That Summer: Part One

Everything Under Construction

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals:

The red letter day was here.

There could be no more stalling - no more postponing - no more compromising.

We had sold our house three months before and we just must move!

All the planning and indecision washed over me like a cold shower.

Nothing had been resolved, though all angles had been considered.

While our new home was being built, should we move into a motel? To a trailer? Rent a house?

All of them were ticked off for various reasons - too expensive, too many children (six when our eldest was home), and homes to rent were not available.

There was one alternative, however.

My rancher/veterinarian husband had built a quonset.

A huge quonset (100 feet by 40 feet).

And it had a cement floor, smooth in the center and rough at one end where he eventually planned to build a barn with stalls for convalescing animals. (The rough floor would keep the animals from slipping.)

It had a cold water outlet and a sewer outlet at the rough end.

I don't know how the great light dawned, but we suddenly came up with this fantastic idea.

Why not move into the quonset for the summer?

We could assemble our living area in the center near the water outlet and carry all our waste water to the sewer outlet in the future barn space.

It would work.

We still had many misgivings about living in 'the shed' and they seemed to multiply as the day for the move drew nearer.

So, it was with many the doubts still swimming through my head that I set myself to the task of packing.

The confusion grew as the moving van arrived and it progressed steadily through the length of the day until by late afternoon my mind and limbs were numb.

Finally, though, I was looking about the nearly-empty home I loved.

It was as if I were viewing a funeral procession of a dear friend.

The car was packed to the roof. There was room only for me as the driver, and my littlest child, Anita, on a heap of articles beside me.

Thank goodness the others were all in school and didn't have to witness this agonizing transformation. (Although I had reason to suspect that they were entranced by the whole idea - anything so unusual would be a great adventure!)

They could not possibly perceive all the 'mechanics' of the operation. And definitely would not experience the re-organization and planning that would have to be done before our family would resume a smooth day-to-day living.

No one could help me with this.

I felt as if I had been prepared for slaughter and my unwilling body was being swept toward the surgeon with scalpel poised and grinning teeth mocking me.

Life's necessities and comforts had gone.

I had to accept that.

So, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and quivering lip clamped firmly in my teeth, I shifted the family car into reverse and drove resolutely toward my 'summer home'.

Acorn Testing

This may sound like bragging.

Okay, it is . . .

Our second son was in grade three.

He loved it.

He was a good student and the teacher, Mr. Knall, seemed to like and appreciate him.

The time for our first parent-teacher interview of the year approached.

Usually a time of apprehension for me.

But there were smiles on both sides as we introduced ourselves and shook hands.

Whew.

We discussed Erik’s behavior and accomplishments.

Then the teacher brought out a little stack of papers. “Now,” he began, “You are allowed to look through these, but I’m letting you know now that I'm keeping them.”

I stared at him. “Ummm . . . okay.”

He then laid out Erik’s spelling tests to date. Like his father, Erik was a good speller. He had even been known to correct spelling for others. (ie. my brother, completing his degree in Engineering.)

Erik’s only difficulty lay in the fact that he usually finished writing the word almost as soon as the teacher had said it. Leaving—seconds—before the next word. Time that lay heavily on his hands. That needed to be filled with something.

And he filled it.

With illustrations.

In the margin beside his words, he would draw tiny, exquisite figures illuminating whatever it was he had just written. Thus, beside the word: Space, was drawn a tiny astronaut floating in space on an umbilical. A couple of words later: Fire, had an equally tiny cannon, firing at the spaceman.

And thus it went. The entire margin was littered with these pictures.

I could see the teacher’s reasons for wanting to keep them.

This was a truly unique spelling test.

I should probably let you know I allowed him have the tests.

Because I kept the boy.

Moving forward several years . . .

A few days ago, Erik’s second son, just out of grade three, was completing some math worksheets for his mother.

A “keeping up the skills” exercise for the summertime.

He excels at it. Math, that is.

And, like his father before him, finds himself with time on his hands.

And, without even realizing it, has completed the circle.

And ensured that another acorn has dropped immediately beside another great oak.

Crow Holidays

We are vacationing on uber-beautiful Vancouver Island. We are fortunate in that our middle son lives here, so it is a destination. And also a reunion.

We are camping. But camping deluxe, with a four-star bathroom. Granite counters, framed mirrors, slate floors. The works.

My own bathroom isn’t this nice. (We’re seniors, so the bathrooms are important to us. Both in proximity and in cleanliness.)

Moving on . . .

But still, we are camping, with all of the pitfalls and challenges that entails.

Such as the weather.

Today, I am sitting in our tent, listening to a much-needed rain hitting the canvas over my head.

Needed, that is, by everyone on the Island.

Except the tourists.

But some things are going on as normal.

And so we get to the point of this story . . .

We are surrounded by years-old trees here.

Many years old.

They are tall. And plentiful. And lush. And the personal home/gathering spot for the area’s crows.

Crows, as you probably know, are noisy.

Especially early in the morning.

Today, we were blessed that their morning meeting was on the far side of the campground, only faintly discernible to us near the bathrooms. (Seniors. Bathrooms. Important. See above.)

I feel for those people.

Not.

It was our turn yesterday and now they can take theirs. Ha!

As I was lying in my cozy -50 sleeping bag, listening to the morning chorus, I began to wonder exactly what the conversation entailed.

Here is my take:

Alphonse: “Okay, is everyone here? Reggie! Where is Reggie?”

Beatrice: “He’s feeding the babies, Alphonse. They woke him and Myrtle up and she’s got a headache and their sitter cancelled so he’s doing double duty today.”

Alphonse: “Okay, well, we’ll excuse him. Is everyone else here?”

Jerrold: “Greta said she’d be a bit late. Some errand she had to run.”

Alphonse: Sighing. “People! Need I remind you how important our job is? If we don’t have everyone here, we can’t work properly and things get missed!”

A chorus of: “We know.” “Yes, boss” “Sorry!”

Alphonse: “All right. Let’s get to work.” Looks everyone over. “Peter and Elaine. You take the north east quadrant.”

Peter: “But we were there yesterday! Some kids threw things at us!”

Alphonse (unmoved): “Part of the job, Peter. You knew that when you signed on.”

Peter (mumbling): “I hate this job!”

Alphonse: “What?”

Peter: “Nothing.”

Alphonse: “Becky and Beatrice? Northwest. And good work yesterday, by the way!”

Beatrice: “Becky just had a great idea and we went with it.”

Alphonse: “Well, it was effective. Do it again.”

Beatrice: “Gladly!”

Alphonse: “Jerrold? Mikey? Sue? Debbie? I want the four of you to cover both the southeast and southwest. Mix it up. Keep them guessing.”

Jerrold: “I think I can speak for all of us, Boss. Happy to.”

Alphonse: “The rest of you, I’m sending you to the center of the campground. It seems to be especially effective when you gather on the climbing frame in the middle of the playground. Something about some movie the humans had a few years ago.”

Mary: “They seem especially affected when we sit there silently and just watch them.”

Alphonse: “Okay, well, I guess that’s all right. Not our usual, but we’re adaptable. Just don’t completely neglect our signature loud-and-noisy.” Raises voice. “Okay, people! You know your job! And if we can manage to chase another group of humans off, it’s all to the good. Think like Becky and Beatrice. A little poop in a few strategic locations in addition to the squawking seems to work miracles. Have a great day!”

I’m fairly certain this is how it goes. Every. Single. Morning.

Sigh.

Not Forgettable

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw.

He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

Ode To the Purple

I never saw a purple cow,

I never hope to see one.

But I can tell you anyhow,

I'd rather see, than be one.

A purple cow'd take you aback,

She'd certainly be seen,

Among the whites and browns and blacks,

And everything between.

And what to feed them? I don't know,

A normal cow eats grasses.

Who knows what's going on below,

With purple's gastric gasses.

And are they hot? Or are they cold?

You'd need to touch to see.

I'd have to know before I'm sold,

I'm sure you would agree.

Another thing: what do you give,

A purple cow to drink?

Do they need water just to live,

Like us? What do you think?

And now the final question:

With their milk, what is it's hue?

If purple's their digestion

Is it green or red or blue?

You know, I need to think again,

It might not be so bad,

Being noticed for my purple stain,

And giving milk that's plaid.

So . . .

I never saw a purple cow,

But I should like to see one.

And I can tell you anyhow,

It might be fun to be one.

This post is part of a special challenge by Karen at Baking in a Tornado.

Cow appreciation.

And who doesn't appreciate cows?

Here are the other participants:

Karen: Ode to the Cow

Dawn: Udder Appreciation

Lydia: Thanks, Cows

Non-Sense

Today, for Poetry Monday, I'm doing a little self-imposed exercise.

Fill In The Blanks

This is a little ditty quoted by my sainted mother throughout my growing up years. And a little bit after that:

There's so much good in the worst of us
And so much bad in the best of us.
That it doesn't behoove any of us
To talk about the rest of us.

Great poem, right?
So this is my challenge to me.
Take the formula and--see what I can do with it.

Hmm . . .

There's so much life in the oldest of us,

And so much fatigue in the youngest of us,

That we can't possibly, any of us

Try to outwork the rest of us.

This is harder than I thought.

Umm . . .

There's so much fun in the angriest,

And so much mad in the happiest,

That no one can (at any behest)

Say just who is the crappiest.

Yikes.

One more try . . .

There’s so much work in the laziest,

And so much laze in the workiest,

That none of the chores, by mother’s request

Will ever get done, though the house is messed.

Aarrgh!

How about . . .

There's so much forgotten by the oldest of us,

And so much to learn in the youngest of us,

The amount that is known by any of us

Is probably the same as the rest of us.

I give up.

Mom’s really is the best!

Today’s theme for PoetryMonday is Nonsense.

Now go and see what my good friends/poetry mavens, Delores and Jenny have for you!
And stay tuned for Next Monday and the topic of  VACATIONS!

Biofriction

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teachers notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lots of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not.

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?