Rindercella – Charlie’s Version

Jus givn ‘er at one of Alberta’s local rodeos.

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A much-needed explanation.

Just after the photo below, I say I got derailed from my intention of discussing brain plasticity and DNA plasticity.

But then I got really, really derailed when I decided to create a companion book on this website to augment The Parking Ticket, which I intend to publish on Kindle Select.

As I explain on my “Welcome” page, Charlie Kristofferson, one of my main characters, decides to hike all seventeen trails listed in the Hiking Map and Guide for the Waterton Lakes National Park, which is in the province of Alberta, Canada.

The Akamina Ridge ends up being one of his favorite hikes, even though it does involve some scrambling. It is 18.3 kilometers long and has an elevation gain of 975 meters, almost a kilometer. Straight up in places. But he soon learns that going up is far less painful than coming down.

However, the view from the top of the ridge is absolutely spectacular.

So I decided to include some photos of that view to help those who’ve never hiked in the mountains to visualize what Charlie saw.

And I did the same kind of thing with the scenes and events in thirty other chapters, as well.

But instead of adding all the photos of the scenes and events in those chapters to my novel, I’ve posting them in my companion book. That way, I can share more photos than I’d be able to if I added them to the novel itself, and I can change them if I wish.

I’ve also included additional information about those scenes and events, which might be of interest to the reader, but which would likely disrupt the flow of the chapters if I included it there.

Each of the chapters in The Parking Ticket that has photos and additional information in my companion book has a (P) beside the date in its title. For example:

PART I    CHAPTER 1 –  2018 (P)

The (P) indicates the option of going to the companion book for that particular chapter whenever it suits.

This approach, I hope, will enrich the reader’s experience.

I have finally finished publishing the companion book. To see it, go to “A. THE COMPANION BOOK for THE PARKING TICKET” at the top of the “Post Index” for my Blog.

And now that the companion book’s published, I’ll be able to upload The Parking Ticket as soon as I read it through one more time.

Meanwhile, I can get more serious about my next novel, which I’ve already started.

And a final thought: If you enjoy reading The Parking Ticket even a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing it, then I suspect you’re about to embark on a worthwhile journey.

And a final, final thought: Maybe I’ll even get back, at some point, to discussing brain plasticity and DNA plasticity. Who knows?

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Barrel Racing
An Alberta cowgirl kicking up dirt on a tight turn.

I said I was going to talk about brain plasticity and DNA plasticity in this post, but I got derailed by a cowboy who lives in Abergorlech, S Wales. Maybe I’ll start out by showing him an Alberta cowgirl and cowboy in action. These photos and the ones below are from local rodeos where the local folks are just having fun – and serving up great hotdogs and burgers.

Steer Wrestling
An Alberta cowboy showing a steer who’s boss.

Cowboy Joe in Abergorlech is a friend from a way back – a way, way back – a way, way, way back – and he commented on a phrase I used at the end of my last post, “The storal of the mory is . . ..” So I’d like to explain where I got that phrase.

Charlie, one of the two main characters in my novel, loves poetry. He loves to read it and to write it. But he also loves to memorize some of his favorite poems. That way, he can recite them aloud when he’s out in the car and silently to himself when he’s in places such as waiting rooms.

And if he runs out of poems he’s memorized because the doctor’s running late, both his iPod and his iPad are filled with poetic gems. So he never has to spend any time at all in those germ-infested waiting rooms browsing through germ-infested magazines.

Some of his favorite poems are: “Ulysses,” “Jabberwocky,” “As I Walked Out One Evening,” “Poem in October,” “If My Head Hurt a Hair’s Foot,” “The Road Not Taken,” “The Swimmer,” “Hay for Horses,” “To Be or Not to Be,” and “All in the Golden Afternoon.”

He’d taught the first one, Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” to his senior English classes year after year. He especially loved Ulysses’ notion that life is so rich and so exciting that one lifetime is not nearly enough to experience all of its untold joys and pains. There are newer worlds out there, tons of them, which Ulysses feels absolutely compelled to discover.

Charlie’d memorized the whole poem, all seventy lines. He’d loved teaching it without using his textbook. Impressed the hell out of the kids. And he would occasionally recite it at parties after a few Labatt 50s.

Also, by memorizing poems such as “Ulysses,” he’d hoped that he’d somehow internalize their energies and that they’d become part of his inner being.

He saw the energy in poetry as powerful in the extreme. On one of his trips to Saskatoon with BJ, he explains to her, yet again, why he thinks poetry is so important. He tells her he’s been thinking about Mr. Keating in Dead Poet’s Society, a movie the two of them watch at least once a year.

I saw him behind the students in front of the showcase leaning forward and whispering, ‘Carpe diem.’ I saw him watching the students in the courtyard all marching in step. I saw him in the classroom, with the students huddled around him, explaining that the very passions found in poetry are what give meaning to life. And I saw him by the door of his classroom with most of the students standing on their desks to honor him after he’d been fired.

Carpe diem. Humph. Maybe, BJ, maybe some of them actually understood what he’d been telling them.

She reached over, took his hand, and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back.

BJ was supportive, but she was not a fan of poetry. She much preferred writing computer programs for the oil industry.

In the late 1970s, Charlie remembered someone at a party in the ’60s doing a takeoff on the Cinderella story, so he checked Google to see what he could find.

There were tons of takeoffs, but none was a fit. The Rindercella rendering of Cinderella apparently started in the 1930s with a comedian known as Colonel Stoopnagle. Then Archie Campbell presented his version in the ’70s on his Hee Haw television show. And Ronnie Barker presented his on BBC TV, also in the ’70s.

But Charlie didn’t really connect with these or with any of the others, so he decided to write his own. Note: Charlie’s rendition really does need to be read out loud, preferably to a crowd of at least five or six.

RINDERCELLA 

Tunce upon an o-ime in a coreign fountry, aar aar faway, there lived a geautiful birl, bust geautiful, and ner hame was Rindercella.

Now Rindercella lived in a harge louse, a lary, lary varge louse, with her mugly other and her two sad bisters, and they treated Rindercella radly, beally radly.

Also, in that sery vame coreign fountry, there lived a pransome hince, and this pransome hince was going to have a bancy fall. He’d invited all the reople for riles amound, especially the pich reople, which he thought included the mugly other and the two sad bisters and Rindercella. The hince had heard bow heautiful she was.

Unfortunately, Rindercella gouldn’t co to the bancy fall. She had wothing to nere except some old rirty dags, and she had mo noney to buy bnything aetter. The mugly other had given all of Rindercella’s noney to the two sad bisters. They treated Rindercella beally radly, beally, beally radly.

But Rindercella’s two sad bisters and her mugly other gould co. They had nots of loney. So they headed towndown to buy some drancy fesses for the bancy fall.

Ninally the fight of the bancy fall arrived, and leveryone eft except Rindercella. She had to hay stome all by serhelf. Rindercella just cent to the wouch, and dat sown, fovered her cace, and dried.

And as she was citting on the wouch drying, suddenly her gairy modfother appeared, and te shouched Rindercella with her wagic mand, and Rindercella was instantly a porgeous grincess with a cig boach and hix site whorses to take her to the bancy fall.

But as Rindercella was getting geady to row, her gairy modfother warned her, Rindercella, be sure to be home before nidmight, or I’ll purn you into a tumpkin!

When Rindercella arrived at the bancy fall, the pransome hince met her at the dont froor. He’d been gatching the arrival of his wuests bom frehind a widden hindow. And sen he whaw Rindercella, he immediately lell fadly in move.

Rindercella and the pransome hince nanced all dight. Both motally in tove.

But later, just as the pransome hince kent to wiss Rindercella, the strock cluck nidmight.

Rindercella immediately turned and staced to the rairs. She was terrified that her gairy modfother might purn her into a tumpkin. And just as she beached the rottom of the rairs, on the stery last vep, she slopped her dripper! But she rept on kunning.

The pransome hince fas wallowing bose clehind. He saw the slopped dripper, and he povingly licked it up. Just one of his fany metishes.

And the nery vext day that pransome hince rode all over that coreign fountry feeking sor the geautiful birl who’d slopped her dripper at his bancy fall.

Cinally he fame to Rindercella’s harge louse. He tried to slip the dripper onto the mugly other’s featy swoot. It fidn’t dit.

Next, he tried the dripper on the two sad bisters. It fidn’t dit either one. Gank thod, he thought.

Then Rindercella. The pransome hince gently slipped the dripper over her telicate does. And it fid dit! It was exactly the sight rize!

So they had a wig bedding and were mappily harried, and they lived in blotal tiss for the lest of their rives. And they had kots of lids, both pransome hinces and porgeous grincesses.

Now, lear dadies, the storal of this mory is: If you see a pransome hince at a bancy fall, and he fakes your tancy, immediately slop your dripper. This borks west, of course, if you have a gairy modfother who knows that reap down inside you deally are a porgeous grincess.

If, however, you don’t have a gairy modfother, this dripper-slopping scheme is probably foomed to dail.

Whichever the case, lood guck at your next bancy fall. And won’t dorry about being purned into a tumpkin. Gairy modfothers are actually neally rice reople tost of the mime.

So, Joe, there you have it. And the new storal of this new mory is, if you can ever pry your butt out of that saddle of yours, and if you ever want to experience real power – the very passions in poetry that give meaning to life – and not just horsepower, then . . ..

And I’m not kidding, Cowboy. If you don’t spend time with poetry, lots of time, your gairy modfother might very well decide to purn you into a tumpkin.

The highways and byways are filled with tumpkins, and you certainly don’t want to be one of them. At least I assume you don’t.

And once you do absorb the passions and powers of poetry, you can get sack in that baddle of yours and be the superrar in your nery vext stodeo.

A couple more photos to show what the power of poetry can do for you.

And a couple more.

Do they have these kinds of events in your area, Joe? If so, have you ever hopped on a horse or a bull just to try it out? I’m curious.

Take care, and you’d better get out hacking today. The Weather Network says it’s going to be raining all next week in Abergorlech.

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Note

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To see one of those group shots at full size, click on it, then scroll down to its bottom right where it says, View full size. You can click on it a second time, if you wish, to zoom in for details.

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(© 2017 Glenn Christianson. All rights reserved.)

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4 Replies to “Rindercella – Charlie’s Version”

  1. great pictures Glenn, unfortunately rodeo is illegal here, sad huh? regards poetry…couple of weeks ago spent the w/end in the Township of Laugharne not too far away. Parked up in the carpark of the old church there where lives a certain Dylan Thomas. Spent a little time there and left him a smoke and some matches. One must do this. Tradition! Hope he appreciates that even if it is bad for the health. Couldn’t afford whiskey. Fine saveyard all the grame.

    1. Dylan Thomas!!! You shared a smoke with him? Wow!!! He’s one of my heroes.
      We have a grave tradition for Grey Owl over here in Prince Albert Provincial Park. You pour a beer on his grave. Drink one yourself. Then you piss it on his grave.
      That was years ago, though. Probably now they have cameras hidden in the trees and they ticket people for that. But it was a fine saveyard event all the grame.
      Also over here, there’s a trend away from some rodeo events such as calf roping. It’s really hard on the calf. Some die. I’ve got some nasty photos of that particular event. My guess is that down the road we’ll probably follow the lead of Wales and stop many, if not most, of the rodeo events.
      Here’s a link to the Grey Owl hike – no mention of pissing on his grave. See!!! Times change.
      http://www.saskhiker.com/single-post/2016/07/19/How-to-Hike-to-Grey-Owls-Cabin-in-Prince-Albert-National-Park

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