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.

Nicknames

Bare Blue Stringam

Both of my parents served in the 4-H calf club in our community.

This duty included attendance at the club's annual summer retreat.

I know you are wondering what this has to do with nicknames, but wait for it . . .

Because both of my parents were going on the trip, all of their children had to come along.

Because.

My brother, Blair, was three.

A happy, friendly little boy.

Who didn't always spit out his words clearly.

One young man, a member of the club, asked the smiling little towhead his name.

"Blair Lewis Stringam."

"What?"

"Blair Lewis Stringam."

Admittedly, it came out sounding something like 'Blairloostringam'.

But I digress . . .

"Bare Blue Stringam?"

"No! Blair Lewis Stringam."

"Okay. Bare Blue Stringam."

And just like that, he had a nickname.

It's that easy.

My Grampa, George Stringam had a younger brother who couldn't pronounce Grampa's name clearly.

It came out "Dard."

Thus, his nickname. Dard.

Which my brother, George, inherited the moment he was born.

My daughter, Tiana, was learning to spell her name.

She wrote the letters 'T', 'I' and 'N' properly. But her 'A's' had the lines on the wrong sides, thus disguising them as 'B's'.

Her second oldest brother, Erik was looking at a sheet of paper she had been practicing on.

"Who's Tibnb?" he asked.

A name we call her to this day.

I, myself have been through several incarnations of my name as told here.

What are the nicknames in your life?

I'd love to hear them!

My Little Sister by Enes Berg Stringam

Mom, third from left, and five of her eight brothers.
Her 'baby sister' Roy, alias Rosie, is far left.

Another selection from my Mom's journals.
This was my Mom's favorite story.

Being the only sister near the middle in a family of eight brothers, I found myself competing with the boys and growing up as a 'Tom Boy'.

I was athletic and could run as fast, jump as high and throw as far as my brothers.

I milked cows, drove and rode horses as well as the boys.

As the fourth in the family, I often considered myself the fourth brother.

In spite of this, I yearned for a sister, sharing my mother's yearning for another daughter.

By the time I was five, I had three new, small brothers but still no sister.

My prayers unanswered, I seemed destined to be alone in a mob of boys.

My little brothers seemed more cooperative and trusting than my older brothers; maybe little brothers could substitute as sisters? I decided to try to make one my little brothers into a little sister. Perhaps if I dressed them up in girls' clothes, they would pass as sisters. I rummaged through Mama's trunk and found an old dress and a bonnet with lace trimming.

Armed with these frillies, I looked about for a likely prospect.

Roy, the fifth brother and three years my junior, seemed the best choice. I approached him where he was playing in the yard.

"Roy, come and see what I have here."

He came willingly after I promised him a cookie.

We went upstairs where I slipped him into the dress, tied the belt and put on the lace bonnet, all the time crooning how nice he looked - so very nice. I gave the dress a tug to cover grubby clothes and ankle-height shoes.

I called my new little sister Rosie, my favorite name at the time.

For a while we played games that I supposed girls would play. We played with dolls and improvised a tea party including the promised cookie.

We were having such a good time, just us girls.

It was wonderful having a beautiful little sister.

Finally, I thought and I and my little sister should go for a walk to see the cats and the farm animals which would be frolicking about outside.

I took Rosie by the hand and for several blissful minutes, I led her around the yard, describing all the interesting features of our farmyard and garden.

Luckily, we did not encounter any brothers with their taunting giggles and snorts.

Suddenly a car came into the yard.

 The spell was broken. Rosie, reverting to Roy, leapt into the air and shot like a rocket toward the house.

As the passengers poured out of the car, they were surprised to see what looked like a human tornado, shedding clothes as it sped to the nearest hideaway.

Never Anger the Ranching God!

Blair. Getting a haircut. And shave.
By Mom, the barber.

The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a quarter of a mile from the ranch buildings.

Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.

But a marathon in length when you were pushing sick, weary stock.

Dad came up with plan 'B'.

Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.

Genius.

In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent (good word) to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition.

Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.

They were heavy-duty. Solid.

And could be set up at a moment's notice.

The answer to all of our prayers.

Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.

Moving on . . .

We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.

I can't tell you how easy it was.

Okay, I probably could, but . . .

Ahem.

All was going well.

Never say that when ranching.

Because Alfred, the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.

And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.

On this particular day, he sent Nature.

Capital 'N'.

Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.

I witnessed (and lived through) the great Edmonton Tornado of 1987.

But that is another story.

Today's storm was a bit different.

There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.

Or rain.

There was only lightning.

And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.

I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.

My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.

We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.

The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.

Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!

There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.

It exploded.

No, really.

It was there one moment.

Then gone the next.

A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been.

It was rather hard to ignore.

We all froze in our various positions.

Dad and I outside the corral.

Blair stuck in the middle.

With several head of cattle.

Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.

“Freeze!” Dad barked.

Blair did.

The cattle weren't as obedient.

Now that I think about it, cattle never are.

Obedient, I mean.

But I digress . . .

Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?

They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.

“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”

Sometimes I hate it when people are right.

Again, the greenish colour.

Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!

Again the exploding.

But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral.

That green lightning magnet.

Completely helpless.

I know I did do some praying then.

That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one.

And then the storm moved away from us.

We started breathing again.

Moving.

Blair lost no time in sprinting across the corral and vaulting the fence.

Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.

For several minutes, we just stood there.

Outside the corrals.

Thankful to be alive and safe.

It was sometime before Dad could convince us to get back to work.

Not an unusual challenge.

But this time we had a good excuse.

Irrigation 101 - An Introductory Course

Irrigation. So simple, a child could do it.

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

I'll give you a hint.

It wasn't me.

After that, George never allowed me to come with him to move pipe.

Something about me being worse than useless.

Go figure.

Little Brother

My Blair

Little Brother

The words conjure up so many pictures . . .

A little boy, playing with his father's boots.

Riding King Prancer.

Sliding on his snow saucer.

Getting scraped off his horse.

Getting mad.

Singing on the tractor.

Doing chores.

Becoming my 'twin'.

The stories and memories are endless.

Let me see if I can pick out a few . . .

My sister, Chris and I were riding. And little Blair had come along for the first time.

I should explain, here, that the cliffs surrounding our ranch were heavily seamed, with giant crevasses (is that a word?) leading from the prairie up top to the river's edge. These openings were so steep and sandy that fencing just wasn't possible. Inevitably, the fence that ran along the top of the cliff only made a token gesture of following the radically sloping surfaces to the very bottom of each crevasse (that word, again).

Bottom line? If one wanted to use a crevasse to travel from the top to the river, one had to duck at the appropriate moment.

Chris and I did.

Blair didn't.

There was a gasp. Then the sound of something small hitting the ground. Then a 'whoof!"

We stopped and looked.

Blair was sitting on the ground directly behind his pony, Shammy, staring up at her in surprise.

She had stopped and was looking down at him, equally surprised.

Neither was hurt, more particularly Blair, but we sure thought it was funny.

I guess you had to be there . . .

Blair and I were painting a granary. I was up on the ladder and Blair was painting lower down, his feet happily planted on good old 'terra firma'.

For some reason, we had a long two-by-four leaning up against the granary beside me.

I can't remember what we had been using it for, but, whatever it was, we no longer needed it.

I told Blair I was going to push it down. He nodded and moved to one side.

I pushed the plank.

It followed Blair.

I screamed out at him to run.

He did, darting around the granary and out of my sight.

Unerringly, the plank tilted sideways and followed the curve of the little building.

And Blair.

Slowly, I watched it fall.

It tilted further. Further.

And then hit something.

My brother.

I thought I had killed him. I started down the ladder.

Then he came around the granary, rubbing his head and glaring at me.

"You did that on purpose!"

I really hadn't, but I should have.

Even the Three Stooges couldn't have done it better.

Blair and I were having an argument. Not a usual thing for us.

And at the top of the stairs.

Location is everything.

I don't even remember what the argument was about, only that, for my final statement, I gave him a shove.

And sent him down several steps.

From which he quickly recovered and shot back up the stairs towards me.

I stared at him. When Blair got really, really angry, the veins stood out on the sides of his neck. Huh. I'd never noticed that before. Maybe because he'd never before gotten really, really angry.

I panicked and darted into the nearby bathroom, slamming the door and pulling out all three drawers.

You should know that the bathroom drawers were right next to the door and provided excellent barriers when one wanted to be left alone.

Usually, they worked.

Today, however, Blair was angry enough that he got a butter knife from the kitchen and began working at the drawers through the crack of the door.

Inch by inch, he worked the first drawer shut.

I let him get it closed.

Then, as he started work on the second, I pulled the first one open again.

"Oh, man!" He gave up.

One thing about Blair, he isn't stupid . . .

We were stacking hay. I was on the big stack, Blair was on the tractor, bringing me the stooks.

And singing.

Now a tractor is noisy. Really noisy.

One can't even hear oneself when in close proximity.

But, somehow, the noise of the tractor seems to . . . boost . . . any sounds the driver is making.

To someone standing a bit away, the sound of the engine comes faintly, almost drowned out by the singing of the driver.

At least that is what happened to me.

I was treated to Blair's version of nearly every popular song of the period.

It was totally entertaining.

I guess you have to look for the fun out here . . .

We were getting the cattle ready for our annual production sale.

Blair and I were manning the grooming chute.

One of the prospective buyers walked in with our Dad.

For a few minutes, the two of them stood watching us.

Finally, the buyer turned to Dad, "I didn't know you and Enes had a set of twins."

Blair and I were both white-blonde. With our hair cut in the exact same style (Mom only knew how to cut boy's hair, which was just fine with me . . .) and the same height and virtually the same skinny figure.

I had five more years and a couple of extra curves, but whose going to point that out?

"Ummm . . . twins?"

The man nodded at us.

Dad laughed. "I can see what you mean!"

Within a month, Blair had passed me by on his way up.

But for a little while, I had a twin.

Blair was late for Seminary.

"Diane! Could you please milk the cow?!" as he dashed past.

I stared after him.

"AGAIN?!"

"Sorry!" faintly from the opened window as the car went down the drive.

I did milk his cow.

It really wasn't that much of a problem.

In fact . . . don't tell him . . . but I enjoyed it.

And I wish we were back there so I could do it again.

Okay, I have to admit, my little brother isn't so little any more.

I guess 50 years, marriage, fatherhood and a Doctorate in Engineering will change a person.

But I still remember the little boy who loved to play with his Dad's shoes . . .

My George



Then



My big brother, George and I are two years and four days apart.

When I was born, he wasn't quite ready to have a younger sibling. But, eventually, he accepted me.

It only took fourteen years for us to become best friends.

In our early days, George and I mostly avoided one another. Whenever we tried to play together, we inevitably ended up fighting. Usually the fights were over who started the fights, but why quibble over details?

Fortunately, living on the ranch, there were numerous other opportunities for mischief than playing with siblings.

George had his things mechanical, I had horses.

It was a perfect world.

* * *

When I turned twelve, the magical world of 4-H opened up before me. Finally, I, too, could belong to that tantalizingly exclusive club that my older sister and brothers all enjoyed. I, too could choose a calf and raise it for a year. And go on tours. And calf-club meetings.

Life just didn't get any better.

Dad brought in a group of weanling calves for us to choose from. I instantly decided on the little red-and white-one. No, that little red-and-white one. There. The one next to the other little red-and-white one.

Okay, so they were all red-and-white.

I finally made my choice and my calf, along with my siblings' calves, was shut into a special pen.

For the first day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't stop looking at my calf. He was perfect! He was going to be a champion.

He was mine!

I watched as George hauled feed into the pen, both morning and evening.

This was exciting! This was fun!

He offered to let me carry the pail.
This was work!

And I think that was the last time, ever, that I fed my own calf.

If it weren't for steady, reliable George, all of my 4-H calves would have starved to death.

And, oddly enough, he never complained.

* * *

Fourteen and I was able to attend my first dance!

George drove us there.

I think I danced twice. (One was 'Hey Jude', the customary and interminable last song, which one would inevitably end up dancing with someone who smelled.)
After the dance, George and I stayed in the kitchen and talked until four am.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

After that, we spent hours every day, just talking. Movies, books, friends, dates, music. The topics were endless and interesting.

And fun.
We never seemed to run out of things to discuss.
Which of my girlfriends had a crush on him this week.

School. (Miss Mueller, my English teacher loved my brother, but hated me. Go figure . . .)

Dating. When I turned 16, this was a new and wondrous world for me. George guided me through some of the pitfalls and heartbreaks. Once, when my date abandoned me for another girl at a dance, George provided a ride home. And a shoulder.
He got me through.

* * *

In his twenties, George decided to travel down another road. In black leather, long hair and a beard. And on a Harley.


Still then

 He was still my beloved brother. Just a bit . . . scarier to look at.
Once when he was coming for a promised visit, my second son Erik, then six, waited up to greet him. When this long-haired man appeared, Erik took one look and fled down the stairs to his bed.
It was very shortly afterwards that George asked me to give him a haircut.
And not long after that when he decided that he needed to settle down.
For many years, he struggled with relationships and church attendance/standards. Then, just before he turned 50, he decided that he needed to make some serious changes.
Which he did.
And then he met Mikenzie.
She, too had experienced hardships in her life. But, like George, she was ready for something . . . eternal.
I was a witness as the two of them, dressed in white, knelt at the altar and gave their vows to each other. And to God.
I couldn't help but think of my former long-haired, black-leather-clad brother as he took his new wife into his arms and kissed her.
And accepted her daughter as his own.
Forever.
Today, as always, George is busy, organized, and frightfully clean.
But perhaps for the first time in his life, he is happy.

And that makes me happy.

Now, with Mikenzie

Of Brothers and Horses

My elder siblings.
Before they were elder.

I was witnessing a miracle.
My brother, George, was on a horse.
Voluntarily.
The professed hater of horses was astride one.
I was so proud of him.
And excited.
A whole new world was opening up for me. I could picture long rides together, exploring the ranch, picnics in our saddlebags.
Okay, so neither of us actually had saddlebags, but we did know how to tie a bread bag of food behind our saddles.
That was almost as good.
I have to admit that we never had quite acquired the knack of packing said food so that it didn’t mix together.
Once we had chocolate cake and cheese, that . . . but that is (shudder) another story.
Moving on . . .
George was riding.
He was on his little pony, Star, doing circuits of the barnyard.
A slow start, but a start nonetheless.
I was on my way to the corral for my horse, Pinto. This amazing event simply had to be shared. I couldn’t pass up such an incredible opportunity.
Even as I approached the corral, however, I could see that destiny was working against us.
Destiny in the form of Ken, one of the hired men.
He was standing, motionless, next to the gate of said corral. In his posture I could detect . . . malevolence? Cunning? Creepy-ness?
No, just stupidity.
He reached out and . . . opened the gate.
Now the horses imprisoned there had been standing around for hours, heads hanging, trying their horsey best to look as unenergetic as possible. The hope being that, through their posture alone, they could discourage any potential slave drivers from inflicting them with our frivolous plans for . . . work.
Or anything work-y.
Dynamite couldn’t have moved them.
Only one thing could send the electric shock that would awaken them from their comatose state.
The promise of freedom.
Through that open gate, they could glimpse . . . far away-edness. And they made a straight line for it.
Right through my brother, George.
He was calm. He didn’t panic.
He had me for that.
I watched in horror as his little horse was scooped up by the rest and whisked off towards . . . wherever they were going.
With horses, you never know.
They don’t even know.
The entire group galloped as one, down the hill, along the river.
My brother’s blue coat was clearly visible in the melee as he clung desperately to the smallest horse.
Now one can only imagine the deadly possibilities.
The churning hoofs, flint hard and razor sharp.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
But they still could cause some rather serious damage.
Even at four I knew that.

I spun around and headed for the house screaming at the top of my lungs, “My brother! My brother!”
Not really original, I’ll admit, but it achieved the desired effect.

My Mom came on the run, white faced and breathless.

I pointed at the cloud of dust rapidly moving towards the nearest far-away place and jumped around a bit. The two of us stared at it.
And at the little cloud that was rapidly losing ground against the larger horses.

Star was falling behind.
It was then that we saw pony and blue jacket part company.
Sensing a safer moment, still not too far from the ranch buildings, George had decided to cut his losses, discard dignity, and bail off.
As his tiny figure began the long trek home, the two of us raced to meet him.
It was a joyous reunion.
Not.
George was bruised, both physically and spiritually.

And mad.

And no one can get mad like George.
Picture Dad.
But smaller and more concentrated.
Fortunately, he wasn’t mad at us.
Just at Ken.
And every horse in the world.
A fact that remains to this day.