting tree—far from the usual mouse parties we seem to havein our family’slarder.Ugh.Back to our story… The first to come was a bumble bee, uh-huh With a big bass fiddle on his knee, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Nice that the band showed up good andearly.There’s nothing like biting your nails innervousness as the clock ticks around to zero-hour.And you’re starting to wonder if you andyour sweetheart are going to dance the first waltz to a bunch of fairlyinebriated relatives singing the wrong words to ‘Lady in Red’.Not that that’s ever happened to anyone Iknow…Ahem… Next to come was the big black snake,uh-huh He gobbled down the wedding cake, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay, I know everyone has at least one of those relatives.Because what wedding is complete withoutsome relative hogging all the cake.Or shrimp, as the case may be. Little bit of biscuit on the shelf, uh-huh If you want anymore you can make it yourself, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Do you know what this says to me?All the food’s gone?That’s it.Party’s over.Go home. Oh, and best wishes to the happy couple.Kiss. Kiss.

Today is Fly on the Wall Day!

The best day of the month!

When my blog sisters and I get to share with you what's been happening in our homes and hearts this month.

You've read mine.

Go now to see what Karen and Marcia have done!

Karen At Baking in a Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter
Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!
Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-workers, known only as ‘Jack’.“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus, put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that led to her good fortune, saying only: “Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet! We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity. I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so doing, lost a personal item or two… “But still, when answering her co-workers' questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her. “I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers, but with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted, and Cindy was quickly on her way.Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—and all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyway.
Today is Fly on the Wall Day!When, with my Blog Sisters, we post what's been going on in our minds, homes or hearts! Or maybe something...pithy.You've read mine.Now go and read my Sisters'.You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

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.

Better.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 off the large, and decidedly over-eager troll.

“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.
Once a month, my blog sisters, Karen and Marcia, join me in sharing what's been going on in our hearts and minds and homes.I have to admit it--it's a lot of fun!You've read mine, now go and see what they have been up to!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Across the land, to one and all, the famine had a grip,And rich and poor alike were in the famine’s membership,And Widow Bette and teenaged son (named Jack, for all who care…)Were skating rather closely to the edge of starved despair.
In desperation, Bette told Jack, “Take Emily...” (their cow)“…and sell her.” (with the proceeds, they would get along somehow),Obedient, the young man took the cow and started out,Not knowing that the strangest tale was just about to ‘sprout’.
A stranger stopped the lad a mile or so along the way,And asked him ‘whither, he was to’ on such a lovely day,Jack indicated Emily and told him what was up,And why Jack had embarked upon this personal ‘roundup’.
I’m sure you’ve heard the story: how our Jack endorsed the sale,A cow for ‘magic’ beans. You know, a mistake of grandest scale.How his disappointed mother threw those beans out on the lawn,Then cried herself to sleep believing all her hope was gone.
You have to know those beans grew up. A stalk into the sky,And Jack thought he'd explore (and have adventures by and by),He climbed up to another land, where all folks were immense,And there he pilfered lots of stuff--in situations tense.
That boy, he needed stealth, because you know, our little JackWas just the size and shape to be a giant’s midday snack,It didn’t stop him stealing, though it kept him on the run,Whene’er he heard the giant’s voice say, “Fee! Fie! Foe! And Fum!"
Then finally, he took the item Giant treasured most,  (For evenings when relaxing or when parties he would host…)A magic harp, the player of the sweetest music e’er,Whose loss would surely fill our giant’s heart with deep despair!
The harp cried for his ‘Master!’ as Jack began to bear him hence,It spurred our giant on to a more feverish defense,He followed our young thief right down the beanstalk growing there,And where the boy did lead, he neither thought about. Or cared.
But Jack was quick and reached the bottom. Turned and grabbed his axe,Kept nearby for such things. (Now we've reached the tale's climax!)When swinging frantically, he fin’ly chopped the stalk and all,Not even mighty giants could survive that nasty fall.
Then Jack and Mom were happy as a family could be,With all the stuff Jack stole they both could live quite comfortably,Now I’ve heard theories claiming that the Giant stole them first,The larger thief or small. Opinions? Who d’you think was worst?!

Today is Fly on the Wall Day, where my sister bloggers and I get to talk about what's been going on in our hearts, minds and lives. I chose poetry. Because...reasons.

Go now and visit my sisters!

You'll be so glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother

It's time for this month's Fly-on-the-Wall post.When my sister-writers and I share what's been in our hearts, minds, and homes this month!My mind has been dragged down by events in the world.So I'm back with my Fairy Tales!I hope you enjoy!
There once was a sweet little girl. Hername’s unknown, but because she always wore a red-hooded cloak made by hermother, everyone just called her Red Riding Hood.Red Riding Hood (or RRH for shortand because I’m lazy), was always very happy to help her mother. And, byassociation, grandmother, who lived in the woods.One fine day, RRH, carrying a basketof goodies, was wending (Oooh! Good word!) her way to said grandmother’s houseto supply aid and/or sweet treats as needed.Along the way, she was met by a Wolfwho was not only Big and Bad (note the capital letters), but also could conversequite well in human.Sooo…not your normal wolf by anystretch of the imagination.He asked her where she was going, andRRH, being a bright, friendly, albeit naive child, told him.He smiled and waved her off, then,being Crafty as well as Big and Bad, took a shortcut through the woods,arriving at Grandmother’s just ahead of RRH.What transpired when he andGrandmother met is unclear. Perhaps he gobbled her up. Poor choice. Everyoneknows senior citizens are high in cholesterol and low in fiber.Ahem...Regardless of what happened, theirinteraction culminated in his weird donning of the elderly woman’s nightgownand sitting in her bed when the sweet, unsuspecting RRH arrived.There followed a dialogue consistingof questions (RRH) and answers (BBCW—see above) designed to suspiciously ferretout the truth.  And which ended with BBCW chasingRRH around the cabin.A local woodcutter, heading home forthe day, heard RRH’s shrieks, arriving just in time to see her bash BBCW overthe head with the aforementioned treat basket.Now, normally, this would have beenpassed over as a fairly amusing attempt to waylay someone as powerful as theBBCW.Except for the fairly heavy honeypot.If any of you have had themisfortune of dropping one of those suckers on your toe, you know the damagethey can do. Even at low speeds.This one laid the BBCW out pancakeflat. So flat, the bulge in the critter’s belly became noticeable. Did anyonebet on the ‘gobbled up’ story?You just won.The woodcutter, possessing—youknow—woodcutting…stuff…immediately slit open that belly and, what do you think? Out popped a very disgruntled and rather untidy, but totally alive Grandmother!Then the three of them found severallarge stones and filled that greedy belly with them. Because nothing says ‘fulland satisfied’ like a belly full of rocks.Then Grandmother, possessing theskills, sewed that old belly shut quick as a wink. (Of course blood, gore andcorrect bodily functions have no place in fairy tales.)The BBCW, when he awoke, felt fulland satisfied (see above) but extremely thirsty. He made his way to a nearbystream where he bent for a drink. But those wretched rocks shifted (they’requite unpredictable you know, rocks) and pulled him into and underneath theclear water.And there and then, the BB (not so)CW drowned.I’m quite sure that RRH, her motherand grandmother and even the woodcutter really didn’t want this for the BBCW. What can I say? He made poor choices.So, something to think about... Iflaziness and craftiness try to inhabit the same sphere, laziness will win. Oractually—lose.However you want to look at it.
Did you have fun?There's more!Go now to my sister bloggers.I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

If you enjoyed my take on Little Red Riding Hood, now's your opportunity to read more of these glorious childhood favourites filtered through my fractured mind!

Fixing the Fairy Tales

Now available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com

My topic for March?What else?Pie!
Sing a song of sixpence,A pocket full of rye.Four and twenty blackbirdsBaked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,The birds began to sing.Wasn’t that a dainty dishTo set before the king?
The king was in his countinghouse,Counting out his money.The queen was in the parlour,Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,Hanging out the clothes,When down came a blackbirdAnd pecked off her nose.
They sent for the king’s doctor,Who sewed it on again.He sewed it on so neatly,The seam was never seen.or:There was such a uproar,That little Jenny wrenFlew down into the garden,And put it back again.
Okay, I admit that this poem/song was a great favouritewhen I was a kid.And I may or may not have recited/sung it ad infinitum et ad nauseum.But now that I am a mite older, I’ve had the chance toreally take a good, hard look!

Ahem…

Now, personally, I think it should start out with: ‘Singa song FOR sixpence’ because, according to a popular author of the earlyfifteenth century, giving someone sixpence for a song was, if not common, atleast accepted.

I know, I know. That would be an unacceptable number now—being both grossly inadequate and completely out of date.

But go with me on this…

A pocketful of rye could just be a simple unit ofmeasure—although what one bake-er would be able to bake for his (or her) bake-eeswith that much rye is questionable…

Now the next line was always the one that most fascinatedme. The baking of four and twenty blackbirds into a pie.

I probably don’t have to tell you how I beggedsoulfully demanded asked politely for Mom to bake blackbirds into apie for me.

Although I had no idea what a blackbird was.

Just a note: Now all I can think of is: feathers andbeaks (birds and I have a history there…)

And bird poop.
Moving on…

But she never did.

So all pie singing had to be done by me. Ad infinitum,etc. See above…

And all eating by some nameless/faceless king whoprobably got yummy pie-makings all over that money he was counting.

Now the Queen had the right idea. Vis-à-vis eating, thatis.

She was in the right place.

And eating the right things. (Although I always insistedthat Mom add peanut butter to MY bread and honey.)

But the maid really got the short end of the stick.

There she was—the only person in the story (besides thebake-er) actually…you know…working…

And what does she get for her troubles?

A pecked-off nose.

Can anyone say OUCH?!

Oh, yeah…me.

OUCH!

Okay, okay, yes. Her nose was seamlessly restored byeither the doctor or the less-likely Jenny wren, depending on which version youfavour, but still.

I broke my nose bouncing on my bed and you have to know that anything to do with damage to that appendage… HURTS!

And bleeds.

A lot.

So I’m thinking we probably will be looking at washing todo over.

Poor maid.

See? Short end of the stick.

Oo! Oo! I just want to put this out there: Said maid was,in all likelihood, hanging said clothes on a Clothesline. I’m not too sure of their efficacy in relation toactual—as the name suggests—clothes.

We’ll have to explore that later…

But clothelines make great jungle gyms…

And there you have it.

A day in the life of the Blackbird King and Queen andtheir long-suffering maid.

With at least 24 blackbirds. Plus or minus one thatobviously got away and started mutilating local personnel.

And maybe a bake-er.

Oh, and a doctor…or wren.

This was fun!

 

And just FYI: If you make me a pie with live birds in it,I’ll hand you a fork and napkin. Maybe even a plate.

But you’re eating it on your own.

Pi Night was a great success again this year.My daughter and I--with a little help from two granddaughters and several more super-excited teenagers--made 106.5 pies this year.We moved the event to our local church to see if more room would allow for more visiting time.And it did!A success on all counts!



I love Fly on the Wall days!Today is that time, once a month, when my blogging sisters and I give you a glimpse into what has been happening in our homes, at our desks and in our heads.I hope you enjoyed your visit here!Go, now and see what my two sisters have been up to.You know you'll like it!!!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother        

 This month, while our children and grandchildren up inCanada are suffering through -40 C (-40 F) temperatures and record snowfall, Husbyand  I, together with some friends, areenjoying the sun, sand and snorkeling in Tahiti. I know, I know it isn’t fair.But they are young and strong and we are...erm…less so.So I refuse to feel guilty!Here are some highlights! The very short pathway to paradise!
The aforementioned Paradise!

And at sunset...
A picture EVERYWHERE!

When Cousin Carmen suggests a change in the furniture,
I'm thinking...you know...moving stuff.
Beehive Ginger
Torch Ginger
Tourist.
Okay. Okay. Husby!
Doing what he loves most!

Moorea-Maiao next door.
Ditto!
One of the BIG reasons we travel!
Oh, yeah...and our eight-year-old neighbour does a thing...
2-time Polynesian champion!
Wow!And that's the first two weeks.Can't wait to see what the next four bring!!!Thanks for coming along!
Oh, yes...and our children and grandchildren are fine.Just fine. ;)

So now you've seen what I'm up to...Go and catch up with my blogging sisters!You'll be so glad you did! 

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother                                  

From theDepartment of ‘Now You Knowthe Really Real Story’!

 

    I’m quite sure you’ve heard aboutthe ‘Fairy Godmother’ of Cinderella fame.

    I mean, who hasn’t wished, at somepoint, that they had a FGM (see above) who would swoop in and changeeverything?

    I know I have.

    Ahem . . .

    But do you know who the FGM reallywas? I mean in really real life?

    Well buckle up, Little Pup becausethis is the really real story . . .

    Most of the stories of the FGMstart, rightly, at the moment she appears to sweet little Cinderella in hermoment of utter despair.

    With me so far?

    Well now I need for you to comeback in time with me. A long way back. To when FGM was, herself, a young woman.

    And to do this, I will have to giveaway a secret.

    To be totally truthful, I told theperson who entrusted me with said secret that I was absolutely rotten atkeeping them.

    Secrets, I mean.

    And still she persisted.

    So it’s really not my fault.

    But I digress . . .

    FGM, or Merri as she was christenedat birth, was the youngest of twin daughters born to the king and queen ofClearwater Fall. The capitol of Fairyland. Or Fairydom. Or whatever you want tocall it.

    Yep. She’s a fairy princess.Surprised?

    Well, I was.

    Born just ten short minutes afterher sister Perri, Merri was destined to walk always in said sister’s shadow.

    But you know what? This neverbothered Merri. She was proud of her sister. When someone praised Perri, Merriwas no slouch in adding to it. And if anyone found fault with her, asoccasionally happens when one is in public life, Merri was fierce in herdefense.

    So the two sisters grew to happyyoung womanhood in the protected confines of Clearwater Fall, the city whichwas, itself nestled in the safe rolling hills of Fairyland. Or Fairydom. (Haveyou made up your mind yet which to call it? Well hurry up, would you? It takesa long time to write out both names . . .)

    Now, the two of them, though theywere indeed twin sisters, looked nothing at all alike. Where Perri was tall andslight with flowing blonde locks, Merri was shorter and more round, with thickbrown hair that would one day turn snowy white. (Think the FGM in the movies.They are surprisingly accurate!)

    But I am getting ahead of myself.

    Though Merri was, by nature, moreadventurous and energetic than her quiet, studious sister, they spent much oftheir time together, happily exploring the city and surrounding countryside, orexploring the libraries and surrounding educational systems.

    It made for an interesting life.

    On the day where it all started(think Cinderella, etc.) the two of them were in one of their favourite places.A bower deep in the Forest of Trees.

    You have to know that these people,though bright and cheerful and happy, really weren’t courageous or imaginativewhen naming distinctive features pertaining to their kingdom. Hence ClearwaterFall, where the clear water falls or the Forest of Trees. Which has a lot of…ahem…trees.

    Merri had just finished spinning atale for her much more romantic sister. A tale which involved, in no particularorder, a bevy of wood sprites, a dragon or two, a Prince, several frogs and atleast one mushroom. (And no, I’m not going to tell you that one.)

    The two of them were lost in theirown little worlds for a moment. Perri dreaming of her prince—or maybe hermushroom. And Merri thinking about the tools needed to fight a dragon. And/orthe aforementioned prince…or mushroom.

    The forest around them was, exceptfor the mad twittering of thousands of birds and bird-like creatures, quiet.

    That’s when they heard it—a manlyshout, followed by some equally manly splashing and what may have been a few derisive manly chuckles.

    Merri, paused in cleaning her nailsand turned her head toward the sounds. “Sounds like Gerrold has decided to tryfishing again.”

    Perri smiled. “After the last time?I don’t think so.”

    The manly splashing got louder andwas accompanied by several ‘glubs’ and at least one ‘help!’

    “Huh. Maybe we should dosomething?” Merri got to her feet.

    Perri waved a languid (real word)hand. “You go ahead. And tell Gerrold to use a fishing pole next time.”

    Merri laughed, then poking herhunting blade into its sheath, started off toward the sounds. She didn’t havefar to go. Just around some trees—and some more trees, she came upon the pond.And there, near the edge was a thoroughly soaked, entirely outraged, andsinking fast...man.

    Merri grabbed a stout length oftree branch and carried it over to the bank nearest the struggling man. “Here!”she shouted.

    The man looked at her, then at thebranch, held tantalizing close to him. Then he shook his head and sank beneaththe muddy water.

    “Oh, bother!” Merri muttered.Raising her voice, she shouted, “Perri! We’re going to need some help!” Thenshe dropped the branch and leaped into the water.

    I know you’re probably thinkingthat Perri, at last glimpse, looked rather lazy and ineffectual. But you haveto know that that girl can move. When properly motivated. And her sister’svoice, carrying just the right amount of ‘Yikes’ in it, could do it.

    Almost before you can blink, shewas standing on the bank exactly where Merri had been moments before, quicklymaking a study of the roiling water and surmising, correctly, where her sisterand whoever she was rescuing were.

    And what they, in all probability,needed.

    Uncoiling a length of rope she keptin her handy-dandy little hunting pack, she moved to the nearest strong-lookingsapling and, using a patented bowline (I knew you'd want to know) knot, quickly and efficiently tied itround.

    Then paying out the length of rope behind her, she made her way to thewater.

    Just as Merri emerged with a verysoggy and barely conscious manly-looking man.

    It was a simple procedure to tossthe end of the line to Merri, who slipped it under the man’s arms and tied ittightly. Then Perri began pulling in the cable while Merri kept the man on hisback and his head above water.

    In seconds, all three were safelyon dry-ish land.

    It was then Merri noticed what hadprobably contributed to the man’s inability to save himself.

    His hands were tied behind hisback.

    The man began to cough and hack andMerri rolled him on his side so he could (ugh) spit up some very nasty-lookingwater.

    As he did so, she took theopportunity to slash through his bindings, freeing his hands.

    Finally, he gasped and shudderedand rolled onto his back once more. Then he opened his eyes.

    Now you’re probably thinking that,if this story went according to other stories you’ve heard on stage or screen,the young man would immediately spot Merri, his rescuer, fall hopelessly inlove and…end of story.

    That’s not what happened.

    Oh, he spotted someone. And thewhole ‘falling-in-love’ scenario followed.

    Indeed.

    He looked up into thebluest, most amazing eyes he had ever seen.

    And said good-bye to his heartforever more.

    This is probably the place where Ipoint out that Merri’s eyes are hazel.

    I’m sure you’ve caught on.

    Yep. All of this happened to Perri.The one who never even got her feet wet.

    And to make the story even lesslikely by today’s story-telling standards, Merri was totally okay with it.

    By now, you’re likely wondering howon earth this manly young man ended up in the lake.

    Without his swimming costume.

    And in a vastly inconvenientposition to actually…you know…swim.

    Well, it turns out that he wasinduced into going on a hunt by some rather unsavoury ‘friends’ (I use thisword facetiously) who wanted, not his company or his hunting expertise, but hisfortune.

    Their idea, as closely as I canpiece it together, was to have him simply disappear.

    Which never happens if you’ve heardany of the stories told by thetravelling minstrels. I mean, am I right? The dead bodies always float to thesurface and are discovered. And the bad guys are then also discovered and cometo sticky ends.

    Truth.

    But in this story, the dead bodywasn’t quite dead enough to refrain from telling tales. The ‘friends’ werebrought up on charges and the whole thing just basically caused a nine-dayswonder.

    The sticky end happened too.

    And then the manly youngman, whose name was Peter—or Pete as his real friends called him—married Perriand all was well in the world.

    Oh. Something else you probablyneed to know. Fairies—really real fairies—can change their size. Yep. The truthis that, originally, they were quite normal sized. Human normal sized. But, asthe real humans and other creatures took over more and more of the surroundingcountryside, it became convenient for them to…shrink. Take up less space. Beless noticeable.

    So a fairy and a human (becausethat’s what Pete was) getting married was, not only possible, but entirely…erm…possible.

    And a year of wedded bliss later,they welcomed their firstborn daughter. Whom they immediately named Ella (Youcan see where this is going).

    Merri was asked to be the sweet little half-fairy,half-human girl’s godmother. Something she accepted with alacrity (also a realword meaning, roughly, eagerness).

    And that’s the true story of justwhere the FGM came from.

    The really real story.

    You’re welcome.

Welcome to Fly on the Wall!The once-a-month challenge to catch you up on what has been happening in the lives and/or imaginations of my amazing writing sisters and me! Did you enjoy this?Well, let the fun continue by visiting my sisters!You'll be glad you did!
Karen at Baking In A Tornado
Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Did you enjoy FGM?Well, there's more!Now you can find all of my totally unasked-for commentaries in my new book, Fixing the Fairy Tales !Not a serious word in the bunch. I guarantee you'll laugh!

Fixing the Fairy Tales
Get yours today!