Praying to Stay Awake

See? Adorable.

I went away to school.

Far away.

It was the most difficult four months of my life.

But I learned a lot.

Most importantly, I learned that I really don’t like to be away from family.

All I could think about was being home.

I learned a lot about prayer in those days.

It got me through.

My five roommates were great. Supportive, fun, encouraging, sympathetic.

And they taught me something about prayer as well.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I lived in an apartment with three bedrooms.

Each shared by two girls.

My roommate, Bev, was a sweetheart.

Kind. Sweet. Patient. Soft-spoken.

And very strong in her faith.

It was not unusual for her to kneel in prayer for a long time.

A. Very. Long. Time.

At some point, shortly after we became roommates, I realized that she wasn’t praying.

She was asleep.

There. On her knees on the hard old floor.

It couldn’t have been comfortable.

After that, when she had been praying for what seemed a sufficient amount of time, I would make some noise.

Not a lot.

Just enough so that if she really had dozed off, it would stir her.

And save those knees.

Now Bev was nothing if not proactive.

She saw that she had a problem and did what she could to fix it.

She bought a book, ‘How to Pray and Stay Awake’.

I applauded her positive, pre-emptive spirit.

That evening, she sat down happily on her bed and opened her new purchase.

A few minutes later, I glanced over at her.

She had nodded off over her book.

And was snoring softly.

Some things you just can’t fix.

Soothing the Savage Teacher

Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!

I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one. 

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Ugh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"
Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. A trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly. 

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.

I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.

Roped

 

Dumb and Dumber . . .
and the riding pad (BP- Before Pee).

Not using a saddle really did pose certain challenges.
Being unable to use a rope being the most notable.
Unfortunately, I had to learn that particular fact by experience.
I had been Dad’s official herdsman for . . . about two weeks. A job that had hitherto been the responsibility of one or more hired men.
Our operation had shrunk in size until we no longer needed hired men. We kids could do most of the work. And did.
24 hours a day. Seven days a . . . but that is another story.
I was checking the herd for prospective, or recent, mothers.
My horse stumbled, literally, over a small, newborn calf lying in the tall grass.
Abandoned.
At that early point in my new career, I didn’t know that the calf certainly wasn’t in any danger. Mama was nearby.
All I could see was a small, defenceless little creature that needed my help.
I picked it up. And somehow got it across the riding pad on my horse. And then managed to get up behind it.
No mean feat for someone without stirrups.
Or a brain.
I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures of the cowboy bringing home the small, half-frozen calf. The tiny creature lying helplessly across his saddle.
I had always pictured myself doing just that. It seemed . . . romantic somehow.
And was.
Until the calf peed.
All down my new riding pad.
You never saw that in the pictures.
I managed to make it to the corrals in the corner of the pasture and set the little cretin down in a corner. Then I went off in search of Mama.
There.
The cow running around and bawling.
Now all I had to do was reunite them.
Simple.
Not.
She didn’t want to vacate the area where she had last seen her baby. He must be here. If she ran back and forth a few thousand more times, she was sure to stumble over him.
I tried chasing her.
Heading her.
She kept doubling back.
Then I had a brilliant idea. I would rope her. She certainly wouldn’t be able to argue with that. Genius!
I rode back to the corral and returned with my Dad’s brand new lariat.
Did I mention brand new?
Getting the loop over the head of the frantic cow was easy. Then I would just . . . dally . . . I looked down in consternation at the place where the saddle horn should be.
Where it . . . wasn’t.
The rope slid through my hands, along with the cow.
I managed to reunite cow and calf.
Finally.
By bringing the calf and putting him back where I had found him originally.
The cow wore Dad’s expensive new lariat for several months. I called her ‘Ring Around the Collar’.
I thought it was funny.
Dad didn’t.

Tapping Troubles Away

Shoes hide.
They do.
Especially when there is something important that they need to be at.
School.
Church.
Movie night.
Going outside.
There are solutions.
Some of which are—creative—
Little sister was getting ready for Church.
She had been scrubbed shiny.
Groomed.
Dressed.
The only thing keeping her from heading out the door to the waiting car was a pair of Sunday shoes.
Oh, she could find her ratty everyday sneakers.
Her manure-y boots.
Even her tall, black rain boots.
But nothing that resembled (or smelled) like it could be worn to church.
She had asked everyone.
Including—as a final act of desperation—Mom.
Who had responded with her patented: “I have no idea where I left them when I wore them last.”
In tears of despair, she sat down on the floor.
And that’s when she saw them.
The shiny tips of her black tap shoes.
Hmmm . . .
Not smelly.
Gleaming with care.
Definitely church approved.
She grabbed them and put them on, jumped to her feet and headed for the door.
And that’s when their one drawback became apparent.
Remember when I said ‘tap’ shoes?
Well that comes into play here.
In church generally we are, for want of a better term, quiet.
And tap shoes aren’t.
Let’s just say that Mom and Dad could keep track of everywhere she went.
And everything she did.
As could the rest of the congregation.
Yep. Creative solutions.
Sometimes more creative than solution.
But definitely memorable.