Backing Talkwards a Bittle It

What a cutie! 

My Dad had a speech impediment.

Sometimes, he said things backwards.

Oh, he could control it.

He just chose not to.

An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.

And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.

For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:

Rock a bay bybee

On the tee trop.

When the blind woes,

The radle will crock.

When the brough bakes,

The fadle will crawl.

And down will bum caby

Adle and crawl.

You're right. That's not even English.

But that's how I thought it went.

I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them.

It happened something like this:

Me: What are you singing?

Them: Rock a Bye Baby.

Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

Them: Let's play somewhere else.

As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.

Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.

And that my favourite ice cream wasn't Scutterbotch.

Others had to find out for themselves.

My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother.

The imminent arrival, scheduled for, at most, two weeks, stretched to six.

Leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.

It was a happy six weeks.

Michael was playing cowboys.

And had dressed accordingly.

He had his gun and holster.

His boots.

His overlarge hat.

And his training pants.

He was ready.

Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.

Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style.

"Stick 'em up!"

Oh, he was good.

Dad looked at him.

"What are you? A coy-bow?"

Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .

"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"

"Coy-bow."

"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.

Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."

Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"

That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"

"No! No! Gow-boy!"

Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."

Michael had outlasted his grandfather.

A noble feat.

I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time.

It was the exception rather than the rule.

And he always correct us afterwards.

But it was fun while it lasted.

Ring Around the Collar

Me and GollyGee

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 . . . 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. I set the little cretin down in a corner and 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 had an 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.

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 though it was funny.

Dad didn’t.