|Mom (third from the left). And five out of eight brothers.|
Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.
Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.
It's the original 'gender confusion'.
Now, on to my story . . .
Enes, my Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.
Surrounded by brothers.
I had three.
She had eight.
I had sisters.
She spent her days working alongside her brothers.
And playing sports.
I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.
And playing make-believe.
No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.
And the most athletic ability.
But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.
Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.
Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats. Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie. And grabbed her baseball glove.
The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting. Mom got to know many of her neighbours.
The nearest of which lived nine miles away.
Finally, the food was packed up and the game began.
Mom was picked early. She was obviously young and strong.
And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.
Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.
Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat. The ball came towards her.
Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?
She often beat them.
The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.
And sent it out of the park.
So to speak.
The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.
They stared at it blankly for a moment.
Then started to run.
Her team was ecstatic.
One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”
And the confusion continues . . .
|I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .|