Things I sometimes heard my mother say

I heard my mother say "damn" once for real. That's about it. But she did have other expressions she'd come out with as occasion warranted.

• That is asinine--when something was clearly stupid.
  
• I'll be jiggered--don't know the meaning of jiggered, but I knew what she meant when she said it.
• Better a poor girl's belly burst than a bit of good food go to waste--obvious, but she was joking, mostly.
• You impudent little piece; you little assk-your-mother; you little crosspatch--I heard those directed at me a time or two.
• There. I gave it a lick and a promise--meaning I could have done a better job, but I'm sure to have another chance at it. Then I'll do better. (Like when you give the floor a quick mopping.)
• For crying out loud--everybody knows that. The Schiesses, my husband's family, said, "For crying in a bucket" or "For crying in a sieve." Brimleys never said either of those.
• You jassonk--perhaps to a fellow driver who had irritated her.
• For the love of Mike--always Mike and never Pete.
• Good night nurse--another expression of exasperation. Occasionally she would add "Tell the doctor I'm no worse."

There are more, I'm guessing. Perhaps I'll remember them.

Today's Adventure

This was the fourth time I took Charlie and Johnny to Lucky Peak. The first two times revealed the river bottom pretty much dry and the reservoir alarmingly low. The third trip we saw water in the Boise but still a low reservoir.

You drive out past the big bridge, which I showed the boys on our first trip and which ever after they mention and always want to cross on our return home. And you cannot help noticing the river, whether wet or dry, and Barber Dam, which is either spilling water or not.

Our practice has been to drive into Discovery State Park, see if any water is shooting out the flumes, then go up, drive across the dam, park and observe the reservoir. The boys climb on big rocks and guard rails and throw smaller rocks at the water. We count boats, if we see any.

Today their mom went and brought Edmund. She drove.

Johnny mentioned the bridge; we all felt stunned--and rewarded--by the level of the river; Barber Dam was spilling, you bet; those two huge flumes were shooting out tons of water, the first time the boys had seen that. Exciting, amazing. Charlie told his mom that the other times they had just been empty holes.

We drove up past Sandy Point, noted the fountain and the swimmers, and prepared to cross the dam. But the road was closed. Too much water, I guess.

There's a small viewpoint up above, so we drove up there. The area is enclosed by a chain link fence, which Charlie said a thank goodness for.

He and John and I walked through the scrubby weeds right up to the fence, where the boys tried to throw rocks into water, and where we could all see a full up reservoir. Does a soul good.

I guess the whole purpose for this report is to tell what Charlie said as we walked to the fence. "There's nothing like a trip to Lucky Peak."

Right you are, Charlie.

I told his mom about it as she carried Edmund to our place overlooking the lake, and she suggested her dad would love to hear something like that. Yeah.

I'll just bet we go out there again.

And, yes, we drove over the bridge on the way home

Random

• I think words have greater impact when squeezed into the form of a poem. But, then, some people won't read a poem. So there you are.
  

• I understand my mother's lament: "Now that I have no children to raise I know how to raise them." I can't say the same for myself, but I'm close.

• I called my sons yesterday to wish them happy father's day. Here's the exchange I had with one of them:
  

Me: Hi, Andrew. I just called to wish you happy birthday. (Muttering: Don't know where that came from.)
Andrew: Mom?
Me: Yes. Can you hear me?
A: Yes, now.
Me: I called to wish you happy father's day.
A: Thanks.
Me: Did you hear what I said before?
A: No. All I heard was "can you hear me" and "happy father's day."
Me: Good. I said happy birthday, and I'm glad you didn't hear me.
A: Yes, that's good, and I'll never know you said it.
Me: Right. That's a relief.
A: Well, if you're calling anyone else today, good luck with it.

• Last night's brief storm, with its big winds (gusts of 35 mph) and its hail and rain, was a welcome excitement. Lifted my spirits. Weird, huh.

Not A Real Sestina for 609

But it was fun to write.

It was those errands to the basement

I hated, especially at night, when dark

makes daytime shapes into creatures. “Fetch a can

of tuna and a quart jar of pickles," Mama would

call, or “Go down and bring up some

pears.” Didn’t she know

what a scary chore it was? I did know.

Even in daylight, the basement

held the promise of something frightful, some-

thing to stay away from, the bad unknown that hangs around dark

places. Even in daylight I would

have to pull the light string or shine a flashlight on the cans,

and it was worse at night. Spider webs strung can

to shelf to box to ceiling, and there was no

telling how many dead bugs or mouse tracks would

litter the containers or whether a living basement

dweller, sinister and evil, might jump out of the dark-

ness to do my small girl self some

harm. Every nerve I owned was at its edge those nights. Some-

times even the sound of your own breathing can

scare you and you don’t dare let your voice be heard in the dark.

That could invite the boogie man. If I was quiet he might not know

I was down there in his basement

trying to pull the light off, get out quick, and lock the wood-

en door. Then, if only I could, I would

be back in the house without moving, find some

way to fly up the path, past the little room that holds the basement

generator, because at night the motor hum becomes a growl I can

only think is a monster waiting to grab me and do who knows

what awful dreadful deadly thing there in the dark.

My tiny flashlight does little to chase the dark,

but light from the kitchen spills onto the wood

slats of the porch, leads me, lets me know

the places, the shapes of the back yard. Some-

one’s voice from inside drifts out the window, and I can

turn the corner without fear, turn my back on the basement.

If I could build my own house I would keep canned

fruit and tuna, some other needed staples, no

doubt, in the basement but never go there after dark.

For Your Enlightenment

They don't have ice in Europe. At least not in London or Paris.

No kidding.

If you ask for water with your meal, you get it without ice.
If you ask for ice water with your meal, you might get the ice but usually not. And you might get a "We don't have ice."

A couple of times we got a separate glass of ice for us to share. That was good. But it didn't happen with any regularity. Sharing the ice wasn't really hard. Not really.

No ice does not mean it's a bad place.

It does mean not all cold drinks are cold.

But it's not a reason to stay away. You should still go.