Travels and Stories

It's been another busy month for the flies in the Tolley Household.

First: A Recap

With health and age concerns, the powers-that-be (Husby) have decided 2024 and 2025 will be 'The Years of the Travel' and so far they've delivered.

First, February in Hawaii:

Husby and a friend

March and April in Europe:

A little bit of Florence

Husby doing what he likes best!

May: at home welcoming a new Great Grand-Baby!

Auntie Q holding her nephew!

June exploring Saskatchewan and crying over graduates:

Eldest Grandson

Third Granddaughter--my writer!

Hanging Hearts Lake, Saskatchewan

And then July. Home with family, then off to visit extended family in Nova Scotia:

Annual Family Medieval Feast

A little pilgrim girl...

Peggy's Cove with my sister!!!

Did I mention that her youngest son, my nephew, is a chef? Well, he is and this is what he made for us:

You can check out his other videos at Redsfeast on Youtube. Bring your appetite!

Thank you for taking this whirlwind trip with me!

And now...a story... (Warning: Nudity!)

First, a little background (*snort*)

I get to have Q, Granddaughter #11 with me whenever her mama works. Which isn't often enough for me!

Recently, Son # 2 and his wife went to Scotland for a little rain-soaked and wonderful holiday. This is what they brought me:

Which is a huge joke here because Gramma (me) goes every year to see the Highland Games and every single one of those stone throwers is wearing underwear. Just ask all of us senior women who line up every year to watch the event!

Ahem...

Also: Grampa, whilst all of this is going on inside, is out in the garden, shirtless to try and get some sun.

Now on to my story...

This magnet sits at the very top of my fridge where I thought none of the youngers would see it. But little Miss Bright Eyes did.

Q: Gramma? Why isn't that girl wearing any underwear?

Me: That's not a girl, sweetie. That's a guy and it's kind of a joke. You see, the men in this country called Scotland have special cloth that they make into what is called a kilt. Different colours for different families. It's kind of like a skirt for guys. And they claim they don't wear any underwear under the kilt.

Q: (Thinking it over) Well, I always wear underwear under my skirts! And leggings, too!

Me: Yes, Sweetie. The men are very proud of their kilts. Here I'll show you some pictures.

Picture us looking at...pictures.

One of them is of a VERY buff man. Shirtless. In a kilt.

Q: Oh look, Gramma! He looks just like Grampa. But with muscles.

Me: Bwahahahaha! 

I think it very odd, but my husby didn't find it nearly as funny as I did.

Hmmmm...

Fly on the Wall is a monthly challenge that I share with my blogging sisters, Karen and Marcia where we invite people into our lives and recap the activities and/or thoughts of our past month.

This was a wee glimpse into mine...

Now see what my sisters have done!

Baking In A Tornado
Menopausal Mother

Fist Bumps. Not Just for Anyone

Selective Sharing

Our family spends lot of time together.

Visiting.

In fact, if I were to pick a favourite activity, it would be that one.

My eldest daughter, Caitlin, and her family were over.

We were having a comfortable gab-fest after a hearty and satisfying dinner together.

Don't I sound like an advertisement for something?

Moving on . . .

Her Baby Daughter, nearly two, was busy playing at our feet.

She managed to put a toy train together.

All by herself.

“Oh, good job!” Caitlin told her. “Fist bumps!”

Baby Daughter grinned, doubled up her hand into a tiny fist and punched Mom gently on her knuckles.

“Yeah!” Caitlin said. “Now go and give Grampa fist bumps!”

I should mention, here, that our grandkids adore their Grampa. He plays with them.

Constantly.

Ponies. Troll under the bridge. Pirates.

But fist bumps?

The grin disappeared.

Baby Daughter gave her Grampa a sidelong glance, then, simply tipped full-length onto the couch and lay there.

Her attitude said it all.

'I . . . would rather . . . die!'

“Hey!” Grampa said. “I want fist bumps!”

His only response was a giggle.

“Hey!”

More giggles.

He never got his fist bumps.

I guess you have to be selective about what you share . . .

I'm Back!!!

Sorry for the wait, blogging friends.
 Finally, here are some pictures of this year's pajamas!
As modeled by our eldest son and his family, and our youngest son and his family.
Both families are expecting new additions in the New Year!

Eldest Son and family

Youngest son and family

Funnier Than a Sack of Hammers

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam. Where the humour comes from . . .

My Dad has a great sense of humour.

He came by it rightly.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was in Lethbridge, running errands, shopping.

He stopped by the local hardware store.

There, in a bin just inside the door, was a pile of hammers.

Ordinary, wooden-handled hammers.

He stopped.

He was a rancher.

Hammers were in constant use.

Building.

Repairing.

And they were just as constantly disappearing.

He could always use another one.

He reached out, picking up the one on top.

And made an important discovery.

These weren't normal hammers.

They were light rubber.

But painted so perfectly that they could easily fool even the most scrutinizing (real word) glance.

The only way to tell was to actually pick one up.

Dad picked up several.

In fact everything the store had.

On his way home, he stopped off at his parent's comfortable house near the center of the city.

His father, George, a man past eighty, was seated in his recliner in the front room.

Sounds and delicious aromas were emanating tantalizingly from the kitchen.

Obviously, Dad had come at a good time.

He walked in, tossing a greeting to everyone in general, then entered the front room.

And whacked his father on the knee with one of the hammers.

Grandpa jumped.

"Oh!" Then he chuckled. "I thought you had lost your mind!"

Dad laughed.

Grandpa reached for the hammer. "Well. Isn't that remarkable!" He turned it over and over in his hands.

Then he leaned back in his chair. "Vina!" he called.

My Grandmother bustled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. "What is it, George? Dinner's almost . . ."

That's as far as she got.

As soon as she came around the corner, Grandpa threw the hammer at her.

"Oh!" she said as the soft rubber bounced off her chest. She put one hand to her chest. "I thought you'd lost your mind!" she gasped, unconsciously repeating Grandpa's words.

Grandpa chuckled as Grandma picked up the trick hammer and threw it back at him.

Yep. Humour is inherited.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.

Haunted.

Really.

Demons lived there.

Witches.

Hags.

You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.

We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.

Even in broad daylight.

With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.

Even so, I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams coming from it.

And no, they didn't come from me.

Sheesh.

At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.

Situated about half-way down the block.

A family had lived there.

Mother. Father. Children.

But that was where the 'normal' part ended.

At least that is what my friends had informed me.

Often.

One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.

It was dark in the cellar.

He had lighted a match to see more clearly.

And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.

I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dangerous.

And why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I wouldn't know either.

Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.

But I was four.

Who was scrutinizing?

I was too busy shivering in delight.

Moving on . . .

So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.

It lit up like a huge torch.

The kerosene, that is.

He and his family barely got out alive.

No one knows what happened to the cat.

The family then disappeared.

Never to be heard from again.

Ooooooooo!

Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.

It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.

The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.

But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.

Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.

Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally burned cloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.

We were horrified.

And ran from the house screaming.

I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.

The house was eventually demolished.

Mainly to keep us from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.

But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the 'haunted house'.

Where the family lived.

Before the fire.

And maybe they're there still.

Making noises and screaming at odd hours.

The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Just Another Stringam Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

We join the end of a line of cars.

"Huh. Weird," Dad says.

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom asks, spitting on a Kleenex and cleaning the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet," Dad says. "But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so.

Disclosing the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows.

The house creeps along.

We creep along behind it, more cars joining us every minute or so.

Like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy, blockish monster.

"I wonder if he knows we're here," Mom says, pulling the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear," she says. "We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because we'll be left behind?

As the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 20 MPH.

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss."

"How long till the turn?" she asks Dad.

"At this rate? About three days," Dad says.

We are heading to our relatives for dinner.

I'm beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex and stuffs it back under her seat.

She drops the tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle and glances around at her brood.

Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures hadn't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine.

Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane.

She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses.

The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

And Anita is perched on Mom's lap, nose against the window.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms cross on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap.

"There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink!"

"There's plenty of water in the well!" Dad says.

"You can have some of mine!" Anita says, offering her bottle of cream soda.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red.

"That's okay," he says. "I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.

Again the potty comes into play.

Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad says, leaning forward and peering through the front windshield.

"Let's play a game!" Mom says. "How about 20 questions?"

"Okay! I've got it," Jerry says.

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Alive or dead?"

"Alive."

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

I imagine, for a moment what it must be like to follow our car at 20 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad says. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often," she says.

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour.

It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house.

Like a stream finding its way around a large, recently introduced stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window.

"Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" Dad says, with a grin. "You'd find it immensely easier!"

"I'm so sorry!" the driver says. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks.

What he says is, "Oh, no. Not long!"

They wave to each other and we are off.

Just another family car trip.

Outhouse Tipping. Sport of Kings.

Seated: Grandma and Grandpa Berg and 'She Who Holds the Horses'
Surrounding them: The Instigators

Halloween.

Ghosts and goblins.

Witches, black cats and scary pumpkins.

Pirates, vampires and mummies.

An evening of treats, tricks and mischief.

And it has been this way for many, many years.

My Mom often talked of mischief perpetrated by her and her eight (yes, I said eight) brothers.

They were in a rural community, with all of the families around them involved in some sort of agriculture, so the opportunities for tricks were almost as endless as the imaginations that enacted them.

Pigs in the hen house.

Harnesses on the cows.

Wagons hauled to the roofs of the barns.

Tires and assorted junk piled in the roadways.

But the favourite, the real king of the pranks was outhouse tipping.

Though indoor plumbing was quite common in the cities and larger communities in the mid-1930s, on the farms and ranches surrounding Millicent, Alberta, most families still made use of the outdoor privy.

Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but necessary the whole year through, the outhouse was an accepted and integral part of family life.

And very few of them were fastened down.

All it took was a concerted effort by two or more strong lads and . . . over it would go.

Followed by much laughter and hilarity as the perpetrators fled.

To the next farm.

Where their adventure would start all over.

Mom held the horses, or so she contends.

But I digress . . .

One Halloween, she and her eight brothers were making the rounds.

One farm, in particular was their destination.

The husband and wife who ran it were 'feisty'.

And protective.

And fun to pit wits with.

The Berg kids crept along in the darkness, trying desperately to be silent.

Finally, they left my Mom holding the horse's reins and crept closer.

All was quiet.

Light was pouring from the farm house.

The couple was likely eating dinner.

The boys picked their target out of the gloom.

It stood in lonely glory (can one use the word 'glory' in describing an outhouse?) to one side of the yard.

Closer.

Finally, they reached the little structure.

Ahh. Now just a little push to set things going . . .

Now, unbeknownst (good word) to them, the farmer had decided, this year, to outwit his antagonists.

By hiding inside the outhouse.

At the climactic moment, he would burst from the building and give his shotgun a blast into the air.

That would scare those little scamps into next week!

His plan was brilliant.

Genius.

Right up to the point where the boys tipped the outhouse over . . . on its door.

Trapping their would-be assailant inside.

Hampered but unbowed, he stuck his head through one of the holes and shouted, "Ye blimey little rats! I'll get ye!"

Then followed with the planned shotgun blast at the sky.

Admittedly, completed as it was through the hole of an outhouse, the action lost some of its 'punch'.

And the boys, by this time were already over the hill, laughing at their cleverness.

But the farmer's actions did achieve one thing.

Made doubly sure that his farm was on the 'trick' list for a long as the boys lived at home.

Or until he got indoor plumbing.

Whichever came first.

Mary (a short story) Part Four

We never got the chance to help.

Two days after that visit, my husband's mother suffered a bad fall, breaking her hip and causing considerable extra damage.

We spent several weeks alternately sitting by her bedside and arranging for her housing and care.

Finally, we were once more on the road home.

Mary's house appeared in the front window.

My husband made the now-familiar turn quickly and we found ourselves parked beside a strange vehicle.

Mary's car was nowhere to be seen.

We looked at each other and I felt a shiver.

We both knew it.

Something was wrong.

We got out quickly and hurried to the front door.

As had happened on so many of our visits, it was opened before we had even reached the steps.

A young woman stepped out, one hand shading her eyes from the setting sun.

"Hello?"

We climbed the few steps and approached her.

"Hello. I'm Mary and this is my husband, Frank . . ." I began.

"Oh, it's you!" the young woman exclaimed, reaching out both of her hands towards us. "At last you've come!"

I raised my hand, doubtfully and felt it gripped tightly.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" the woman said. "Mary will be so glad!"

"What's the matter" Frank spoke up beside me.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Of course you don't know!" The woman dropped my hand and twisted both of hers together. "It's really quite sad."

"Yes?" Frank prompted.

"Well, she . . . she's . . . dead."

The words went through me like a bolt of electricity.

"Oh, no!" I whispered.

The woman turned to me. "I'm afraid it's true."

"But how? The last time we saw her, she was fine. Happy!"

The woman smiled. "Yes. She was." She took a deep breath. "And that's something I need to talk to you about."

She turned towards the door. "Please, come in."

We followed her into the sweet, familiar home with dragging feet.

How could this be?

My mind struggled to take it in.

The young woman paused just inside the door and turned towards the fireplace.

Instinctively, my eyes followed hers.

There, framed neatly above the crackling flames, was a large picture of Frank and me. The two of us were leaning towards each other and smiling broadly for the camera. Behind us, through clear glass windows, one could see the mountains, close up and falling away into the distance. The sun was just setting behind the furthest ones.

It was a beautiful picture.

Obviously the one taken by Mary with her ancient camera on our very first visit.

"Oh," I said, rather ineffectively.

Frank gripped my arm tightly.

"I think I need to sit down," I said.

He guided me over to the familiar couch and the two of us perched there.

The young woman took a seat in Mary's chair.

"First, I should probably introduce myself," she said. "I'm Mercy Roberts. I'm from the church congregation that Mary attends. Er . . . attended."

I murmured something polite, my mind still reeling.

She cleared her throat. "Anyways, Mary drove into town a few weeks ago to do some shopping. But while she was there, in the grocery store, she had a heart attack."

"Oh, Mary!" I said.

Mercy nodded. "It was a bad attack and she didn't make it to the hospital."

I put my face in my hands.

Frank rubbed my back.

"So, a few weeks ago?" he asked.

"Yes."

"It must have been shortly after we were here the last time."

"I don't know about that," Mercy said.

"But the picture," I whispered. "What about the picture?" I lowered my hands and looked up at it.

Frank and I, smiling politely at the camera for a woman we had just met.

"Well, that's the thing," Mercy said. "We, none of us, knew who you were. Mary talked about her new, wonderful friends named Frank and Mary, but she didn't ever tell us your last name."

She, too, glanced up at the picture. "After she had been . . . cared for, our Pastor came here to try to help settle her affairs. You know she had no other family."

I nodded.

"Well, as soon as he walked through the front door, of course he saw the picture. He figured that it must be a photo of the new friends she was always talking about."

"Oh, Mary!" I moaned.

"And then the search was on to find the two of you."

"We live in the city."

"Yes, we figured that," Mercy smiled. "But it is a rather large city!"

"It is," Frank agreed.

"Finally, it was decided that one member of the congregation should come here to the house each day and wait for you to show up."

"Oh, I'm so sorry that you had to go to so much trouble," I said.

"Oh, it's been no trouble," Mercy said. "In fact, it's been a pleasure. It's so quiet and peaceful here." She looked at us. "And it's so nice to be able to finally meet the people who brought Mary such happiness in her final days."

I reached into my purse for a tissue.

"We did that?" Frank's voice sounded . . . choked.

Mercy smiled. "Yes. You did." She glanced over at the nearly finished quilt on the far side of the room. "You know Mary. She was always sweet and kind, but before you came, she was . . . rather sad. Lonely. Afterwards, she was so much better. Brighter. Looking forward to the future and your visits."

"I never realized," Frank said.

"Yes. Well, it's true."

By this time, I was sobbing into my scrap of tissue. "Oh, Mary!"

"So you don't know anything more about the picture," Frank said softly.

"Well, no. It was there when the Pastor came . . . afterwards. Like I said."

"But the one she had up there before? The two kids?"

"Oh, that one is hanging in the spare bedroom, now," Mercy said. She again looked up at the picture and smiled. "She always said that this spot was special. Reserved just for family."

It's a Pie Day!

My Mom. Doing what she did best!

Pie.

That king of treats.

The amazing union of lightly browned and flaky crust and yummy filling.

And topped with a delicious scoop of iced or whipped cream . . .

It's like heaven.

In your mouth.

Spilled on the floor and reduced to its sticky, disparate parts, it's not as good.

But we won't go there.

And I just finished cleaning.
So . . . pie.

Today is pie-making day.

Whenever our family celebrates, we do it with pie.

It's a long-standing tradition that spans one generation.

Okay, we started it, but it's still a good tradition!

So, because tomorrow is the launching of my new book, Carving Angels, and every party requires pie, I will spend today making it.

Pie, I mean.

I love making it.

My Mom made fantastic pie. 

Sweet. Flaky. (This is the only place where 'flaky' is a good thing.)

And utterly delicious.

And so, when I make it, using her recipes, it's like spending time with her.

I even have a picture, which I prop up and talk to.

Okay, it's weird, but she's been gone for nearly a decade and I miss her.

And now, in honour of this grand occasion, I am including some of my favourite 'pie' quotes:

1. "Keep your knives, we're having pie!"  ~My Dad. Just before Mom whacked him.
2. "Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie."  ~The proprietress of a diner to the Duke of Edinborough.
3. "A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around."  ~E.W. Howe
4. "It is utterly insufficient (to eat pie only twice a week), as anyone who knows the secret of our strength as a nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents, the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished."  ~EDITORIAL New York Times, 1902
5. "But I, when I undress me
   Each night, upon my knees
   Will ask the Lord to bless me
   With apple-pie and cheese."
               ~Eugene Field
6. "Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes."  ~Arcadia   Robert Green, 1590
7. "In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."  ~ Isaac Asimov
8. If all the world were Apple pie, And all the seas were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What would we have to drink?  ~ Unknown

I have to go. My Mom is waiting.
Happy pie day!

Important Lessons From the Unlikeliest Places

Dads. There's no one quite like them.

An animated series aired several years ago, to great praise and equally great censure.

Because of the negative and very vocal comments, I chose not to watch.

For three years.

One evening, while working in my office, next to the TV room, I caught a few snatches of conversation coming from the program presently airing.

Two older children were asking their father why there were no pictures of their third and last sibling.

"Didn't you want her?" one of them asked.

It caught me because I am guilty of snapping thousands of pics of our eldest. Hundreds of our second, and then, progressively (or is it de-gressively?) less as each child made an appearance.

I made up for it with the last, when we were back into the thousands, but those in the middle . . . lost out.

The premise intrigued me.

I went to check it out.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that what was playing was an episode of 'that cartoon'.

But I was hooked by the subject matter.

I sat with my teenagers to watch.

The father reassured his children that he had, indeed, wanted their baby sister. Then he proceeded to tell the story.

He had left a terrible job in a nuclear plant and had been working at his dream job in a bowling alley. His work was appreciated and made him, for the first time in his life, happy.

Then his wife announced that baby number three was on the way.

He knew that what he earned at his dream job couldn't possibly support another child.

He would have to go and beg for his old job back.

Have I mentioned that it was horrible?

That he hated it?

Well, it was.

And he did.

Moving on . . .

When one faced the front entrance of the nuclear plant, they were presented with two doors.

One for new workers.

One for returning.

The 'returning' door was small. So small that anyone entering through it was forced to do so on their hands and knees.

Thus, on their knees, they could beg for employment.

It made quite an impression.

I kept watching.

Of course he was given his old job back.

And, of course, humiliated with every step.

Finally, seated once more in his old office, he was presented with a plaque which read: 'Don't Forget. You're Here Forever.'

This was fastened permanently to the wall directly in front of his console, where he wouldn't fail to see it.

Back to the two elder children and their conversation.

"So why are there no pictures?"

And his reply, "Oh there are pictures, kids. Lots and lots of pictures. They're where I need them!"

And then you get a view of his office as it looks now.

On every wall and, indeed, all available surfaces, are pictures of the little girl, in every stage of development.

And they cover much of the plaque.

Which now reads, 'Do It For Her'.

I cried.

It made me think about all of the fathers who go, every day, to a job they hate, just to feed and care for their families.

They are our unsung heroes.

We need to do more singing.

Lessons Learned . . . Part 2

Kids and food and . . . the Table

When we moved to Winnipeg, we brought everything we owned.

In one of my Dad's cattle trailers.

He cleaned it first.

Sort of.

Moving on . . .

But there were one or two things that we didn't bring.

One of them was a decent kitchen table and chairs.

Oh, we had had a table. And chairs.

Just not . . . decent.

Or safe.

We had to dip into our savings and buy something.

I should point out here that Kijiji didn't exist in 1979.

Or personal home computers.

At least in our home.

So we were stuck with the local paper.

And the classifieds.

But the tables we found listed were worse than the one we had left behind.

We had to go to a furniture store . . .

We had done this once before.

Gone to a furniture store, I mean.

It was fun.

And expensive.

But exciting.

We were experts.

We pulled up outside in our little wheezy van and sauntered (expertly) inside.

 And were met by a nice young man with a big grin.

A really big grin.

Looking back, we should have suspected something.

We didn't.

We told him what we were looking for and he led us to the 'kitchen' section of the store.

Wow.

Okay, we weren't expecting that much of a selection.

We divided our options into two categories. 'Those we could afford'. And 'those which were really nice'.

The choices suddenly became easy.

We were down to two.

The one we finally decided on was a faux-wood topped, tubular-chrome-legged marvel.

With four chairs of genuine fake-leather.

We had hit the big time.

The only problem was that we were already a family of four.

And family member number five was definitely on the way.

We needed more chairs.

No problem, the young man said. The company who made the chairs was right here in Winnipeg. They could easily be ordered and at a very special price.

It was meant to be.

We handed him our savings and he filled out the paperwork, promising to send in the order for our four extra chairs as soon as we left the store.

Then he helped us tote our new table and existing chairs out to our little van.

We were kings!

Happily, we set up our new acquisitions (good word) in our little kitchen.

Perfect!

Then we waited for our four extra chairs.

Waited.

And waited.

Finally, we tried to phone.

Huh. Line out of service.

Strange.

We drove over to the store.

And found it closed.

Weird, for a Tuesday.

A large piece of yellow paper, fastened to the front door, fluttered in the slight breeze.

We got out of the van and moved closer.

It was a notice from the police.

Something about signing the paper if we were owed anything by the young men who had absconded (Great word, eh?) with all available cash and left the country.

We stared at the paper.

Then at each other.

Did this mean what we thought it meant?

Had we just been ripped off?

I suddenly wanted my chairs!

We had paid for them!

Jerks!

Grant signed the paper and we were duly contacted by the police and able to place our claim.

The problem was that we were owed a mere $200.00.

We were far down the list of claimants.

And the likelihood of recouping (I'm just full of neat words today) our losses was slim to nil.

I should mention here that the people at the top of the list were a newlywed couple, furnishing a new apartment. They had paid for their furniture, but were having it delivered.

I guess $10,000.00 (a boatload of money in 1979) was just too much for the store owners to resist.

They had taken the money and anything else not fastened down and left the city.

The young couple's furniture had not left the store.

They were furniture-less and out their $10,000.00.

Suddenly our little $200.00 seemed very paltry.

But I still wanted my chairs.

Okay, I a bit OCD.

We went to the furniture manufacturer and explained the situation.

They were very nice and gave us our chairs at their cost.

So, when we worked it out, taking into account the money we had paid Crooked Smiler Guy and what the manufacturer charged, we had actually gotten the chairs for the normal retail price.

We really hadn't lost anything.

And we finally had our chairs.

Oh, they were a slightly different Colour from the first four, but why quibble over details?

That table and chairs lasted us through six children and twenty five years.

As it was nearing the end of its life, my husband decided to realize a dream and build a new one.

Table, I mean.

He did it.

A large, round, solid oak table, capable of seating 12 comfortably and 14 if you want to be really friendly.

He finished it just in time.

I tried to set a casserole on our old table and the poor thing collapsed, casserole and all.

And no, that isn't a statement on my cooking . . .

It was given an undignified farewell at the city dump.

And Grant moved in his great oak wonder.

With twelve chairs.

That matched.

And that we didn't have to chase down and beg for.

Lesson learned.

Laundry. Saturday night entertainment

And each of the eight brothers had a sister . . .

My Mom had eight brothers.

And each of them had a sister.

My Mom.

Most of the time, this was a good thing.

They played together.

Worked together.

And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, they 'protected' her.

It was a good balance.

Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.

Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.

Cooking, cleaning, dishes.

Laundry.

Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.

Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.

You never knew what you would find . . .

There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.

You cleaned your plate at mealtime.

Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.

Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.

If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.

Or get creative.

Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, got creative.

He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.

He just didn't want them inside of him.

What to do?

Hmmm.

No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table.

His parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.

His options were definitely limited.

But he would think of something . . .

When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.

Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprize.

Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.

Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes.

While he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenius and inventive method of making them disappear.

He was wearing trousers.

And they had . . . pockets.

What followed was inevitable. And a no-brainer.

Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.

Clever.

And, as I said, entertaining.

And that's just the laundry.

Imagine what he could do with such things as . . . bedrooms. Chores.

Livestock.

But that is another story.

Of Cabins and Summers on the Lake

Squirrels on the deck of the Stringam cabin.

We loved staying at our friends' cabin in Waterton Lakes Park.

So much so that my Dad finally felt we should have our own.

Cabin, I mean.

And the rest of us, picturing days happily spent on the lake, were very easily convinced.

He scouted around for a nice piece of property.

And found one.

On St. Mary Lake, just outside of Glacier National Park, Montana – across the border from the ranch.

It was truly beautiful.

Clear, icy-cold, blue water.

And I do mean icy. Brrr.

Pure air.

Lots of trees.

We fell in love.

The only thing missing was the . . . cabin.

No problem.

Dad would build it.

He chose a design and ordered materials.

They were duly delivered.

And immediately stolen.

Our cabin plans were almost abandoned before they even got off the ground.

So to speak.

But, finally, Dad took a deep breath and ordered some more.

They came.

And this time, they stayed.

He moved in a small travel trailer and we took up residence.

Then began to prepare the land.

It was hot, hard work - cutting down a few of the trees and tearing out brush.

Sweat ran freely.

I know.

Because I was watching carefully, can of black cherry pop in one hand and hot dog in the other.

But before you begin to think I was entirely useless, I must point out that I helped carry some of the rocks over to the lake to help construct our boat dock.

Small rocks.

Really small rocks.

Okay, I was useless.

Before too long, Dad and my brothers had cleared a spot large enough for our cabin.

I don't remember much of the building apart from the sounds of hammering and sawing and the wonderful smell of fresh-cut lumber.

Mom kept me near her.

Across the road from the action.

My reputation for getting in the way was obviously well known.

Moving on . . .

The cabin went up magically.

In no time, we had a master bedroom where my oldest sister could sit and tell us scary stories.

Two smaller bedrooms with bunk beds for the smaller kids to fall out of.

Which they did.

And a wonderful kitchen/dining/living room where Mom could make the food magic happen.

Mmm. Food.

Oh, and there was also a big, open fireplace . . . thing.

I think that, technically, it was a wood stove.

But it was screened on all sides.

Wonderful for gathering around on a cool summer evening.

For visiting.

Something my family excelled at.

The cabin had huge windows facing the lake.

And a large deck.

Another favourite place.

Where we could sit and watch the water.

And dream.

Something else I excelled at.

We spent several summers at the lake.

I remember evenings on the deck, looking out over the water and just breathing in the glorious air.

Boating.

Splashing around in the frigid water.

Icy cold cans of pop out of the lake.

Games played beside a snapping fire.

Wiener/marshmallow roasts.

Hide and seek in the trees.

Ghost stories.

Visit with the neighbours. (Once, a for-real professional sheepherder drove his flock right past the cabin and we got to see the inside of his wagon.)

It was wonderful.

But it ended.

Several times, when we weren't in residence, the cabin was broken into and vandalized.

The last time, someone smashed the large picture window, leaving blood everywhere.

Dad replaced the window and promptly sold the cabin.

Too bad.

Because it was wonderful way to spend the summer.

There is a codicil.

A year or so after my Dad sold the cabin, a good friend of his stopped him on the street, shook a finger in his face and told him what a bad boy he was.

Bewildered, my Dad frowned at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

The man grinned. “We were boating on the [St. Mary's] lake and decided to drop in and visit with you and Enes. Once we got there, we realized that you weren't home, but I remembered where you hid the key, so I opened the door and we went in to see if you had left any pop in the fridge.” The man shook his head. “I can't tell you how surprised I was to find it full of beer!”

My parents were well known for their tee-totalling habits.

Dad laughed. “I guess you didn't hear that I sold that cabin.”

The man's mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. A year or so ago.”

“So . . . it's not your cabin?”

“Right.”

“So . . . breaking and entering.”

“Right.”

Even when it no longer belonged to us, the cabin continued to entertain.

I miss it.

You Can Go Back

Prince of Wales Hotel at Waterton Lakes Provincial Park. Paradise.

I have always lived in the shadows of the Rockies.

And by doing so, have been in close proximity to one of many national parks.

Nowadays (real word, I looked it up), that means either the Banff or Jasper National Parks.

In my early years, it was Waterton Lakes.

How our family loved Waterton!

Every summer we spent at least a week there, staying in one of the tiny, rustic cabins perched on the very shore of Upper Waterton Lake or in the beautiful old log cabin which belonged to some good friends.

We would swim in the gi-normous (my word) outdoor community swimming pool. Spend endless hours riding around the town on rented tandem bikes or surreys. Visit Cameron Falls or hike to Cameron Lake. Climb Bear's Hump. Explore Prince of Wales Hotel. Shop.

Then there were the lakes. One could fish (or in my case, soak lures) there. Or boat or 'swim'. (I use this last term lightly because this was a mountain lake, and only a couple of degrees above freezing . . .)

The activities were many and varied.

Paradise for a little girl.

Especially since it was the fifties and crime hadn't been invented yet.

Mom could feed us breakfast and send us out the door, secure in the knowledge that we could play safely throughout the townsite.

Except that we had strict instructions not to go near any wildlife.

And Waterton certainly had that.

It wasn't unusual to open the front door and see a herd of deer lying around the front yard, placidly chewing their cud.

Or to have to retreat into a store because a bear was making its way slowly down main street.

That was especially okay, because ice cream was easily obtained and one could enjoy a treat and a show while one waited for the rangers, or for the bear to move on.

Whichever happened first.

It was no wonder that our annual pilgrimage to Waterton was our most anticipated tradition.

My family went back for a reunion.

I was amazed at what had changed in the years since my last trip.

Oh, there were some fondly remembered places still in existence.

Many of the stores and shops were the same, or at least similar.

The topographical sites were still there. Bear's Hump. Cameron Falls. The hiking paths I had enjoyed as a child.

And the Prince of Wales Hotel still majestically dominated the townsite.

But all else had changed.

We tried renting a tandem bike, but the only one left had a towel for a seat and was so rusted and stiff that riding it was more torture than pleasure.

The swimming pool had disappeared.

In its place stood a great hotel complex.

Our friends' cabin was gone, burned to the ground in a massive and heart-wrenching fire. It, too had been replaced by newer and more modern.

Our little cabins were also gone. The campground had been expanded to include the lot where they had stood.

We wandered around for most of a day, reminiscing.

It was still Waterton.

There was still a lot to see and do.

Watch the deer and other animals wander freely throughout the townsite.

Hike. Explore the great Hotel. Fish. Shop.

'Wade' in the lake. (We now called it for what it was . . .)

Boat.

Swim in the new hotel's grand indoor pool.

Just not the things we most fondly remembered as children.

Who was it who said, 'You can never go back'?

They were wrong.

You can.

Just be prepared for some changes.

Waterton Lakes National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, an International Peace Park, and a Biosphere Reserve. The only park in the world that has these three designations.

Visit it!