Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

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



Friday, September 20, 2019

I-Spy(d)

We live a ten-minute drive from a large city.

A city that has more stores than our bustling little town.
Stores we occasionally need to shop at when we need something more than groceries.
Enough background . . .
We (Husby, Daughter, Granddaughter and me) were heading ‘into town’.
For a three-year-old, it is a long, exhausting trip.
A game of I-Spy was indicated.
For the first few turns, all went well.
Granddaughter would pose, “I spy with my teensy-tinesy little eye, something that is . . .”
You know the game.
She posed. We guessed.
We posed. Everyone guessed.
Then it was Husby’s turn.
He started out all right. “I spy with my little eye . . .”
But then it all fell apart, because he ended with: “. . . something that is red but not red like Mommy’s bicycle.”
There was a momentary silence in the back seat as this riddle was digested.
Then a high little three-year-old voice said, decisively, “That’s not right Grandpa!”
I want to emphasize the word ‘decisively’. Because nothing else better describes a little three-year-old playing a favourite game.
This statement was immediately followed by: “You’re out.”
What? No warning? No yellow card?
Straight to the red (but not red like Mommy's bicycle) card?
Huh.
Did you know it’s possible to be immediately ejected from a game of I-Spy?
By a three-year-old?
Well, it is.
Take note.
Oh, sure. They look sweet and innocent.
But give them a striped sweater and a whistle?
Then watch the claws come out...

Thursday, September 19, 2019

Guilty

Husby and I are empty nesters.
It's a fairly new experience. One that we are enjoying immensely. Maybe because we get all the perks (quiet evenings) with all the blessings (grandkids over daily).
But what we didn't have was a four-footed furry.
Maybe I should explain...
For over thirty years, we raised Old English Sheepdogs. We love the breed. Smart, loyal, protective, easily trained.
And highly amusing.
When our last puppy bid us farewell and crossed the rainbow bridge two years ago, we decided our 'furry' days were over.
We were truly empty nesters.
Then, back in March, our friends got a puppy. An OES cross.
And quite suddenly I knew my own dog days weren't done.
A week later, I was the proud owner of the newest generation of Old English Sheepdog.
Her name is Pandora, but we call her Pandy. Among other things...
Ahem...
She is everything we've come to love about the breed.
And has settled into her own little corner of my heart.
Enough background...
Yesterday, Husby and I were in the family room, watching the movie 'Dragonslayer'. I was multi-tasking in that I was also working on a puzzle.
Pandy was rousting around, nose to the carpet.
A habit of hers, I must admit.
She rousted herself into Daddy's office.
Now, normally, this isn't cause for concern as usually, Daddy is in there with her.
This time, he wasn't. (See above.)
I allowed the normal amount of time necessary to wander into the room, realize that your beloved person is not there and wander out again.
That time had elapsed.
"Pandy!" I called.
She came out immediately.
But the reason for her tardiness became immediately-and painfully-apparent.
And yes, that's an Eat-More bar wrapper stuck to someone's furry face.
I've heard of wearing your guilt.
But never quite this accurately.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

The Gorilla in the Room

Ahh, Sinbad. Hero. Heartthrob.
Nightmare.
Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I'm hooked on them.
And have been since . . . well . . . forever.
In Milk River, we got movies twice a week.
First run movies.
Which was a real scoop for a town of 499.
My Dad told me it was because there were a limited number of prints and that the theatre owner in Milk River had been around longer than the bigwig in Lethbridge, so had seniority.
Yes. I’m sure ‘seniority’ is the word he used.
I only knew that we got all the cool movies first.
For example, when ‘Lassie Come Home’ was released, everyone in Southern Alberta came to Milk River to see it. I remember the theatre owner setting up rows of folding chairs all down the aisles and across the front.
Fire regulations were obviously in the conceptual stage in the late 50s and early 60s.
But the theatre was crammed full and everyone cried together when Lassie finally came home.
Lassie came to Lethbridge several days later.
Na-Na-Na-Na-Na.
But I digress . . .
Every Bonanza Day (Milk River’s fair day) the theatre owner would offer a free movie to everyone in the town.
Usually, it was the hit flick, ‘Santa Claus Meets the Martians’, but sometimes, he would get creative and offer, ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I don’t have to tell you which I enjoyed the most.
Or which one inevitably gave me nightmares.
I think it was the scene when my hero Sinbad and his men had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed themselves back into a tiny crevasse in a stone wall.The Cyclops, a little piqued that his lunch would have had the temerity to run, was hunting them.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad or one of his men, who would press themselves a bit tighter back against the wall.
This time, the creature would get him!
No. This time!
I was into it.
And it didn't seem to matter how many times I saw the picture, I still gasped and grabbed my Mom’s arm every time the huge hand reached.
At the end, with Sinbad safe once more and kissing the pretty girl, I would shiver with delight.
And that night and for the following several nights, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling-muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . not scary.
No, my dreams inevitably starred a huge gorilla.
And he was going to eat me.
Okay, yes, I know that they don’t eat little girls, but I was four.
And they had teeth.
Enough said.
My gorilla would chase me through our house and finally, corner me underneath the dining room table.
I would shrink back to the far side as that hairy, dark hand reached for me.
And missed.
Barely.
He would move around the table and bend over, looking at me. Then he would stretch out his arm again.
I would slide to the other side of the table and stay just out of reach.
This would go on until I finally awoke, dripping with sweat and whimpering.
And still, I was the first in line when the theatre showed ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I think the term ‘Glutton for Punishment’ was coined by someone who knew me.
Maybe the Gorilla.

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

My Criminal Past?


1.  I was four years old. Grocery shopping with Mom. I wanted an orange gumball. She said no. Thought I could fool her. I was wrong.
2. I was in grade three. Forged a needed note to go downtown to buy treats for Jody’s and my ‘Fair’. Yeah. The principal wasn’t amused.
3. My parents didn’t smoke. One of my friend’s cousins did. She had cigarettes. We decided to hide and try it. Moms can see through walls.
4. Dad told us not to ride the pigs. We all thought we could fool him by sheer sneakiness. Turns out Dads know everything. True story.
5. In grade eleven and stony broke. Window shopping with friends. Unbeknownst to me, one pocketed two pomegranates. We all got blamed. I’ll never forget it.
6. Mom had some expensive toenail clippers that lived on her dresser. I wondered if they could cut a straight pin. They couldn’t. I never confessed.
7. I absolutely loved my friend’s ‘elephant pants’. She even let me wear them on occasion. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t steal them. Ha!
8. Dad told me getting paid but not working was theft. At times I’m pretty sure I was the only one in the office occupied. Sigh.
9. Do you think it’s stealing to come home weekly for food, fun and a fill of gasoline? My parents didn’t think so either. Thank goodness…
+1. I have decided I could never be a criminal mastermind. I have too much imagination. All I can visualize are the consequences. None very good. Yeah.



Word counters is a monthly word challenge, issued to us by our noble Karen of Baking in a Tornado.
Doesn't she have the best ideas?
My word count this month was 26 and given to me, via Karen, by Sarah Nolan.
Thank you, Sarah! This was such fun!
Wanna see what the others did with the challenge?

Monday, September 16, 2019

Fowl Language


A woman wished to buy her husband something really neat,
To celebrate his birthday and to show him he was sweet.
She knew that he liked birds so to the bird shop she did go,
To find a wondrous gift that on her man, she could bestow.
While there she saw a lot of birds, some colourful, some plain,
(She needed something really grand, so he would not complain.)
The salesman showed her one, he said, was smarter than the rest,
She cocked her head and looked at it, then tried a little test.
“Pretty bird,” she whispered. “Pretty bird. Please say it now.”
“Well, *bleep*!!” The old bird shouted. “Why’d I want to anyhow?!”
The woman blinked, then smiled and said, “This is the one for me.”
“I’ll take the cage as well and then we'll see what we shall see!”
In the corner of the living room, she set the bird and cage,
To celebrate her husband’s advent into middle age.
When he came home, he took one look, said, “What the heck is this?”
“Your birthday gift,” his good wife said. “Now come give me my kiss.
 “He’s smart,” his wife went on to say. “I know you will be glad!”
“Nice bird!” the old guy told her. “Well, I guess it ain’t that bad.
“Hey, fella! Gotta name?” he asked. “I think I’ll call you Fred.”
His new pet turned and looked at him. “*Bleep* off,” the old bird said.
“I won’t have this! I’ll show you!” said the husband, now enraged,
He grabbed, then stuffed, him in the fridge (instead of in his cage).
“This will show you!” Husband barked. “I’ll frost your beak a mite.
“And perhaps when you’re released you’ll be a little less ‘forthright’.”
A short time hence when Fred came out, said shak’ly, “I admit,
“It’s cold as *bleep* in there and I don’t like it one *bleep* bit.”
“Still swearing? Well, let’s see the freezer change your nasty tone!
“And if your words get better in the dark and cold alone!”
This time when Fred came out, and as he straightened frozen wings,
And clacked his frosty beak and picked some frost off toes and things,
He looked up cautiously at his new owner, and he said,
“Thank you for freeing me. In one more minute, I’d be dead!
“But could you answer just one question for me now, I pray?
“I have to ask…what the *bleepy-bleep* did the turkey say?”

Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So all of us together, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
Now go and see what they have done
I'm sure it will be lots of fun!
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, it will be fun, I think,
Our topic is our favourite drink!
Thanks, Jenny! 

Saturday, September 14, 2019

Early Scamming

Ever been scammed?

I have.
It's a terrible feeling when you realize what has happened.
But it's nothing new.
Allow me to illustrate:
Gramma and Grampa Berg on their wedding day
My Maternal grandparents emigrated from Sweden.
Grampa came first and started farming/ranching in Idaho.
Gramma followed later and they were married.
A short time afterward, they headed north, enticed by offers of beautiful farm land in Alberta. They settled on a half-section they acquired in the Brooks area.
Soon afterward, they met another couple who had been farming unsuccessfully in the area for some time and were ready for a change.
The man had a scheme.
A sure-fire, can’t-miss scheme.
“Trapping is the answer,” he said knowledgeably  “I’ve done it before. Get yourself a trap line and, in one winter, you can make enough to pay cash for the equipment you will need to farm.”
Grampa was intrigued by the idea.
No stranger to hard work, he was excited by the idea of trading long winter hours for the chance to start his farming operation with such a leg-up. He and Gramma decided they’d do it.
They studied the maps and decided on a tract of land further north of their new home place. A spot near Lac La Biche. They staked out their claim and moved into a small cabin near the train tracks.
Originally, the cabin had been erected for the use of the crew when they were laying said tracks. Their new friends (Remember the guy with the idea? Him.) had used it before.
It was . . . cozy, but it had every amenity. Walls and a roof. And a window and door. It also had a little stone oven that Grampa built. Outside. Gramma would build up a fire, let it burn down, then bake bread by the heat that remained in the stones. Beautiful bread. It was the one perk of living in a tiny cabin at the back of beyond.
Gramma Berg and her bread
For many long winter months, they and their friends/partners lived there and ran the trap line. Gramma’s first son, my uncle Glen, was born there.
They had a measure of success. In fact, by March, they had an abundant supply of furs.
The winter drew to a close. Even in northern Alberta, it does happen . . .
Plans were discussed to take the winter’s catch to the city to trade.
The decision was made that Grampa would stay at the cabin for one more week to take whatever animals he could in those last few days.
His partner would haul their furs to the city to trade.
The partner left.
Grampa caught up with him a week later in the city.
And that’s when things fell apart.
The partner claimed that he had lost their entire catch in the river when his boat swamped.
Their entire catch.
There was nothing Grampa could do.
He loaded up his wife and new son and their few belongings and headed back to his land near Brooks. One wasted, useless winter behind him. And a new farming operation ahead to be started without the leg-up he had counted on.
He did make a success of it and he and Gramma raised eight sons and my mom.
I’m sure the pain of that first set-back was completely overcome in the ensuing years.
That’s what we all count on when the scammers hit.
Sigh.

Friday, September 13, 2019

Putting the 'Buff' in Buffet

It was supposed to be a quiet dinner, just the three of us.
It didn’t turn out that way.
Maybe I should explain . . .
Sally, Mom and me had had a rough week.
Let me start again . . .
Mom and me had had a rough week.
Because . . . Sally.
I know I don’t have to explain . . .
Mom decided it would be a nice change to have someone else cook and clean up.
A dinner out was indicated.
We had a bit of a ‘discussion’ over where we should go.
Our choice was made by the least decisive—but loudest—person in the group.
I’ll give you a hint. Not Mom. Or me.
Soooo Sally wanted to go to Rocky’s Buffet.
And that’s where we all went.
I will admit I like it. The food is replenished often and is fresh, hot and plentiful.
And we can eat at our leisure.
At first, all was well.
There had been minimal fuss and NO damage.
You have to know that this, in itself, is cause for celebration.
Mom and I had just returned to our table with a second stage plate of deliciousness each and Sally was standing in line for her third shot at the amazing pork dumplings.
Suddenly, there was a . . . scuffle . . . at the cash register.
Okay, you’ll probably understand why my first thought was, “Oh, no! Sally?!”
But then I spotted her. Standing peacefully beside the dumpling display, plate at the ready, deftly spooning up a mountain of little globules of tastiness.
And yes, that doesn’t happen often.
The ‘standing peacefully’ part, I mean.
I’ve seen her consume a mountain of dumplings many times . . .
Ahem . . .
I remember frowning, then turning to look over at the check-out again.
A young man was there and, for a moment, I thought he was just paying for his food. Loudly. Wearing a ski mask.
Then I saw the gun. And the tears on the hostess’ face as she scooped cash out of the register and dumped it into a Rocky’s Buffet take-out bag.
The young man swung the pistol around and someone in the restaurant screamed. If I know people (and, hey, I have been Sally’s sister for most of my 16 years), panic was not far behind.
Mom shrieked at Sally, then grabbed me and tried to haul me to the floor under our table.
I resisted, my eyes on my sister.
Sally, calm as ever, had her head cocked to one side, studying the young man.
As he turned back to the weeping hostess, Sally, carrying her filled plate, walked quickly over and upended her mountain of dumplings. On him. Then she grabbed the heavy plate in both hands and broke it over his head.
Now I don’t know about the protective qualities of your average ski-mask. Certainly they are designed to protect one from cold and other uncomfortable-ness.
But I think their effectiveness vis-à-vis—say, a blunt object, is vastly . . . less.
Needless to say, the young man went down like a sack of hammers.
Possibly he was thinking he’d just been hit by one.
As he fell, Sally swooped in and wrenched the gun from his hand. Then held it up triumphantly.
Which was nearly as scary for me as when the young bandit was holding it.
A couple of very large men dove for the guy on the floor and sat on him.
Mom ran for Sally, taking the gun from her hand and laying it carefully on the counter.
I started breathing again.
Mom put her arms around Sally. As I joined them, I could see that Sally was totally unruffled and unconcerned by the whole experience.
While Mom was trembling so hard I thought she would fall. “Sally! Sally! Sally!” she was saying over and over.
“I’m okay, Mom,” Sally assured her, giving her a quick pat on the back.
“You did well, Sis,” I said. “But please don’t ever do that again!”
Sally just shrugged.
Flashing lights lit up the windows and moments later, several police officers burst through the front doors, guns at the ready.
"Hey, guys!" Sally called out. 
“Sally?” they all said in unison. “Is that you?”
She grinned and nodded. “There is your prisoner, guys. Under those two.” She pointed and they all turned to look. “I grabbed the gun!”
“This gun?” One of them pointed to the weapon on the counter.
She nodded.
With the would-be weapon sitting innocently on the counter, and their alleged perpetrator helplessly pinned beneath two . . . . erm . . . buffet patrons, the officers holstered (is that the right word?) their guns.
One looked at Sally, then at the weapon, rolled his eyes and shook his head. Muttering something that could have been ‘crazy dame’, he donned gloves, produced a plastic bag and tucked the gun into it.
Another officer grabbed his handset. “Cancel the helicopter, Mac,” he said. “It looks like everything is wrapped here.”
The other policemen proceeded to free, then cuff and remove their prisoner. And gather statements.
Sally moved off, her goal obviously the dumpling table.
Taking a fresh plate and humming happily to herself, she started dishing.


Use Your Words is a challenge. Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado collects and re-distributes words. And we have the fun of doing something with what we receive!
This month, my words: damage ~ replenish ~ helicopter ~ panic ~ goal ~ stage, came to me from my amazing friend, Jenniy at Climaxed

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Our Blacksmith Playground

The small, green roof?
Blacksmith Shop aka Playground
To one side of the barnyard, squatting amid neatly-stacked barrels and other ranch paraphernalia, stood our blacksmith shop.
Constructed of timbers and rough-sawn boards, it consisted of one large room with small windows on two sides and large double doors on the third.
Benches lined the walls, littered with the tools and detritus of thousands of past projects.
In one corner, silently dominating the scene, stood the solid stone forge. I had no idea what it was for. I had never seen it in action, though the mounds of ashes and the soot of countless fires which still marked it, and the old horseshoes and other iron hung about the rafters surrounding it, should have borne mute testimony to its purpose.
I was four.
No explanation needed . . . or understood.
The rest of the room was dotted with more modern behemoth machines. Machines with incomprehensible names like: drill press, belt-sander, and air compressor, and which stood about, mutely awaiting the command to perform.
The blacksmith shop was an icon representing bygone days. A testament to the permanence of man's creativity and ingenuity.
And a great place to play though it was, we were informed, dangerous, and not to be entered unless accompanied by Dad or some other adult..
Case in point - my little brother, Blair, then two, was with my dad, who was using the air compressor. Blair was watching the wheel of the compressor go around. He tried to touch it and nipped the very end off his tiny finger. It healed. The lesson remained.
But I digress . . .
One could crawl around the dirt floor beneath the drill press and find the little curlicues that had been shaved off some piece of metal and use them like little springs.
But carefully. They're sharp.
Or, if one were truly adventurous, one could actually turn on the huge drill, put a plate of metal under the bit, turn the gear, forcing the bit down through the plate . . .
And, voila! Create your own little curlicues!
But a bit of a warning - if Dad turned around while you were thus engaged, heaven help you.
There were also the little bits and shavings of wood strewn about. Those were especially fun for building little corrals - with equally tiny stick horses inside. Quite often, though, that particular brand of play would induce one to head out to the 'actual' corral, to play with the 'actual' horses . . .
Against he fourth side of the shop was a lean-to, or small, doorless shed. It was full of barrels of grease and oil, so necessary to the proper function of the various ranch vehicles and machines.
It also held smaller containers of the same, which were vastly easier to work with, or in my case, to play with.
Little side note here - those small squirt-cans of oil could shoot an amazing distance. Something I especially noticed when my brother, George was there with me. Our accuracy left much to be desired, however, which was probably a good thing.
You should know that oil can play was inevitably brought to a halt when Dad would holler, "You kids stop wasting the oil!"
Sigh.
The larger barrels of grease were every bit as entertaining. One could push down on the handle and a long, skinny 'worm' of grease would be pressed out.
Which one could then play with. Rolling it in the dirt. Squishing it with your fingers . . .
"You kids stop wasting the grease!"
Geeze. That man was everywhere!
Around the back of the shop was another little shed. This one with it's own door. It smelled quite different. More like salt.
And it contained - guess what! - salt. Large blocks of the stuff in blues, reds and whites.
Cattle grazing in the arid pastures of Southern Alberta need salt, and quite a few extra nutrients for continued good health. Thus, in addition to their prime ingredient, the blue salt blocks also contain cobalt. The reds - minerals.
The white blocks are just salt. Boring.
It was great fun to chip a small piece off one of the large blocks and suck on it for a while.
And Dad never got after us for getting into the salt.
I know. Weird.
The blacksmith shop was one of our favorite playgrounds. It was old - one of the oldest buildings on the ranch. Originally built by Colonel A.T. Mackie sometime before 1900, it had survived through countless decades and several owners.
It burned to the ground some years after our family sold the ranch.
Its loss must surely be felt by the kids who live there now.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Singing As We Go

Dad. He of the wondrous voice.
My Dad loved to sing.
Fortunately, for the rest of us, he had a very nice voice.
And great rhythm.
It's just his timing that needed work.
Let me explain . . .
When one lived as far from civilization as we did, 'going somewhere' inevitably involved . . . well . . . travelling.
For extended periods of time.
I'd like to point out here, that wonderful inventions like DS's, cell phones , IPads and the all-important DVD players existed only in science fiction. Our entertainment consisted of visiting, looking out the window, and books.
Or, in my case, just visiting or looking out the window. Reading in a car, though perhaps my favourite diversion, unavoidably made me carsick.
Ugh.
Whenever we travelled, there was always that stretch of road (I know you've been there), usually somewhere in the middle, where we ran out of conversation and the scenery got boring.
And everyone in the car, driver included, got sleepy.
That's when Dad would start to sing.
At full volume.
He really only had one.
See what I mean about timing . . .?
His family was treated to such classics as, "Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder". Or, "My Diane" (my personal favorite), "Two Little Boys" (which always made me cry), "Daisy", or the ever popular, "The Doors Swing In and the Doors Swing Out".
Usually, Mom would also join in.
Suffice it to say that, before us kids could carry on a lucid conversation, we could sing. We didn't always know what we were singing, and our school teachers sometimes questioned the suitability of a song that took place almost entirely within a saloon ("The Doors Swing In . . ." - see above.)
But that's beside the point . . .
We were in tune and definitely had the words right.
Or at least as right as Dad did.
It wasn't until some years later that I realized my Dad used . . . poetic license.
One day, I was singing "Two Little Boys" while I cleaned out a pen in the barn. Unbeknownst (real word!) to me, Dad was leaning on the fence in the far corner, listening.I got to one line and just did what he had always done. "Da Da Da Da Da Da Dum Dee."
He burst out laughing.
When I spun around and glared at him accusingly, he told me that he'd been waiting for me to get to that line so he could finally hear what the real words were. He had never been able to remember and had just put in 'placer' lyrics.
I had memorized them accordingly.
Scary, isn't it that we pick up what we are taught . . . mistakes and all?
I've wandered from the point...
Now, whenever I drive along a road that Dad took us down, or even a road that resembles a road that . . .
I remember. Feeling happily sleepy. And that beautiful baritone voice, suddenly belting out the lyrics to some song that probably only Dad remembered.
Or possibly that Dad made up.
But so soothing to us denizens of the back seat.
I think I can hear him still . . .
If you'd like to hear Mrs. Murphy's Chowder...

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Gone Home

Four years ago already...


On our way to the ranch. Five siblings, three nephews and one niece.
During our travels earlier this summer, my Husby, siblings and I took the opportunity of visiting the 'Old Ranch'.
The ranch, nestled in a crook of the south fork of the Milk River that is the basis and background to so many of my memories.
Most of what was there before is gone - lost in a terrible grass fire that swept much of the area three years ago.
The barn, scene of so many adventures has been reduced to a cracked sheet of cement.
The only reminder of the extensive corrals are the slabs that held waterers and feed troughs.
Outbuildings - feed storage, small barns, tool sheds - all have disappeared.
We wandered about - even climbing to the top of the 'old machinery hill' - so named because that's where we parked the old machinery.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Someone else's machinery was parked there.
We did find a great old gate - a friend that we had all swung on whenever Dad couldn't see us . . .
We paced around, remembering stories and experiences that were generated by what had once stood there.
Then we walked over to the ranch house. The lone survivor of the conflagration.
And received a true shock. The house is sound. Sturdy.
And in most respects, exactly as it was when I last set foot in it over forty years ago.
The fixtures, walls, ceilings, even the arborite in the bathrooms were the same.
The very same.
When my parents built the house, they had installed fine mahogany panelling in the front room and Dad's office.
Light switches were modern, gold coloured, wedge-shaped marvels.
And the bathroom was equipped with green fixtures. Not the olive green of the seventies, but a mint green of the early sixties.
Progressive.
And still there.
We wandered through, exclaiming over new discoveries in every room.
The words, "Oh, I remember this!" echoed continually.
One could almost picture Mom taking something out of the oven and Dad sitting in his easy chair, boots off, waiting for dinner. Or the family gathered in the front room, eagerly anticipating the Sunday night lineup of TV programs. Or the sound of the milk separator signalling that outside chores had been finished for the day.
Oh, there were some changes. The floor coverings had gone to laminate from carpet and lino and the great mantel and fireplace that had dominated that front room had vanished.
But, after witnessing the devastation in the barn yard, seeing the sameness indoors was a great joy.
And a relief.
Some things still do exist.
Reminders of that childhood from which my siblings and I sprang.
It really happened.

The river today.
Nephew, Josh on the fence that surrounds the house and yard. Needs paint, but still the same.

Third in the series

Third in the series
Deborah. Fugitive of Faith

The Long-Awaited Sequel to Daughter of Ishmael

The Long-Awaited Sequel to Daughter of Ishmael
A House Divided is now available at all fine bookstores and on Amazon.com and .ca!

Daughter of Ishmael

Daughter of Ishmael
Now available at Amazon.com and .ca and Chapters.ca and other fine bookstores.

Romance still wins!

Romance still wins!
First romance in a decade!

Hosts: Your Room's Ready

Hosts: Your Room's Ready
A fun romp through the world's most haunted hotel!

Follow by Email

Hugs, Delivered.

Compass Book Ratings

Compass Book Ratings

Ghost of the Overlook

Ghost of the Overlook
Need a fright?

My Granddaughter is Carrying on the Legacy!

My Granddaughter is Carrying on the Legacy!
New Tween Novel!

Gnome for Christmas

Gnome for Christmas
The newest in my Christmas Series

SnowMan

SnowMan
A heart warming story of love and sacrifice.

Translate

My novel, Carving Angels

My novel, Carving Angels
Read it! You know you want to!

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic
What could be better than a second Christmas story?!

Join me on Maven

Connect with me on Maven

Essence

Essence
A scientist and his son struggle to keep their earth-shattering discovery out of the wrong hands.

Essence: A Second Dose

Essence: A Second Dose
Captured and imprisoned, a scientist and his son use their amazing discovery to foil evil plans.

Looking for a Great Read?

E-Books by Diane Stringam Tolley
Available from Smashwords.com

The Babysitter

The Babysitter
A baby-kidnapping ring has its eye on J'Aime and her tiny niece.

Melissa

Melissa
Haunted by her past, Melissa must carve a future. Without Cain.

Devon

Devon
Following tragedy, Devon retreats to the solitude of the prairie. Until a girl is dropped in his lap.

Pearl, Why You Little...

Pearl, Why You Little...
Everyone should spend a little time with Pearl!

The Marketing Mentress

The Marketing Mentress
Building solid relationships with podcast and LinkedIn marketing

Coffee Row

Coffee Row
My Big Brother's Stories

Better Blogger Network

Semper Fidelis

Semper Fidelis
I've been given an award!!!

The Liebster Award

The Liebster Award
My good friend and Amazing Blogger, Marcia of Menopausal Mother awarded me . . .

Irresistibly Sweet Award

Irresistibly Sweet Award
Delores, my good friend from The Feathered Nest, has nominated me!

Sunshine Award!!!

Sunshine Award!!!
My good friend Red from Oz has nominated me!!!

My very own Humorous Blogger Award From Delores at The Feathered Nest!

Be Courageous!


Grab and Add!

Search This Blog

Ghost of the Overlook

Ghost of the Overlook
Need a fright?