Life on the Ranch

The new barn

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated half way between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of this past summer. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

And in my stories.

Stay with me and let me take you there . . .

Hands on Spirituality

We were listening!

Hands on Spiritual training.

Really.

On Sundays our family regularly attended church.

For three hours.

It was divided into three sections.

Sacrament meeting, the most sacred.

Sunday School.

The 'classroom' portion.

And Relief Society.

The Women class.

The men also had their class, but who paid attention?

Moving on . . .

The class portions of our meetings were usually quite lively.

Sleep was impossible.

But the Sacrament portion, the most sacred meeting, featured speakers taken from the congregation.

Some were fantastic.

Some . . . weren't.

On those occasions, sleep was not only possible, but inevitable.

Distraction was needed.

Oh , nothing that would detract from the sacred spirit or nature of the meeting. Just something that would keep the hands busy, while freeing the mind to concentrate on the speaker.

At least that was the theory.

Some kids looked at picture books featuring the Saviour.

Some had picture books featuring other things, like animals.

Some had dry cereal fed to them.

One cheerio at a time.

Some played quietly with toys.

The operative word there, was 'quietly'.

My brother and I drew.

Pictures.

We took turns.

I would draw something silly.

He would reciprocate.

We kept our giggles to a minimum. Mom had been known to snatch and stash our drawing equipment without warning.

But as long as we were quiet, she was satisfied that we were soaking in what needed to be soaked.

So to speak.

It got us through many a dry meeting.

And I think we still learned a few things . . .

Forward several years.

To my own children.

Who entertained themselves hugely with pencil and paper.

In Sacrament meeting.

They were a bit more creative than my brother and I had been . . .

Caitlin drew fantasy pictures of dragons and unicorns.

Tiana drew episodes of Intiana Jones, a tiny stick figure with a hat and whip.

And Erik reciprocated with installments of Superik.

Supposedly called sup-ERIK, but which his sister-in-law titled SUPER-ik.

I will admit, here, that the stories they created were not as spiritually uplifting as what was being said at the pulpit.

But often more entertaining.

What did they get from those meetings?

Well . . . they still attend.

With pad and pencil in one hand and their child's hand in the other.

But they are attending.

Spiritual training and umm . . . tradition, all in one package.

It's a good thing.

Superik to the rescue!

Memories of My Home Town

My home town!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.

Crime hadn't been invented yet.

It was, literally, an entirely different world.

Our doors were never, ever locked.

Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each-others' yards and homes and refrigerators.

Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning.

She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.

Canned soup was something new and wonderful.

At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.

Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or, if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.

The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.

At ten cents each.

Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the centre of the store.

Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar, because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hofer's desk was full of them.

We had our own cobbler, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion greats hunks of leather into real shoes.

A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera.

That magically developed its own pictures while you waited.

Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.

With five cents left over.

Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.

But happy.

The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row.

Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.

All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.

Most of it was made on this continent.

Our clothes were mostly cotton.

Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.

Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.

And absolutely everyone attended church.

Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family, but any and all extended family members. Somehow, the entire mob was shoe-horned into any available space.

At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the centre of the intersection of Main and First streets.

The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season.

The arrival of Santa, a much anticipated event.

And, once again, everyone went to church.

Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.

We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.

One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.

Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').

There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.

In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in cubs, scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.

Mom always made treats.

Yummy ones.

We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.

And all of them were terrific cooks.

Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .

Sports events were exactly that.

Events.

Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.

Basketball was huge.

The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.

Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks, or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.

The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.

'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.

The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.

Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.

And everyone knew everyone else.

Their address, phone number, family members.

Even pets.

It was a wonderful way to grow up.

Like an enormous, caring family.

I loved growing up in Milk River.

It was a perfect life.

And it's largely vanished now.

Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.

Friendly neighbourhoods.

Caring neighbours.

But the absolute freedom of those days is gone.

Replaced by something . . . darker.

More suspicious.

It's a great pity.

What are your memories of growing up?

Grant vs THE BLOB



Grant, age 3.  Jelly Fish rescuer.  And cutie.

 It looked like a blob.
It was a blob.
A blob of jelly-like substance, trailing long streamers and lying inert on the dark, sandy shore.
We stared at it. Walked around it. One of my brothers touched it with a tentative toe.
Yep. Blob.
The rest of my family soon lost interest and walked away. I squatted down and continued to study the strange . . . thing.
We were children of the prairies and knew, intimately, the frogs, snakes, minnows and other creatures that inhabited our little river. But here, facing the great and awesome expanse labeled 'ocean', we were . . . out of our depth (pun intended) . . . so to speak.
And this? This was something new. Something unheard of. Something mysterious.
I think it was a jelly fish, but, somehow, admitting that takes away the magic.
I continued to study it.
It didn't move. Probably a good thing, considering that it was roughly the size of a chicken. And we all know my apprehensions concerning the members of that 'feathery' set.
I narrowed my eyes. Something about the creature was wrong.
Oh, I might be from the prairies, but, believe me, I know when something is out of place. And that jelly fish was definitely out of place.
Somehow, in my mind, I could picture it . . . floating happily.
That's it! Floating!
I was a genius!
All I needed to do was to somehow get this creature back into the water where it belonged.
I walked around it again. Maybe I could pick it up . . .
I reached out. Then stopped and looked at my hands. Then back at it.
No. That didn't seem right.
Another circuit.
I had it!
I would find something to lift it as unobtrusively (and yes, that is a word) as possible and send it home.
I ran up and down the beach, and finally spotted a worthy tool for the job at hand. A long plank, weathered and beaten by the waves.
I drug it across the sand and carefully maneuvered one end of it underneath my . . . erm . . . blob.
Gently, I slid it further and further, careful not to jar or disturb my stranded friend.
Finally, I had pushed it completely underneath.
I was ready.
Carefully, I lifted the plank.
With . . . most . . . of the jelly fish aboard.
In horror, I watched the strange creature disintegrate.
I mean, I've heard of going to pieces, but this thing . . . really did.
Imagine trying to lift a blob of jello with a board.
Soft jello, like my Mom makes. Not the concrete kind that they serve in restaurants.
You get the picture.
This was worse.
It left it's legs and arms and a good portion of the rest of it on the sand.
Umm . . . Ick.
Panicked, I swung my board and threw the portion I had managed to collect into the water.
The rest, I abandoned.
What would be the point?
I'm pretty sure both halves were dead.
Or at least very, very ill.
Who is it that says that no good deed goes unpunished?
They were right.

Under 'Dress'ed

And yes, that's me. Far right. Second row. Dressed in my best.

A Dress?!
Mom wanted me to wear a dress? To school?
I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

Mom and Dad were planning a trip. A long trip.
I was five. Anything more than an hour was a long trip.
I was being farmed out at my cousin Jody's place for the duration.
That was exciting.
During that time, my grade one class was to have its first, ever school pictures taken.
Even more exciting.
Then, the bad news. Mom expected me to dress up for this photo op. And I do mean 'dress'.
My life was over.
She dropped me and my little suitcase off at Uncle Jay and Aunt Jesse's and waved happily as she drove out of the yard.
A little too happily.
Sigh.
Jody grabbed my hand and dragged me to her room. From then until bedtime, we were a blur of activity.
In the morning, as per instructions, I dragged out the hated dress and laid it on the bed.
We regarded each other.
Then I glanced down at the small bag where I had stuffed my play clothes the night before. My little 'snap' shirt and jeans. So much more comfortable.
And really not that dirty.
And, best of all, my Mom would never know.
I smiled. My decision was made.
Have I mentioned that a great many of my decisions really weren't . . . thought through? And that, somehow, Mom always found out?
She was magic.
I wadded up my dress and shoved it back into my suitcase. Then I happily pulled on my shirt and jeans and snapped them up.
I was ready.
Aunt Jesse smiled at us when we presented ourselves for breakfast. Jody in her pretty little dress. And me.
"Didn't your Mom send any clothes for picture day?"
I shook my head and mutely indicated what I was wearing.
Aunt Jesse frowned at me doubtfully, then finally shrugged and put another pancake on my plate.
Soon we were on the bus and all thought of itchy, restricting dresses was driven from my mind.
Grade One, with Miss Wornoski, was always wonderful, but this day was especially exciting as we anticipated our first, ever, class photos.
Okay, I know it sounds mundane. But we were five.
Everything's exciting when you're five . . .
The time came. Miss Wornoski lined us up for the parade down the hall to the 'photo' room. She arranged us neatly on chairs. The photographer told us to smile. The flash went.
Then, one by one, each of us sat in the lone chair to one side, to have our individual pictures taken. It was more excitement than my five year old self could handle.
And then, it was over. Our little faces had been captured. Immortalized for all time.
Along with what we had chosen to wear.
Some weeks later, our teacher handed out our pictures. I pulled mine out and stared at it. Look! It's me! And there we all were! My whole class.
Pictures were definitely things of beauty!
I tossed it to my Mom as I climbed into the car. "Pictures, Mom!"
She set it aside till we reached home.
By then I had forgotten all about it.
Later, my Mom called me into the kitchen.
She was holding my small, brown envelope in one hand, and my pictures in the other.
"Diane, what happened here?"
I glanced down at the pictures and smiled. "Pictures, Mom." Okay, so quick, I wasn't.
"Yes, but what happened to the dress I sent for you to wear?"
I froze. My mind shuttling around frantically for an answer to her question. "Ummm . . ."
"Did you wear your play clothes to school on picture day?"
"Well . . ."
"Diane, I told you to wear your pretty dress!"
I stared at her, my eyes narrowed. Aunt Jesse told you, didn't she?!
Mom waved the picture. "Look at all of your friends in their nice clothes."
I glanced down. Then up at her again.
"Didn't you want to look nice?"
But I did look nice! My favorite shirt. My favorite jeans. I frowned.
What was the problem?
Mom sighed. "Never mind."
I smiled and went off happily to play.

It's over 50 years since that day. A couple of weeks ago, my husband took me to see Tosca, performed by the Metropolitan Opera.
It was an exciting evening. One we had been anticipating for a very long time.
Grant was standing at the door, dressed in his finest. He looked at me. "Ready to go?"
I nodded.
He looked down. "Maybe you will want to wear something other than jeans and a shirt?"
Oh. Right.
Some things never change . . .

My Summer of '64

The summer I turned nine was supposed to be the most exciting of my life. And it was.
For all of the wrong reasons.

First, the bridge.
Just a few yards down the road from our ranch gates, across the south fork of the Milk River, stood an aged iron bridge, painted black.

It had great metal arches over it and many intricate bends and joints that invited exploration and/or concealment. On a hot summer afternoon, one could climb under the bridge, swing on the rope which dangled temptingly and drop down into the cool water below.

We kids on the ranch thought it was our playground.

Very early in the spring of 1964, great machines and earth-movers began to assemble next to our beloved bridge.

And a large crew of men accompanied them.

For days, we watched from what dad deemed a 'safe distance'. (Actually, to him, a safe distance was the top of the machinery hill, but who could see anything from there? And who was listening?)

Of course, if I'd realized then that this crew was actually there to replace our great and marvelous playground, I probably wouldn't have been quite so enthusiastic.

As it was, this was almost more excitement than my nine-year-old self could handle.

Life just didn't get any better.

They toiled away on it for several months.

Then, the movie crew.

Dad announced that he had some really exciting news.
A movie crew was coming to the ranch to film.
Movie crew?
Suddenly everyone began to act strangely.
The hired men actually polished their boots. And availed themselves of the showers and laundry services.

My older sister spent hours in front of the mirror, trying new 'looks' and fashions.

My brothers practiced lines from westerns.

Mom, ever practical, began bringing in truckloads of food.
I got in everyone's way. Okay, this was normal, but I didn't want you to think I wasn't proactive. The ranch was suddenly antiseptically clean. (Well, not quite, but you get the picture . . .)
The expected day grew closer. And closer.
I stopped sleeping. Well, actually, Mom stopped sleeping, but I did feel sorry for her.
The anticipation was palpable.
The day arrived. The movie crew didn't.


Rising water



And finally . . .

But everyone's stretched nerves and feelings of anticipation were not wasted. The movie crew might not have shown up.
But the flood did.

Oh, Dad had been keeping an eye on our river as it . . . grew.

Finally, it became clear that our quiet little trickle had officially turned into . . . something much bigger. Something huge and brown and scary that threatened everything in its path.
Including us.

And several of the bridge-building machines that had been sitting placidly in the shallow river beneath the bridge, but I didn't think about them.

My motto has always been 'panic first, think afterwards'. And it has served me well.

Banished to the balcony overlooking our back yard, I alternately cried or moaned as Dad, my two brothers and assorted hired men struggled with shovels and mud.

The normally milky, now chocolate-brown river crept nearer and nearer.

Yes, that's our yard -
there's usually a road, (and a cliff)
between us and the river.

It topped its banks. It started flowing across the lower pasture. Higher. Higher. Finally, it reached our yard and began lapping at the tiny bulwark of sand bags. The barricade that had seemed so huge only moments before.

Dad and his crew worked frantically, trying to reinforce what now looked like a pathetic little mud pie, against all that water.

All day, they worked.

And finally, the waters peaked. Then slowly began to recede.

We lost part of our yard. A small part.

The bridge crew had some equipment damaged, but nothing that couldn't be repaired or replaced.

Unfortunately, the same wasn't true for the rest of Alberta and Montana, wherever the Milk River flowed. Communities suffered millions of dollars in damages and at least 30 people lost their lives. In fact, the June, 1964 flood remains in the history books as one of the greatest disasters ever to hit Montana.

But the waters receded.

Back on the ranch, everything wasn't as pristine as it had once been, but was soon put to rights.

Our new bridge was finished and the old one demolished and hauled away. The crew left.

We kids scampered around on the cement marvel for a short while, but soon discovered that its smooth surfaces provided few hiding places and absolutely nowhere to hang a rope.

It was abandoned.



Old bridge, new bridge
and very, very wet equipment

Often, our family would stand on the balcony and watch the river as it curved gently around the ranch.

Once more, it was the calm, quiet flow that watered our stock and our crops, cooled us on hot days, and supported us in our floundering efforts to swim. Once more, it was the color of the sediment that gave it its milky hue and its name.

Eventually, I even lost my fear of it.

Yes, for me, the summer of 1964 was an exciting, memorable time.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget it.

A Bed by Any Other Name

The Stringam Wagon Train

I love horses.
All horses.
So much that I ate, breathed and slept horses. Literally.
On the ranch, everything ran like clockwork. Cows were milked. Cattle, horses, chickens and pigs fed, eggs gathered, meals served. One never had to look at a clock to know what time it was. You could tell merely by observing the natural rhythm of the operations that were an integral part of ranch life.
But that has absolutely nothing to do with this story.
I loved horses. And I was a natural with them. I could climb on the back of the most dastardly villain the corral had to offer and handle him with ease.
I spent most of my waking hours with the horses.
And some of my sleeping ones, as I already mentioned.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
During the day, my four-year-old self was fairly useless. I wandered here and there, usually sticking close to the barn, but occasionally breaking with tradition and getting into trouble in some other area.
(Chickens and I also have a history, but that is another story.)
On this particular day, mealtime was fast approaching.
Now I could always be counted on to appear for meals.
The bell would ring and inform all and sundry – including total strangers living in Timbuktu – that it was time for everyone on the Stringam Ranch to head to the house because something truly wonderful was waiting there.
Mom was a terrific cook.
The bell rang.
People assembled.
No Diane.
How could this be? She was always underfoot. Particularly at mealtimes.
They began to eat. She’ll be here soon, they reasoned.
Dessert approached. Still no Diane.
Dad was beginning to worry. He began to question the men.
Had anyone seen her?
Bud had shooed her away from the cow he was milking by singing ‘Danny Boy’. A guaranteed ‘Diane repellent’.
Al thought he had seen her going into the shed behind the barn, where the horses were.
Dad got to his feet. This was serious.
He headed for the barn.
The horses could come and go at will on the Stringam ranch. Mostly they preferred go. But occasionally, when it was too hot or too cold, and because they were – basically - wussies, and lazy, they would hang around under the shed beside the barn and eat the hay that they didn’t have to stalk and kill themselves.
It was to this intrepid group that Dad went. He could see tails swishing as he approached. Usually, that meant that they were there.
He approached quietly, careful not to spook them.
A spooked horse is a stupid horse . . . well, actually most horses are st . . . oh, never mind.
He slipped carefully in under the shade. He patted one horse and slid between two others, and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
Then he saw it. Back in the corner.
Something peculiar.
A horse with . . . something on its back.
He patted another rump and moved a little closer.
The horses started to shift a bit. They were beginning to sense something.
Mealtime? Pshaw, that’s all the time.
Maybe a slight breeze was coming up and it was time for everyone to spook and run around like idiots? That would take effort.
An intruder? Hmm . . . this needed considering . . .
Dad had finally moved far enough through the herd that he could see into the corner.
See the smallest pony, drooping in front of the manger, with a little girl turned backwards on his back, her head on the wide, soft rump.
The rest of her in dreamland.
He had found me, but now for the tricky part. How to wake me without spooking the herd, and my own personal pillow. If he spoke, the horses would surely work out the fact that it was a man standing among them and use that excuse to start running.
Or dancing.
Or playing chess.
You never know with horses.
He would have to take the chance. “Diane,” he whispered.
“Mmm?”
“Diane,” he said again, a little louder.
My eyes opened.
“Diane.” A third time.
I sat up and frowned at him. “What.”
“Time for dinner.”
Who knew a four-year-old could move that fast?

Life on the Ranch

The new barn

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated half way between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. We learned to swim in that river. We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. At the time, it was normal. We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. For a child growing up, it was peace itself.