Home Wreck

 

I really wanted to take Shop class.

Working with power tools. Smelling the aroma of freshly-sawn wood as you constructed your first-ever end table.

Making pottery and jewelry.

A handi-girl's dream.

But in 1970 (yes that's really when I started high school) at Erle Rivers High in Milk River, Alberta girls weren't allowed to take Shop class.

I know. Because I asked.

Moving on . . .

I, and the rest of the girls, took Home Economics. Home Ec., for short.

Or Home Wreck, as it was not-so-affectionately titled.

So we were 'Home-Wreckers'.

The place where we 'learned' to sew.

Cook.

Clean.

And generally find our way around running a home.

Once I got past not being able to take Shop, I really had fun.

I sewed a potholder. An apron.

And a little purple linen dress with the sleeves in backwards.

Sigh.

I baked cookies. Made Chicken-a-la-King served in little toast cups.

And Gourmet Hot Dogs.

I learned the proper way to scour pots (and the sink).

Scrub a floor.

And generally make my house squeaky clean.

Sew straight. Cook carefully. And scrub hard.

I did pass. With unremarkable marks.

And, surprisingly, I actually used some of the things I learned.

And still do today.

There is a codicil:

Now my brother . . .

Yes, they allowed boys to take Home Ec. 

For one glorious week sometime during the year.

And yes, I know it wasn't fair . . .

My brother remembers Home Wreck differently. (See here!)

He remembers cooking.

Something he excels at today.

And hunting for mice with frying pans and spatulas.

Boys make everything more fun.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

My beloved friend Donna Tagliaferri of My Life From the Bleachers is expecting twin grandsons in the near future.

Choosing names has become a priority.

Donna has happily supplied several. (Romulus and Remus being her most recent contributions.)

None has been considered.

Donna, Husby feels your pain . . .

We have a tradition in our family.

I know what you’re going to say . . .

Another tradition?!

Hear me out . . .

When we were expecting our babies, and fighting arguing over considering possible names, my ever-helpful Husby gave me a list from which to choose.

My Husby has doctorates in History and Anthropology. Did I mention that?

It’s significant.

Moving on . . .

The list was seven pages long.

And included such classics as: Trophimus. Trogillium. Vafthrusdinal. Gundohar and Gundobad (If we should ever be blessed with twins.)

I see your face.

Mine sported a similar expression.

And I named our babies. Mark. Erik. Duff. Caitlin. Tiana. Tristan.

Now, I'm sure you’re wondering about the aforementioned tradition.

That comes here . . .

Because I was rude ignorant smart enough to ignore his helpful advice, my uber-determined Husby started in on the next generation.

With one significant change.

Our children weren’t given a choice.

Nope. They were given a name.

One name per grandchild.

Oh, they chose their own names, too. The names that would appear on birth certificates and numerous and sundry other legal places throughout the child’s life.

But each of them has a Grandpa Name (hereinafter known as GN) as well.

Unofficial, but just as important.

Let me enlighten you. These are the names as they now stand:

Megan Sarah. GN: Cruchenperk

Kyra Danielle. GN: Ataxerxes

Odin Erik. GN: Dashley-Odensis

Thorin James. GN: Ragnowinthe

Erini Tiana. GN: Salmanezer

Jarom Elliott. GN: Abindaraz

Bronwyn Bell. GN: Pintiquinestra

Linnea Viktoria. GN: Adrevalde

Hazel Jane. GN: Bardowick

Willow Victoria. GN: Cantabrie

Leah Brooke Rachelle. GN: Ettelwulf

Aksel Grant. GN: Burthred

William Duff. GN: Hieronymus

Emma Charlotte. GN: Boadicea

Elizabeth Rose. GN: Clytemnestra

Quincy Rue. GN: Mehitabel

Nora Isabel. GN: Goleuddydd

And are those kids proud of their Grandpa Names?

A resounding: Yes!

But still their parents, in true 'parent' fashion use the names they chose.

So there’s the usual (and well-remembered) angst. The ‘Why don’t they use my good names?’ question.

Maybe you can answer that . . .

The Breaking Name

Ever wonder how names are chosen for the average working stock (horses) on a Southern Alberta ranch?

I know it's kept me up a night or two . . .

Berg Family

In Southern Alberta, between the communities of Millicent and Duchess nestled the Berg family ranch. There, in the fertile, wide open acres, the family raised crops and cattle and horses.

And eight strapping sons and one daughter, my mom.

The family usually ran about 150 head of brood mares which were left to roam the open spaces with their colts. Each fall, the horses were rounded up, the colts weaned and the mares released. Those colts were kept till spring, then they, too, were ‘turned out’ and left to roam until they were three years old.

Then, the fun started.

The three-year-olds were brought in, carefully inspected for soundness of feet and legs, temperament and spirit.

And then broken to ride.

And now we get to my story . . .

A deep chestnut coloured horse appeared in one of the spring roundups. He wasn’t tall, but was chunky and muscular and though his looks weren’t spectacular, he demanded attention by running alongside or ahead of the herd, revealing rare character in his movements as he reached full flight.

When the cowboys were making their first inspection, this three-year-old was noticed and selected as one of the first to be broken.

Picture it: A noose snakes out and snares the young horse around the front legs, sweeping him off his feet. The instant he hits the ground, a cowboy pounces on his neck, twists his head back and clamps strong, white teeth into the horse’s ear, distracting him. A halter is installed by another cowboy and a gunny sack blind fitted snugly over his eyes. Then the rope is removed and the horse springs to his feet. Two men hold the halter shank as the saddle is buckled on. The bronc buster (hereinafter known as BB) mounts.

Now in this young horse’s case, one of the cowboys advised BB to get ready for a tough ride, but BB just laughed. “This little runt ain’t big enough to give me a bad ride.” With that, he set himself into the saddle, took the halter shank in one hand and gave the signal to turn the horse loose.

In the moment the blind was yanked off, the horse stood, startled, and blinked once.

Then he exploded in every direction. So complete was his frenzy to remove his unwanted load that even the muscles in his eyeballs worked! No one could have stood that punishment for long. BB’s long legs gradually lost their grip. Then space showed between he and the saddle. Then, in two or three more bucks, BB was airborne.

When he hit the ground, the cowboy who had warned him laughed and said, quietly, “Yeah. I guess he is ‘Big Enough’.

Ever wondered how ranch horses get their names?

Now you know.

Uncle Roy when he was just 'Roy'

Obliviously Obvious

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

A little background here . . .

Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

(Maybe we can take a little lesson from this vis-a-vis the conflicts in today's world. Just sayin'.)

Back to my story . . .

Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

The two had set up housekeeping and were currently deciding whose turn it was to go for groceries.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Terms of EnDEARment

He is a Honey Bunny!

I admit it.

I call my Husby names.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby was serving on a church committee with several other men.

One of which worked as a police detective in his real life.

Tough guy to the world.

Sweet and kind underneath.

It was evening. After supper but not yet bed time.

The phone rang.

I answered.

What followed was, to me, a fairly mundane conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Diane. Is Grant there?” I recognized the voice of our friend, the police detective.

“He is! Would you like to talk to him?”

“Please.”

“Just a moment!” I turned and hollered - okay, yes, I do that - “Honey Bunny!”

Grant answered from somewhere in the bowels of the house.

“You're wanted on the phone!”

He appeared and took it from me. “Hello?”

There was a pause. Then, “Are you a Honey Bunny?”

I saw my Husby's face turn slightly pink.

Here was his good friend, the policeman.

Tough guy extraordinaire.

What should he say?

He looked at me, rolled his eyes and grinned. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

His friend laughed. “Good,” he said. “So am I.”

Even the most unlikely . . .