Snow

George and Me.
One of us was smart . . . and the other has her hair in curlers.

I never was a particularly timid child.

In fact, if one were searching for words to describe me, 'timid' probably wouldn't have even been considered.

Boisterous. Cheerful. Loud. Noisy.

These all would have been correct.

But timid?

No.

And yet, there were certain times when 'timid', even fearful could have been used with complete accuracy.

Let me explain.

We had a TV.

It was the fifties.

We also had one channel.

Which came on the air at 10:00 in the morning.

And left the air at midnight.

I often watched as 'Oh, Canada' played in the morning.

Because I had already been watching the Indian Head test pattern for half an hour, waiting for Friendly Giant.

I never got to hear the playing of 'God Save the Queen' at midnight.

Because, let's face it, I was four.

By that point in time, I had been in slumberland for hours.

Moving on . . .

When the TV station was not airing, we had 'snow'.

And not the good kind.

White, yes, but that is where all similarity ended.

It was static-y.

And, when your brother turned the volume up loud . . .

Scary.

My brother discovered this early.

And used it often.

If he was playing in the living room and didn't want any Diane-shaped company, he would turn on the TV, confirm quickly that there really was nothing on, and turn up the volume.

Whereupon (good word) I would run, shrieking, from the room.

Heh. Heh. Heh.

Mom couldn't get after him because he hadn't said or done anything to me, personally.

Simple.

Genius.

Fool-proof.

And the room was cleared for another half-hour of uninterrupted fun.

Until Diane forgot everything that had just happened and ventured, again, into the front room.

TV. Volume. Repeat.

So you see where the word 'timid' comes in.

Unfortunately, the word 'brainiac' never applied.

Lessons Learned . . . Elsewhere

Mark, right and Erik, with Grampa Tolley in the background

To complete his master's degree, my husband had moved our (then) little family to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

Also know as Winter-peg or Windy-peg.

Either one is apt.

And I found myself, for the first time, living in a large city.

There was the usual adjustment period.

Okay, I'm lying, there was no adjustment period.

I never did adjust.

For eight months, my (then) two sons and I hardly left the apartment, unless accompanied by my husband.

Funny how grocery shopping can start looking like a 'date'.

I was homesick for my prairies and open spaces.

I did get a lot of reading and sewing and cleaning done.

And my boys discovered the wonder of 'cable TV'.

I soon learned just how much they watched.

Grant had taken us for a drive. He had an errand to run and his family was suffering from 'cabin-fever'.

A common enough ailment in Canada in the winter.

You can look it up . . .

He was making a quick dash into the mall.

Now those of you who know my husband know that a quick dash anywhere . . . isn't.

Quick, I mean.

The boys and I were sitting in the fire lane in front of the Zellers store long enough to celebrate birthdays.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture.

It was quite a while.

Erik was buckled into his car seat directly behind me, happily blowing bubbles and Mark, his older brother by eighteen months was opposite him, with the clearest view of the storefront.

I was reading.

Again.

Blush.

Mark was chanting something, just loud enough to be heard.

It took a couple of repetitions before I noticed.

I put down my book.

"Mark, what are you saying?"

He repeated it.

"What?" Sometimes, deciphering almost-three-year-old speech takes a Master's degree.

And where was the one person in our family with such a degree???!

"Say it once more."

"Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S."

What on earth was he talking about?

I looked where he was looking.

The front of the Zellers store.

Suddenly, it hit me.

He was reading the letters over the front doors.

Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S.

Well, almost.

It made perfect sense!

If you were two.

What a clever boy!

Genius.

And I had raised him.

Okay, for a very few seconds, I did a bit of back patting.

Very few.

Then reality set in.

The only reason he knew all of those letters was because of his copious amounts of time spent watching Sesame Street.

On a good day, he could catch the program twice!

Funny that my son's showing me how advanced he was, showed me, at the same time, what a neglectful parent I had been.

I'd like to say that things changed.

And they did.

Afterwards, when Sesame Street came on, I was watching with him.

Before long, we were nearly on the same reading level.

A few more months in Winnipeg and I might have caught up to him!

First Date

The cute one. Bottom row. Second from the right. 

First dates.

Relationship killer.

Or kindler?

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

He was mine.

We decided to go on a date.

Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

I went along, sitting right behind the driver.

Huh. He was even cute from that angle.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

Sigh.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family.

And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Go figure.

Moving on . . .

I watched.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day, but I am getting ahead of myself . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

And suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Perfect.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.

Really perfect.

He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up.

It moved.

Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure.

Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church. I had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant's heart fell into his shoes.

Really.

It's still there today.

Moving on . . .

Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Sigh.

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.

I'm Convinced . . . Buy!

Admit it, you want the 20 mule teams, too!

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.

We had one TV channel.

And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.

Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.

And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.

He read stories and played music.

Just for me.

Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.

And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)

Each memorable by itself.

And each enhanced by the ads woven skillfully between and throughout.

I loved the ads.

The wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.

Or whiter teeth.

Or better coffee.

We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and answered, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”

How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

Inevitably followed by, “Mom, I want to brush my teeth!”

Or, “J-E-L-L-O!” Which was the immediate precursor to snack time.

I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”

That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.

We simply couldn't do without it.

Mom had to buy it.

Or make it. Or do it.

The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens.

Mmmmm. Mom could do that.

The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware.

Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.

But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.

“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”

Moms are weird.

The Marlboro ads convinced me that I wasn't a real man if I didn't sm . . . okay, so I know I could never be a real man, but . . . never mind.

Mom was off the hook there.

She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”

She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.

I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.

I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.

She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the tiny little driver and team.

I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' from playtex or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from the same company.

And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.

Every time.

I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.

Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.

Mom probably can.

Moving on . . .

We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.

I also wanted the bowls they ate from.

Because.

She balked at that.

She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.

Oh, occasion, she tried to substitue some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.

I had seen the ads.

I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat.

'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, jiffypop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'

Okay, I have to admit it.

Ads worked for me.

It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.

Mom never would have survived.

S-S-S-S

Me Poppa and me

Though we lived at the back of beyond, the modern world did, at times, actually intrude.
Certainly, it was there in the tools we used and, increasingly, in our entertainment.
Sometimes, miraculously, in both at the same time.
It was that way when we got our first ever television.
I remember it well. A large unit which stood on its own legs and emitted a magical black and white picture. Mom would turn it on in the morning and I would sit and watch.
The Indian Test Pattern.
For hours.
That picture amazed me. It never occurred to me that it was unchanging. It was there. I stared at it.
Okay, I was really waiting for ‘The Friendly Giant’ to come on.
But Mom would craftily switch on the set long before the program aired and I was caught. Snared by the light that flickered from the magical box. Sort of like a deer in the headlights, except that I was a dear in the . . . never mind.
The first ever electronic baby-sitter.
What genius!
As time went by, we discovered that, with an enormous antennae perched at the very top of the tall tower on the hill which rose to the north of us, we could miraculously get . . . two channels. The variety was endless. The choices unlimited.
Remember, we were at the back of beyond!
Sundays were the best.
On Sunday evening, after dinner, there was a whole line up of goodies. First was Walt Disney Show, followed by Ed Sullivan, and finally, if I had been really good, Bonanza!
Surprisingly, I watched it often. It was amazing how a week’s worth of mischief could be erased by the advent of Sunday evening.
Peace filled the land, and flickering light filled our living room. We were glued to the set, as adventure after adventure unrolled before us.
But at some time during the week – I never really knew which day, after all, I was only four – was the best program of all. The one I waited breathlessly for. The show with the best and biggest of heroes. And the nicest horses.
Gunsmoke.
I identified with Sheriff Dillon.
But I loved Chester, with his limp. I just knew that, when I got older, I would marry Chester. Then I could be on TV with Sherriff Dillon every week.
Okay, my knowledge was sadly lacking, but the spirit was there!
There was only one hitch to my love of this program.
My pronunciation.
I couldn’t say it.
If Mom made the mistake of telling me a wee bit too early in the day that it was a Gunsmoke night, I would walk around all day chanting, “Gunmoke! Gunmoke!”
And I do mean all day.
It probably got a little irritating.
My Mom would try her ‘Mommy’ best to help me. She would kneel in front of me and say, and I quote, “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
I would stare at her and move my mouth with hers.
She would repeat. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
She would smile at me encouragingly. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
Expectant silence.
I would open my mouth.
Mom would nod.
“SSSgunmoke! SSSgunmoke! Gunmoke! Gunmoke!” It sounded like a fading echo.
I never really noticed her disappointment.
Or irritation.
I was too happily watching my hero of heroes. He who rode the best horses.
Sheriff Dillon.
On Gunmoke.