Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

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



Monday, February 10, 2020

It’s All Relatives

Two of my relatives.
Gramma and Grampa Stringam
I love to hear the stories of my relatives who went before,
Great Grandfather, whose neighbour’s hammer helped to build a second floor,
Then, when he went to lunch, was buried somewhere neath those planks of yore,
Discovered when that place was razed at the ripe old age of 54!

For a visit, Grandma took four kids and she was heading home,
Was quite a distance train and wagon, that those five would have to roam,
When partway there, their not-so-trusty beasts belied their chromosomes,
And backed the wagon off the cliff at the apex of the mountain’s dome.

When Grampa found some steer’s legs hidden far beneath the large hay pile,
He knew a poacher had been there. He brought police ‘cross country miles,
A young dad charged, his starving kin had nowhere they could stay a while,
Gramp took them home and had them stay till Dad’s return brought back their smiles.

1918, the world was in the grip it called, “The Spanish Flu”
But Grampa’s family lived on onions—seemed to make them all immune,
For several weeks, he did the chores of those in Stirling’s small commune,
Milking cows and feeding stock from rise of sun to rise of moon.

Gramma, she was famous for the cookies baked at Christmastime,
Selections packed in tins, but there was one we all found so sublime,
Those were the first that disappeared. Be it snacks or mealtimes.
When she passed, she took the method with her. It was such a crime.

My mom was famous for the scrumptious pies that she would always bake,
In groups of six, they left her oven, for her fam-i-ly’s intake,
Now, once a year, on March 14, we think of Mom as time, we take,
Constructing crusts and fillings for our flaky Pi Night bellyache.

When I and Future Husby went for what would be a date, our first,
My Daddy locked the door on me, I tell you, it was just the worst,
We broke in through a window and I breached the hallowed halls headfirst,
And Dad forever teased about our ‘break-and-enter’. May he be cursed.

Each one of them has stories and I’m fortunate I have their store,
And as I read them, I’m excited. Truly, how could one be bored?
And they must be remembered, so I vow to never close that door
On those wondrous thrilling tales of relatives who went before.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts
Perhaps a grin?
So all of us, together, we,
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?


Next week, cause it’s my favourite, true,
We’ll talk about the colour: BLUE!

10 comments:

  1. I admire your long, ambling poems, always telling a story of a time where eating and living was meant to be good and enjoyable. I love to read, what you write.

    ReplyDelete
  2. So good, but also poignant. Every human being has such amazing stories they leave behind. Really beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I love how you've taken these stories - each one a worthy blog post in itself - and condensed them into rhyme and made one large poem! You have talent :)

    "Blue" - I'm looking forward to an easier topic this week - whew!

    ReplyDelete
  4. I love, and envy, your treasure trove of family stories.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Your collection of stories! Hopefully they will be passed down to your youngin's.

    ReplyDelete
  6. I remember you telling the story of the Spanish Flu and your Grandpa doing the chores of many singlehandedly while others were sick. Thinking of the coronavirus, one can hope we don't find ourselves in similar positions. I'd rather you not have an additional verse for your poem.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Your Monday Poem was awesome! Loved it! Brought back some almost forgotten memories.
    Love,
    Chris

    ReplyDelete
  8. What a wonderful family history you have, and you have the additional gift of telling the stories in a fun way.

    ReplyDelete

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