From Darkness Into Light

In our corner of the world, in winter, the nights are very long.

You would think that I'd find it aggravating; having so few hours of sunlight during our 'waking' part of the day.

For a period of time, the street lights are coming on when the school children are just getting home.

And don't shut off until they are safely back in class the next morning.

One does everything in the dark.

Early morning walks.

Paper routes.

Extra curricular activities.

Chores.

But I love it.

For a few months, Life seems to slow down.

Family comes home earlier.

And stays longer.

But I have one memory that makes the darkness . . . special.

Let me tell you about it . . .

On the ranch, meals were served like clockwork.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared with amazing regularity.

And an equal amount of delicious-ness.

During winter, at least two of those meals were prepared and served with stars in the sky.

With the modern conveniences of electricity, this was not a handicap.

Mom worked with every imaginable electronic gadget.

In a brilliantly lit kitchen.

As the rest of the house darkened with the fading sunlight, the kitchen remained a beacon.

It called to all of us.

As suppertime neared, I would shut off the lamp in my bedroom and, without stopping to turn on any more lights, walk quickly along the dark hallway.

And that's the part I remember most clearly.

Seeing the light flooding out of every doorway leading into the kitchen.

Moving from the dark into a world of light, fragrance, warmth.

And family.

Mom orchestrating and/or supervising numerous pots and kettles and children.

The rest of the kids already seated.

An evening of great food and wonderful company ahead of me.

Mom is gone, now.

My siblings scattered throughout North America.

But whenever I come from a darkened hallway into a lighted kitchen, I feel that same anticipation.

That same joy I first felt over fifty years ago.

And that time and life experiences cannot fade.

Stepping from darkness into light.

The light that is family.

The Mud and Me

 

Daddy and Me

Spring had finally arrived at the ranch.
Let me describe it to you . . .
The snow has melted away. Even the drifts which filled the ditches have finally succumbed to the encroaching sun.
Everywhere on the prairie one can see the signs of spring. New green in the prairie grasses and in the occasional and solitary trees. An infrequent blossom. The smells, in the prairie wind, of things growing . Scurrying animals. Birdsong.
And knee-deep mud in the barnyard.
But I am getting ahead of myself.

It is a wonderful time. A time of anticipation. Of wonder.
For a four-year-old who had been cooped up in the house since time immemorial, it is a wondrous opportunity for freedom.
And I took it.
Anxious to put a new accomplishment (that Mom and I had been labouring over) into practice, I disdained my ugly, black gumboots and stuck my feet into my brand new running shoes and triumphantly tied the laces.
I was free!
I dashed out of the house and into the spring sunshine.
The day was filled with endless possibilities for exploring. There was the ice-house. The riverbank. The blacksmith shop. The feed sheds. Hayloft. Pig sty. Chicken coop.
Okay, maybe not the chicken coop.
All my usual haunts.
But today, my first day of freedom, I chose . . . where else would a horse nut go? . . . the horse barn.
Where I would find the . . . ummm . . . horses.
It started out all right. I walked down the hard-packed driveway to the grass of the foreman's house.
So far, so good.
From there, I crossed to the fence. Still fine. I climbed the fence and looked across the barnyard to the tempting building just over there . . .
I jumped down.
And that is where everything fell apart. I watched my feet disappear into the morass that the barnyard had become.
For a stunned moment, I stared down. What had happened?
I tried to lift one foot. It didn't move.
I tried again. Same result.
Panic threatened. Was I going to be stuck here for the rest of my life? I was perilously close to tears.
Then I saw my dad. He of the strong arms and wisely gum booted feet.
He worked his way over to me. I can still remember the sucking sound of his boots as he pulled them from the mud.
Ssss-thook. Ssss-thook.
My saviour.
He plucked me from the mud and set me back on the fence.
Then he frowned and looked at my feet.
“Where are your boots?”
I, too, looked down.
Muddy socks and pants, but no shoes. Huh. Maybe my lace-tying wasn't as good as I thought.
I looked at the mud.
Dad sighed and felt down into the mud that had so recently held me, and found, first one, then the other shoe.
He stood up and held them out.
“Are these your new shoes?”
I nodded silently.
“Where are your boots?” Boots that would have been vastly easier to clean, by the way.
I looked towards the house.
Dad sighed. “You take these and head to the house. I'm going to come later and give you a spanking.”
My eyes got big. I stared at him. A spanking?!
I should point out here that I had never had a spanking from my dad.
But I could imagine it. Unspeakable pain and torment.
I grabbed my shoes, jumped down from the fence and lit out for the house at my best 'four-year-old-I'm-in-trouble' pace.
I threw the shoes down in the front entry and headed for the closet in my room.
Dad never gave me my spanking.
I guess he thought that I'd been punished enough when I spent the entire morning in my closet, hiding from him.
And I never again tried to wear anything but my gumboots into the barnyard.
I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

Smoke Break

Okay. How can we complicate this . . .

My Dad went to veterinarian college in Guelph, Ontario.

Some time during the Dark Ages.

Okay, yes, he tells me that my time periods are a little off.

But I'm writing this story.

Dark Ages, it is.

Moving on . . .

Sometime during his years there, he had occasion to hitch-hike to Toronto.

It was his first time.

And it was an adventure.

Let me explain . . .

A gentleman stopped to pick him up.

A pleasant fellow.

Travelling salesman.

They visited for a while.

Then the driver decided it was time for a smoke break.

Or at least for a smoke. Why bother to actually make it a 'break'.

Better to just keep on driving.

In today's world of pre-assembled cigarettes, this wouldn't have been a problem.

But in the Dark Ages, people 'rolled their own'.

Seriously.

They got out a little piece of speciality paper.

Carefully shook a tiny bit of loose tobacco onto said paper.

Spread out said tobacco.

Rolled everything up.

Licked the edge of the paper.

And stuck it down.

Voila!

Cigarette.

Now, imagine doing all of that while hurtling at sixty miles per hour down the highway.

Talk about distracted driving . . .

The driver could easily accomplish it, though, with a little help from his hitch-hiker/new buddy.

“Here, son, could you please take the wheel?”

Dad stared at him. Was he serious?

“Please?”

Apparently, he was.

Gingerly, Dad reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

“Good.” The man let go and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, without compromising speed at all.

Except when Dad started to weave a little.

Then he slowed . . . slightly.

Finally, the job was done.

“Thank you,” the man said, taking a drag from his new cigarette. He once more took control of the wheel.

Dad sat back, relieved in both body and spirit.

A short time later, he was duly delivered at his destination.

Slightly smokier and a tiny bit wiser than normal, but safe.

Dad never took up smoking.

He said it was too dangerous.

Now you know why.

My Bread Dough Days

A poem.
For Boxing day.
Because . . .

The water's there.

The yeast is, too.

The sugar, eggs and oil.

A pinch of salt.

Some scoops of flour.

A spot of manual toil.

Then there it sits.

A work of art.

A dough that's fine and ready.

Just waiting for

The final touch.

The hand that's firm and steady.

It starts to rise.

Increase and grow.

Progressing, moving on.

Then nears the top

Success so close,

Then, suddenly, it's gone.

That hand so sure

That works with care

Deflates all it's achieved.

And in a blink

All progress seems

Impossible to believe.

Again it tries.

Again it grows.

E'en lighter than before.

Again that hand,

Again the push,

The dough is flat once more.

A third time tries.

A third time grows.

Now tasty and perfected.

Achieves at last

It's sought-for goal,

No flaws or faults detected.

At times I feel

Much like this dough.

My progress interrupted.

When wiser hands,

Press me to my knees,

All dreams and goals disrupted.

But praying hard,

I realize

Though setbacks are in store,

I rise each time,

A better me

Than e're I was before.

At Grandma Berg's House

Merry Christmas!
I'm with my family . . .
So here's a repost!

My Grandma and Grandpa Berg
Who loved me.

Christmas excitement at the Stringam house was always two-fold.

There was the anticipation and joy over the gift-giving.

And getting.

And then there was the Christmas trip to Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house (hereinafter known as 'Grandma's House').

My Mom's parents.

I'm still not sure which was more exciting.

After the frenzy of unwrapping had dwindled and the euphoria and excitement of yet another Christmas morning had waned, it was time to pack the car for Grandma's house.

Yes!

We were allowed one suitcase.

So I had to carefully choose what gifts to bring along.

Much wrinkle-browed thought was put into what would accompany me.

One had to keep in mind that it would be many days before one could play with all of the other new toys, so the decision could not be made lightly.

What clothing and necessities went into the suitcase, however, were hap-hazard at best.

And most of the time . . . no less than sketchy.

It wasn't unusual to find that I had forgotten such necessities as . . . underwear. Pajamas. Shirts. Pants. Socks. Toothbrush.

In fact, as my Mom pointed out on at least one occasion, "Diane, what did you pack? Because there certainly aren't any clothes in here!"

I would look up at her.

Oops.

She would sigh and go to ask Aunt Eva or Aunt Louise if their kids had any clothes I could borrow.

It didn't matter. I was happily playing with my numerous cousins.

None of whom cared what I was wearing.

And that was just the start of the fun at Grandma's.

My older sister and I got to sleep in my Mom's old room at the top of the grand stairway.

In a bed with a delicious feather tick.

Perfect for a little, warm sleeping nest.

There was also a little, hidden cupboard

Deeply secret.

No one knew it was there, except Chris and I.

And of course whoever hung the old clothes and other stuff stored inside, but why quibble over details?

Just outside our room, against one wall in the hall, was a ladder.

Leading to the incredible, top secret attic.

My brothers spent hours up there, reading old comics and stuff left by my mother's brothers.

I was never allowed to go.

'Cause I was a girl.

Whatever that meant.

The large bedroom across the hall from mine was where my brothers slept. It was full of treasures. Books and games from my Mom's childhood.

Or at least from her brothers'.

I imagine they happened about the same time . . .

At the bottom of the staircase in the warmly shiny, plank floor was a square vent.

Just wide enough for Sharon, Julie, Susan and I to sit on.

Or lay on.

Or play . . . you get the picture.

All during Christmas, it blew warm air.

Just for us.

Hour after hour, we cousins and siblings would crouch together on the slatted steel. Warm and toasty.

Paradise.

There was plenty to eat at Grandma's house. Food that left her large, sunny kitchen in great, delicious quantities.

And just as quickly disappeared.

And the all-important cookie tins.

Grandma always baked many, many different kinds of cookies.

All delicious.

Then put a selection into several tins and placed them throughout the house.

It was like a treasure hunt.

Except that, invariably, the Smaarbucklesa (spelled phonetically because it's Swedish and none of us kids knew what she was saying . . .) disappeared immediately.

From every, single tin.

Rats!

Even the furniture at Grandma's house was an adventure just waiting to happen.

When Grampa Berg wasn't sitting on it, there was always his chair, sitting innocently beside the great living room window.

The chair that vibrated, if one turned the dials.

Like the rest of Grandma's house, it was magic.

And there was always the carved, wooden feet under the dining table to sit on.

And hide.

Although, looking back, I really don't know how effective my hiding was.

Especially when someone would ask for Diane and someone else would say, "Probably under the table."

Sigh. 

Secret agent material, I wasn't.

But the most exciting part about being at Grandma's house was the little sun room on the side of the house.

A sunny little place.

That had a tenant.

Hanging silently on one wall.

Just waiting for the most daring cousin to dart in and . . . touch it.

And run away screaming.

Okay, okay, so I was always the one who was scared to go in and screamed on the way out.

Sheesh.

But you have to admit that a stuffed moose head is really scary.

Okay, you don't.

But it was.

When I was four.

At Grandma Berg's house.

The best place on earth.

Skunked for Christmas

Guelph - 24 years later - the smell is almost gone . . .

Dad was a veterinarian student in Guelph, Ontario.

That fact, alone shouldn't strike terror into anyone's heart.

It will . . .

Christmas 1946 was a special time.

The veterinarian students (hereinafter known as the Vets) had pooled their resources and bought some decorations and a small tree.

These, they had used to decorate their balcony.

It looked quite festive.

They were rather pleased with themselves.

Something that happened often.

But I digress . . .

Other students also noticed their efforts.

Students who were either too broke or too lazy to decorate their own area.

Not a good situation.

Things happen.

The Vets came back from class a couple of days before Christmas to discover that their tree was . . . missing.

Investigation was indicated.

After a short, very short search, they discovered that the thief or thieves had left a trail of decorations down the hall.

Obviously the work of amateurs.

The Vets followed the telltale trail into their neighbour's corridor and, further, into one of the dorm rooms there.

Oh, if only NCIS could have it this easy.

They knocked.

Politely.

Actually, they probably hammered violently, but my way sounds better.

Moving on . . .

Several young men answered the door, then vehemently (good word) protested their innocence.

And as strongly denied that they had access to the closet to which the trail subsequently led.

Undaunted, the Vets demanded that they open the door or it would be pulled from its hinges.

Gently. 

At that point a key was quickly produced, the door opened, and the disclosed tree retrieved.

The Vets wasted no time in restoring it to its rightful place of honour on their balcony.

All was well.

Or almost well.

Remember. These were young men.

In college.

Payback was indicated.

Two of these young men had recently uncovered a den of skunks.

As part of their training, and because they were bored, they de-scented those skunks.

But saved the glands.

Weird.

One of them suddenly came up with a brilliant plan.

They would chop up the glands, add a little water, then carefully fill a syringe with the resulting goo.

No sooner imagined than accomplished.

Now, I should point out here that, in the late 40s, each door in the dorms at Guelph, and indeed, everywhere, opened with a large, old-fashioned key.

The keyhole was big enough to peek through.

And certainly large enough to accommodate a syringe needle.

While everyone else was at class, the two vet students took their syringe and squirted a little of their prized 'essence' through the keyhole of every door in that corridor.

The smell was immediate . . . and indescribable.

Hmm. Maybe they had been a little precipitate? (another good word!)

But the damage was done.

For the last day before vacation, everyone who had anything to do with that building, did it in as brief a time as possible.

Sleeping was out of the question.

Most of the young men simply left town as soon as their last class was over.

Perhaps distance would lessen the smell.

Dad didn't give the prank much thought during his Christmas vacation back in Alberta.

Some things are best forgotten.

And, astonishingly enough, by the time they got back to the campus, the smell was all but gone.

Good thing carpets hadn't been invented yet.

But everyone learned something from the experience.

            1. Leave skunks alone.

            2. Never, ever play tricks on veterinarian students.

Eat. Play. Love.

Twice a year, in July and December, we have 'Grandparents Sleepover' at the Tolleys.
When everyone over the age of three gets to spend the weekend at Gramma and Grampa's
We bake.
Eat.
Play.
Make stuff.
Watch movies.
Sometimes sleep.
And generally have a really good time.
Then the kids go home.
It's fun.
It's family.
Follow us . . .

You might not be able to see it here, but the bad guys are losing

Okay. So not everyone shines when they rise.

Breakfast. Feeding the hoards.

Making Chocolate Bears

Ditto

What's a party without cotton candy? Everywhere.

Falling off the roof takes on a whole new meaning

Excuse me.

Gramma and Grampa have to sleep now.