Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Sunday, September 21, 2014

SOME Cat

My Kitty
We had two Jersey milk cows.
Jerseys are small, light brown, gentle cattle.
With enormous, soft brown eyes.
They are a joy to work with.
Easy to milk.
Patient and quiet.
Our two cows came to our family ready named.
Okay, the names weren't all that creative, I will admit.
Or suitable.
Still, they stuck.
The taller cow was Bunny. The one a trifle shorter? Kitty.
The two of them gave us enough milk to supply our needs.
As well as the dairy needs of half the countryside.
We drank the milk.
Separated out the rich cream.
Churned butter.
For three years, we lived in Jersey Heaven.
Enough background . . .
I had a friend who travelled about the area cutting hair.
Her skills were required at our farm every six weeks.
Obligingly, she showed up.
Scissors in hand.
To cut an endless parade of shaggy heads.
On one occasion, I was busily churning a batch of butter.
My friend was working in one end of the kitchen.
Me and my butter were positioned in the other.
As she worked, she kept one eye on what I was doing.
Finally, she had to ask. “So, where do you get your milk?”
I smiled. “From my Bunny,” I said.
Her eyes got big. “From your . . .?”
My daughter interrupted. “No, Mom. This milk came from Kitty!”
“Oh, yes.” I looked at my friend.”From my Kitty,” I amended.
Her eyes got bigger as she stared at the enormous amount in the butter churn. “You actually . . . milk . . . a kitty?” she gasped out.
For a moment, we stared at each other.
“Yes . . . I . . .” I stopped, suddenly understanding her confusion. I laughed. Not a real kitty,” I said. “A cow, named Kitty.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “For a minute, I wondered.”
I had a sudden mental picture of trying to milk a cat.
It wasn't pretty.
Then I glanced at the two gallons of milk in the churn.
Yep. I understood my friend's look of astonishment.
That would have had to be some cat.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Someone's History

The building beckoned, as they do,
With thoughts of finding something new.
I dropped the gate and rode on o’er.
Excited just to go explore.

What I thought was an abandoned barn
A stout refuge from storm, or harm,
Was definitely something more,
A house, a home. From years before.

Now windowless, shingle-less, too,
The door hung on one hinge, askew.
Old rubble did the floors pollute,
And glass was crunching ‘neath my boots.

A stove, a one-time work of art.
Inclusive of the nickel part,
Now lay supine and punctured, split.
Some degenerate had blasted it.

I wondered, “Could I haul it back?
And save it from its sad attack?
Then fix, repair or retrofit
And somehow make the best of it?”

But realized, as I sometimes do
There was no way I could renew.
And sadly turned away; To find,
Another treasure left behind.

In one old bedroom near the stair,
There was a box of letters there.
I sat down on the dusty floor
Soon deep in lives lived long before.

I tucked away the words of love,
And climbed up to the floor above.
To find some boxes neatly stored
With clothes and magazines galore.

But, though the find was truly grand,
I daren’t try to touch - with hand.
For broken panes allowed, unchecked,
With pigeon poop was all bedecked.

Then, at the rafters did I stare,
Some ancient denim dangled there,
So long forgotten by someone,
Tossed and left when work was done.

Moved over to the window then,
Looked out upon the fields again.
I thought about this home, bereft.
Why they came. And why they left.

It once had shone with tender care
As proved by what was left in there.
But abandoned by those that had made,
And from the landscape did they fade.

Was death a reason? Poverty?
Had fortune kicked them to their knees?
Old age? Illness? Friends with flaws?
I sighed. There must have been a cause.

As I rode home, my thoughts were few,
Considering a life askew.
But grateful to have chanced to see,
The glimpse of Someone’s History.

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge.
And 'challenge' it is. Six un-related, very random words.
Her instructions? "Use them, me hearties!!! Mwahahahaha!"
True story.
This week's challenge?
Inclusive, retrofit, supine, dangled, denim, degenerate
I don't know about you, but they suggested poetry to me . . .
Many of you have heard this story - I've written about it before.
It just sounds different in rhyme.

Friday, September 19, 2014

The Best Hike

Mom and TYO. Below: Cascade Pond
If there’s a cute way to say something, kids will find it.
It’s up to the adults to remember . . .
Nearly every year, our family vacationed for a week in Banff, Alberta.
We loved it there.
We had a particular hotel we liked to frequent.
Our kids learned to swim in the pool.
Play kick-the-can in the nearby woods.
Use the workout room for . . . working out.
Climb a neighbouring mountain to breakfast at the top.
Wander through the nearby townsite.
Hike.
Avoid the herds of elk.
Fail miserably at tennis.
Play wall-e-ball in the squash courts.
And sit by the fire in the evenings playing games.
For that one week, we existed in paradise . . .
It is still our favourite destination.
Unfortunately, our little two-bedroom apartment no longer accommodates all of us.
But we arrange for extra rooms and those who can, come.
Now our children are passing their wonderful memories on to the next generation.
Teaching their children in the pool.
Showing them the best places to hike.
And that is where this story is leading.
I do take a while, don’t I?
Moving on . . .
We were doing the ‘little kids’ hike around Cascade Pond.
The easiest one of all.
It is a lovely spot, with trails and bridges in a figure eight around and over a pretty pond.
An opportunity to see nature up close without a too-arduous hike to and from.
The smallest children were with us.
Feeling very important as they participated in their first hike in the wilderness.
Our (then) three-year old granddaughter had stopped with her mother to look at something.
Seeing that the rest of us had moved on without them, she ran to catch up.
It wasn’t far.
Unless you were three.
By the time she caught up to us, she was pressing one small hand to her side. Obviously, someone had developed a stitch.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Oh, my feelings!” she said breathlessly.
What can make a stroll through the beauties of nature just that much better?
A little touch of ‘cute’.
Going hiking?
Take a child.
Yep. Just add 'cute'.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

The Ugly Tourist

A GUEST POST BY GRANT TOLLEY

See? Invisible.
Tourist.
The word evokes many images – almost all of them negative – in the mind of anyone who is not one.  Yet, it cannot cease to amaze one, that we can despise the tourist in others, while adopting so many of those . . . er . . . interesting characteristics when on vacation ourselves.
My wife and I recently toured the islands of Greece.  I am an anthropologist by training, so invariably we spend a lot of time people-watching, as well as enjoying the sights and scenery. While overall it was a truly memorable and delightful trip, we inevitably encountered a variety of tourists, exhibiting a variety of ‘touristy’ characteristics, all of which we tried desperately to avoid, even though we were, technically, in the ranks.
I swear that what follows is an accurate representation of our observations of fellow tourists.

The Loud Tourist
This category of tourist has a number of sub-groups.
The first is The FogHorn TouristThis is the traveler who doesn't seem to mind announcing, at 100+ decibels, intimate details of their life to the entire world.

“But Henry, I’m sure I packed your hemorrhoid salve!  That’s just awful, to get hemorrhoids.  And on your birthday too!”
I've heard a lot of sad tales, but I've never heard of hemorrhoids appearing on someone’s birthday. I always thought they appeared somewhere else.

And another FogHorn, who told the following tale of woe :
“I was so sick! First I was throwing up.  My supper and everything! And then I had diarrhea all night! Oh, I tell you, Mildred, it was just awful!  I didn’t know which end was which!”
No comment.  I only hope that at half time, she switched ends.

Second in the Loud Tourist category is The Anglocentric Tourist.  This is the one who believes that any foreigner can understand English if it is spoken slowly, and loudly enough.

“Toi-let pa-per.  Toilet paper.  You know [insert largely obscene but mostly incomprehensible hand gestures here], TOILET paper.  In the BATHroom.  TOI-LLL-LET! TOI-LET-PA-PER! IT’S ALL OUT! IN THE TOI-LET!! [more incomprehensible hand gestures]”
One can only smirk when, at the end of this performance, the hotel clerk says, with a straight face and in Oxford English: “We’ll look after it right away, madam.”

The third sub-group in the Loud Tourist category is The Airhead Student Tourist.  This category consists of students fresh out of a college semester, who apparently are touring exotic lands for the first time.  They can be both Loud and Ugly, and for all their education, are seemingly under the impression that because they are in a non-English-speaking country, they are the only ones on the bus who actually speak English.
The following particular pair stood eight feet apart during a 45-minute bus ride, sharing their intimacies with – they thought – no one, again at 100+ decibels.

“They didn't check my ticket.  How do they know I paid?”
“Well, like, when I first came, I thought the same thing, so once I didn't buy a ticket, and the ticket inspector came and asked me, and I, like, totally freaked, and they hauled me down to the police station, and I was, like, totally hysterical, and then you know what?  Like, then I got my period, and it was just awful, a big mess, and I started crying, and they still fined me 65 Euros, and then they let me go, but on the way home, I was attacked . . . ”
After 20 minutes or so of this, the conversation turned to :
“I am so jealous of you, you've had so many loves in your life!  Like Jeff.  Was he, like, a major love, or just a mini-love?”
“Well, he was kind of a mini-love, but turned into a major love, and I was, like, so totally in love with him, but he dumped me, and I was sad, but I got over it quickly . . .”

When this pair got off the bus, someone behind us breathed out an exasperated “Thank goodness that’s over!”
We were not alone.

The High-Tech Tourist
This is the tourist who carries:
·         a regular camera
·         a digital camera
·         a video camera (sometimes two)
·         a cell phone
·         an electronic chronometer watch
·         a digital light meter
·         a GPS indicator
·         an IPad
·         an IPod
·         several other indistinguishable gizmos

This particular breed of tourist becomes totally dysfunctional when something – anything – beeps.  I took perverse delight in sidling up close behind High-Tech tourists and making the alarm on his watch beep.  I have to admit that the unfortunate victim looked like a human windmill as he tried to figure out which toy was making the noise.

The Bleary-Eyed Bar Tourist
Truly amazing to us were the people who spent thousands to travel half-way around the world, only to spend thousands more getting plastered, day after day, in the hotel bar.  There were a few on this most recent trip.

“Why, shore, when I [hiccup] was in Australia, they got good wine there, you know [urp], the bar at the Hilton had ‘em all, it was great . . . [hiccup] . . . an' I even got to see one of them weird kangaroo thingys . . . "

 The Map-Impaired Tourist
 These hapless souls are the ones standing on a corner peering at the street signs, while wrestling with an indecipherable, gigantic map that is desperately trying to be a kite.
The same ones you will see, two hours later, on another corner a block away, with the same map.
In the same wind.
And the same helpless, confused look on their faces.

“Harriet, I know we've been here before.  I remember this bakery.”
“Are you sure, Harry?  I don’t remember a bakery.  I don’t recognize anything!”
Harry then squints at the street sign.
Harry then turns the map upside down. 
And peers at the street sign again.
And at the bakery again.
“Just give me a minute.  I’ll figure this out.  What street is our hotel on again??”

The Know-it-All Tourist
 “Look, honey, your favorite perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  Look at the price!  It’s really cheap here.”
And suddenly a helpful, friendly third voice joins the conversation.  It is the Know-it-All tourist standing next to you who jumps in to show off his or her supposed knowledge about the country you are visiting.
Or anything else.
“Oh, yes! It’s because Greece is part of the European Union now, and they can get things from other countries in Europe really cheap.  That’s a marvellous French perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  That means Birds in Flight, you know.  I’ve been to France three times now . . . . . ”

The Obnoxious Tourist
 “Take this back!  This is . . . this is disgusting.”
The Obnoxious Tourist is rejecting his meal in a four-star restaurant.
As loudly as he can.  For the whole restaurant to hear.

“But sir,” objects the server in her faltering English, “eet is zackly what you order.”
“I didn’t order no #@&% rabbit-food crap like this!”
“Sir? Did you not order the horiatiki?”
“No, @#$%&*.  I ordered the @#$&% Greek salad!”
“But sir, that is what horiatiki means.  Greek salad.”
“Well, %$#*& it, why didn’t you tell me there were $%#$ black olives in it!  I hate olives!  They don’t make Greek salad like this back home.  Why don’t you @#$%& foreigners learn how to make it right!”

The Insensitive Tourist
 There are several sub-species in this category as well.
First is the Intellectually Insensitive Tourist, (as in just plain stupid).

“Sir? Sir! Sir, please don’t touch . . . Sir, please don’t climb on the statue!  Sir! Sir!? . . . . Security!!”

Next is the Socially Insensitive Tourist.

“Sir, this is a no-smoking area . . . .No, sir, that rule applies to everyone, not just to Greeks.”

And, there is always the Culturally Insensitive Tourist.

“Excuse me, sir, like the sign says, photography is not allowed in the Church . . . . well, sir, because it is a sacred place, sir . . . . well, maybe not to you, but it is to the local people, and out of respect . . . . How would you feel . . . . Oh, I see, well . . . er . . . Churches are places where millions of people go to worship . . . . “

The Invisible Tourist
 Alas, I must confess, we fall into this category.
We try hard to blend in.
Not to be Loud.
Or Insensitive.
Or Obnoxious.
Or Anglocentric.
We try desperately to learn a few phrases of the local language, and practice them rigorously.
We eat the local food.
And pretend hard that we omnivores really enjoy boiled octopus and eggplant mush.
We take the bus.  And the subway.  We refuse to be seen emerging from a taxi.
We are invisible.
At least, we would like to believe no one can tell that we are that most abominable of creatures, tourists.
But still, people know.
Somehow, they know.
They speak to us first in English.
How could they tell?
Maybe it’s the lobster-red, sunburned noses.
Maybe it’s the broad-brimmed sun hats we wear, out of mercy for our noses. 
The ones in which no self-respecting Greek would be caught dead.
I think I get it now. 
Maybe it’s the small Canadian flag.
Embroidered on our shirts. 
And the flag pins on our hats.
And the ten pound camera hung unobtrusively around our necks.
And the brilliant whiteness of winter legs sticking out of really scary Bermuda shorts . . .

Maybe we're not so invisible after all . . . . 

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Holiday Perks

People on holiday say the darnedest things.

I'm sure that, in their real world, these people are well-adjusted and intelligent.
But, for some reason, when they leave home, they leave something else behind as well.
I've heard people say such gems as, “Excuse me, guide? How do you get all of the flags on the compound wall to fly in the same direction?”
And, “The sign says 'No Admittance'. Is that for you? Or us?”
And my personal favourite, “How much of these caves are actually underground?”
They make a great holiday just that much more entertaining.
For example . . .
My Husby was at a conference in Washington, D.C.
I went along.
Because.
When he wasn't attending meetings, we explored the city and had a wonderful time.
On one free afternoon, we decided to take a tour of the White House.
With a large group of fellow tourists, we were directed to a relatively unimportant door somewhere in the rear of the building.
Then guided, in a orderly manner through the building; under the constant scrutiny of a number of Secret Service agents - each of whom looked very Secret Service-ish.
We felt as if we were in a movie.
The place was beautiful.
We saw state rooms and bed rooms.
Assembly halls and offices.
Dining rooms and ball rooms.
All were heavy with the feeling of profound . . . History.
Our guide gave us a large dollop of it as she directed us from room to room.
My Husby is an historian. We have spent our married life immersed in things historical.
We couldn't have been happier.
Finally, regretfully, our tour drew to a close.
We were led to the door under the famous portico and released to the outside world.
Immediately past the door was yet another secret service agent, dark glasses keeping a careful watch on . . . everyone.
One of the guests hurried over to him.”Excuse me, agent?” she asked.
He turned toward her. “Yes, Ma'am?” he said in a colourless voice.
You know, I've always wondered what a colourless voice was.
Now I know.
It has absolutely no inflection.
Soo . . . no colour.
Just FYI.
Or maybe F.B.I.
*snort*
Back to my story.
“Yes, Ma'am?”
“This door . . . where we are . . . that is the front of the White House, correct?”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“So the other side. That would be the back, right?”
I admire these agents. They must have to take special training just to deal with the questions they may be asked at any given moment.
His face didn't even twitch. “Yes, Ma'am,” he said as soberly as if she had just asked him the time.
My Husby, on the other hand, was totally unprepared for her question.
He burst into laughter.
I quickly pulled him away to the lawn. “Hush!” I said.
Really. That's what I said.
But he wouldn't.
Hush, I mean.
Some people are so unruly.
“No, that would be the roof,” he whispered to me.
I started towing him across the lawn.
“No, wait. Maybe it's the basement!”
I towed harder.
“Pantry?”
We really did enjoy our trip to Washington, D.C.
The history.
And the tourists.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

When Stupid Meets Stupid

Branding Crew. I'm the one in the floppy hat.
Sitting right behind the author of my misfortune.
How many times would you bang your head against a wall before you remembered that the wall was there.
And that banging your head against it . . . hurt?
Sigh . . .
Branding in the early summer is a time of great excitement.
For the humans.
I don't think the calves are all that enthusiastic.
The animals are pushed down a long chute and caught up in a squeeze.
Which then tilts sideways and secures the animal on its side.
Allowing the rancher to brand, tag, and inoculate the creature.
Each animal spends, at most, about two minutes up there.
Because it is attended by several people.
Each with a specific job.
I had just recently graduated from being the 'pusher'.
It's not what you think.
To being the 'inoculate-er'.
Or 'she-who-jabs-with-needles'.
To accomplish my assignment, I was charged with the care and use of the vaccine gun.
Which would pump 5cc. of serum into the neck of the calf, quickly and efficiently.
Simply by pulling the trigger.
It was the best of jobs.
And very soon, I had mastered the technique and was injecting with the best of them.
I was the queen of the world.
Then, that squeeze.
Each of these machines have a long lever on them, which is pushed down to force the sides of said squeeze together, trapping the animal.
When the apparatus is flipped sideways, that lever hangs out . . . a trifle.
And that is where I came to grief.
Numerous times.
Having completed my injection, I would return to my post near the back of the squeeze, check my gun, and recharge, if need be.
Concerned for my responsibility, I usually started checking my gun as I walked.
Not too bright.
Smack!
That stupid lever hit me right at nose height.
And I do mean nose.
“Ow!”
Everyone turned to look.
“What's the matter?” Dad asked.
“I hit this stupid lever!”
“Well, watch where you're walking.”
I scowled and, rubbing my sore nose, continued to my station.
The animal we had been working with was returned to the upright position and released.
My younger brother brought up the next one.
Capture. Squeeze. Tilt.
Inject. Check gun.
Wham!
“Ow!”
“What's the matter now?”
“I hit that lever again.”
“Diane! Look where you're going!”
“Okay.”
Tilt. Release.
New calf.
Capture. Squeeze. Tilt.
Inject, check gun.
“Ow!”
This time, my nose started bleeding.
Rats.
I put up a hand.
Dad turned around. “Did you hit that lever again?”
I had one hand over my nose. “Umm . . . maybe.”
“Diane! Watch where you're going!”
I found a rag, which I quickly stuffed up my nose. “Okay.”
Tilt. Release.
New calf.
Capture. Squeeze. Tilt.
Inject. Check gun.
You know where this is going, don't you?
I hit that stupid pole six times.
Six.
Before I finally figured out that I could just as easily walk OUT and AROUND.
Sigh.
Yeah . . . it wasn't the pole that was stupid . . .

Monday, September 15, 2014

A Bit of Knowledge

Home on the range.
For years, the Canadian Government had a program.
Okay, they have many, many programs.
But this particular program was designed to share ranching knowledge and expertise with people from other countries.
Candidates would be chosen.
And would then spend up to a year with a Canadian ranching family.
Learning the ropes.
So to speak.
My father, being one of said ranchers, participated in the program many times.
We had people from Germany, Korea, Denmark and other countries.
It was definitely a learning experience.
One particular gentleman arrived, all smiles and eagerness.
Excited to learn the 'Canadian' ways.
His enthusiasm lasted until suppertime.
I should mention that this man was the head of his own household in his native country.
At home, he was fed first and his family took what was left.
I don't know if that was common in his country, but it was certainly common in his household.
Moving on . . .
Mom passed him the first dish.
He took half and set it down.
We stared at him.
Then at what he had left.
That still needed to feed two hungry parents and four hungry teenagers.
Mom handed him the second dish.
Again, he put a neat line in the centre and took half.
She picked up the third, and last dish.
There was a smothered protest from my elder brother as she handed this dish, again, to our guest.
Good manners must.
Our new employee again took half.
After that initial meal, Mom learned to hand the dishes to someone else first.
Lesson one learned.
One of the chores on the ranch included hauling water to a row of newly-planted trees.
Our friend was given hoses and equipment suitable to accomplishing this.
When Dad went back to check on him, he discovered that man had found a broomstick and two five-gallon buckets and was hauling water with the stick over his shoulders and the buckets suspended from either end.
Dad realized that he had to instruct the man on the proper way to connect everything to accomplish his task with a fraction of the effort.
Lesson two learned – after a fashion.
We had a large field that needed to be cross-fenced.
The trees and undergrowth needed to be cleared back to a distance of about eight feet to allow for the construction of the fences.
Dad supplied our friend with chainsaws, axes and saws.
And a little ATV to get to and from.
Our friend loved the ATV.
Though he never learned how to change out of first gear.
But he never could get the knack of using the power tools.
Or any of the tools, for that matter.
Oh, he cleared that field all right.
Using a machete and his right hand.
Remarkable.
Lesson three . . . glanced at.
I don't want to suggest that he was stupid. Because he certainly wasn't.
He was, in fact, quite brilliant.
We were, all of us, simply struggling against the pull of generations of 'this-it-how-it-has-always-been-done'.
And it became quite obvious one day after he had been with us for several months.
I had had a busy day.
Early that morning, I had been milking.
My little brother's usual chore, but one he occasionally dumped on me.
Because.
Our friend glanced inside the barn and greeted me.
After breakfast, I was working with one of my green-broke horses.
Our friend watched me for a few minutes, shaking his head and grinning.
A couple of hours later, I saw him look over the fence as I was pulling a calf.
And a short time after that, he came in as I was helping Mom make lunch.
That afternoon, I was in the room I shared with my little sister, just off the dining room.
We were putting up wallpaper.
He glanced inside and watched us for a few minutes.
Then he turned away.
Later, as I was helping Mom with the dishes, he came into the kitchen.
“You are amazing girl,” he said to me. “You would be worth much,very much in my country.”
Oh.
I didn't know if I should be flattered.
Or alarmed.
A short time later, he left us.
Taking all he had learned back to his country.
The program was successful on many levels.
Much knowledge was given.
I really don't know who learned the most, though.
Them.
Or us.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Feet Fishing

My friends and I were visiting/doing gymnastics on the living room rug.

This was long before I had six babies.
And said goodbye to the stomach muscles I knew and loved.
I should probably also point out that our living room was large.
Just not large enough.
Explanations are in order . . .
We had been doing forward and backward rolls.
Head stands.
Cartwheels.
Hand stands.
My personal favourite.
Now I was demonstrating the newly-discovered joys of the hand spring.
Something I had only recently become proficient at.
On the very large mats in our high school gym.
“It's really easy,” I told my friends. “You just start with a little . . . hop.”
I proceeded to demonstrate.
“Oooh!” my friends said. “Let's do that one!”
For the next few minutes, they tried.
With varying degrees of success.
“Okay, show us again,” one of them said.
Feeling rather important, I stepped to one side of the living room.
Put both hands into the air and hopped forward.
Hands came down neatly to the floor.
Feet came up.
Feet flipped over.
And this is that climactic moment where I came to grief.
I should explain that one wall of our living room was taken up by a large, brick fireplace.
It was beautiful.
And very functional.
With a large hearth.
Upon which our aquarium sat.
Complete with fish.
And fifteen gallons of water.
You've probably guessed that when rapidly-moving feet hit glass aquarium walls, something's definitely going to give.
And it's not the feet.
One of mine went right through the side of that aquarium.
Now I know you've seen how impressive a broken aquarium looks on TV and in movies.
With water and fish pouring out onto the floor.
It's really only impressive on the screen.
Because, in reality, it makes a huge mess.
And one can't do anything to stop it.
Even when one tries manfully to hold in the water.
With both hands.
With fish and water pouring everywhere, I screamed for my mother.
Who came running from the kitchen.
Tea towel in hand.
Vastly inadequate for the job at hand.
“Oh, my!” she said.
My mother was the master of the understatement.
The entire front room carpet was rapidly becoming victim to a small wall of water.
And helpless fish were flopping about everywhere.
I was standing in front of the aquarium with both hands out.
Accomplishing nothing.
In a flash, she had run to the kitchen and returned with a jar to collect fish and what water she could.
Then, theatrics over, the cleanup started.
This is where the movies are so much better.
You see the great aquarium die.
And the water and fish pour everywhere.
You just don't get to see the massive cleanup that follows.
And this was before the days of wet/dry vacuums.
We scraped water from that carpet, soaking it up with towels, for hours.
Who knew one aquarium could hold so much?
Finally, we were done.
Carpet still decidedly damp.
Aquarium gone. Little pot, with fish, where it had once stood.
And three teenagers banished to the yard.
For a moment, we sat there, staring at each other.
Then, “Hey!” I said. “Let me show you something!”
Ah, the indomitable, undaunted human spirit.
Undampened by set-backs.
So to speak.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Well and Truly Blessed


"Eyes!"
Dinner time was special in our house.
It was the time when everyone gathered.
When everyone ate.
And everyone visited.
We are a family of expert visitors. Just FYI.
Sometimes, the talk and laughter would go on for hours.
Long after the eating had finished.
It was the best part of our day . . .
And every dinner time began with prayer.
Thanksgiving for the food.
For the blessings of the day and every day.
For each other.
Our children had been raised with prayer at meal times.
It was as important as the food.
As soon as each of them began to speak, they had their turn.
Gently coached in the very earliest days.
Given their freedom as they got more proficient.
And kids can certainly pray. Sometimes those prayers would go on for some time.
Blessing everything from their friends to their toys to their favourite TV programs.
It was . . . sweet.
And went by all too quickly.
Our kids are all grown up now with families of their own.
But prayer is still a big part of their lives.
And especially their mealtimes.
The next generation is being carefully trained up.
Case in point:
Our eldest daughter and her family were sharing the evening meal with my Husby and I.
Everyone sat down.
I looked around. “I think it's Baby girl's turn to say the prayer.”
I should point out, here, that this little girl was just learning to talk. Her vocabulary of decipherable words was . . . not extensive.
And this was her first opportunity to say the prayer.
Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
Little arms were folded.
Beloved Heavenly Father,” her mother began.
There was a pause as we all waited for the expected response - the repetition of her mother's words.
Baby girl opened her mouth. “Eyes!” she said.
We're thankful for our blessings,” her mother went on.
“Eyes!” Baby girl said louder, pointing to her mother.
We're thankful for safety today.”
“Mama! Nose!” She was making progress.
We're thankful for this wonderful food.”
“Mouf! (Something unintelligible) Mouf!”
Please bless it to nourish us.”
“Eyes!” We were back to that.
In the name of Jesus Christ . . .?” her mother paused, waiting for the obvious answer.
“Elbow!”
Way wrong.
Amen.”
A chorus of 'Amens'.
Than another chorus of long-suppressed chuckles.
“Oh, Sweetheart, you said your first prayer!” I said. “You're such a big girl!”
She clapped.
Her words weren't 'right'.
But the food was well and truly blessed.
As were we.
A precious moment indeed.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Royal Winter Ballet

Okay. Picture it in orange . . .
If one was raised on a ranch in Southern Alberta, one was driving by the time one could clearly see above the dashboard.
This involved getting physically taller.
Because Dad wouldn’t allow one to use the Sears catalogue for added height.
By the time I was 12, I was there. Dad handed me the keys, took me through car control basics in a nearby empty field, and set me loose.
Oh, I wasn’t allowed on any roads.
And my driving was strictly limited to running errands to and from said fields.
But I was driving!
Oddly enough, in those early days, I never had any accidents.
Not one.
Those were reserved for after I received my driver’s license and had discovered the joys of driving on real roads.
Case in point:
I was driving a friend’s cool, orange, 1974 Ford truck.
Four-on-the-floor with a smooth clutch.
The steering was a bit dodgy. Armstrong, as we were fond of calling it.
But it was a sweet truck to drive.
We were heading to the track.
I should mention, here, that I used to help my friend with his uncle’s racehorses at the track.
It was . . . fun.
But that is another blog post.
Moving on . . .
It was time to feed and start the day’s training.
And, as is usually the custom in Alberta in February, the roads were icy.
Icy=slick.
We were coming to a curve.
Slowing was indicated.
Now I had been well-instructed by my brothers on the best way to begin.
By down-shifting.
I pressed the clutch.
Expertly shoved the gearshift into the next lower gear.
And let out the clutch.
All while driving over a sheet of black ice.
Oops.
The next few moments are a blur.
I do remember the sensation of spinning.
Because we were.
That old truck performed maneuvers that could have put it on center stage during a performance by the Royal Alberta Ballet.
Did you know a truck can pirouette?
Arabesque?
Sauté?
Well, it can.
And very gracefully, too.
Eons and multiple circles later, we finally came to a rest, parked neatly on the median.
Facing the wrong way.
We had, somehow, managed to miss three traffic signs, two trees and one astonished pedestrian.
With dog.
For a moment, we caught our breath and counted limbs.
Then I put the truck into gear and started forward.
Down off the median and onto the street.
The wrong way.
“In Canada, we drive on the right side,” my friend pointed out shakily.
Oh. Right.
I drove back onto the median and crossed over it to the other side of the street.
We made it to the track safely.
But, for some reason, my friend would never let me drive his truck again.
Even though I pointed out, rather intelligently I believe, that there couldn’t possibly be ice on the streets in the middle of July.
Even in Alberta.
Some people simply don’t forgive and forget.
Emphasis on forget.

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