Sweet memories of my Dad and his curly red hair.
And of his dad . . .
I knew enough when I was a little girl to find this story funny. I was a little scared of Grandpa - he was quite stern, but I knew that what Mark had done was hilarious to everyone, except probably Grandpa. Certainly Mark thought it was a huge kick.
I loved your Dad very much.
I was a little girl living on the Milk River Ranch with my parents when my Uncle Mark was a cool cocky college student working on the ranch for the summer.
Grandpa and Grandma Stringam spent a lot of time at the ranch: Grandpa teaching my dad how to run a complex ranch operation and Grandma teaching my mum how to be a ranch wife and how to cook for hay and harvest crews as well as a bunkhouse full of hungry cowboys.
One lunch time, after Mark had been sent into town for some baler parts, he trooped into the kitchen with the other ranch hands. They all knew the routine - wash hands and hang up your hat on the hooks in the entrance.
Mark swept off his hat to reveal a sassy, fresh mohawk hair cut.
There was complete silence as Grandpa slowly surveyed the desecrated cranium. Finally he spoke: “The house rule and common courtesy requires that men remove their hats at the table. Mark, in your case, we will make an exception. Go get your hat.”
Later that summer, after the mohawk grew out, it wasn’t quite as sensational when Mark got a reverse mohawk (with the middle strip shaved and sides left long).
However, Grandpa reinstated the hat rule at the table - every man bare-headed, except Mark.
|Daddy is the monkey on the right.|