I'm a Winner!!!

Isn't he cute?!

Look what my good friend, Delores of thefeatherednest sent me!
He sits proudly on my Dad's handmade clock in my front hall.
I'm so excited!
I think I'll call him Earnest.
I love owls!

Calling All Animals

Our Steed. I'll explain . . .

Our oldest daughter believed that there was something called the 'Universal Animal Call'.

It was a simple whistle. A single note rising in pitch at the end.

Tweee-eet!

She swore it worked on all animals.

We all thought she was hilarious.

Enough background.

My husband, for our 25th anniversary, surprised me with a trip to Greece.

And a cruise around the Mediterranean on a tall ship.

My dream of a lifetime.

And the vacation of a lifetime.

Ten days of unbelievable bliss.

I should probably mention, here, that I enjoyed it.

Immensely.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Greece.

Mediterranean.

During the cruise, we discovered the joy of laying in the nets beneath the spritsail at the bow of the ship.

Watching the Mediterranean slip past far beneath us.

It was the most relaxing experience of my life.

On the second last evening of our cruise, we introduced several new friends to this delicious experience.

Let me describe the scene . . .

The sun was setting. It glowed orange and red on the clots of cloud floating far above us in the darkening sky. There was just enough breeze to fill every rosy sail and push us forward through gentle, perfect waves on the impossibly blue water.

The air was a caress. Soft. Fragrant.

The only sounds were the occasional call of the sea birds as they floated on still wings alongside us.

Rocked gently, we hovered at the edges of complete peace.

Conversation lagged as, one by one, the members of our party flirted with the idea of succumbing to the call of Morpheus.

Drowsily, I turned to my husband and said, "What a perfect evening."

He laughed. "No, we need one more thing to make it truly perfect."

"What is that?"

"Dolphins."

He was right.

The last perfect touch would be dolphins, chittering and giggling as they leaped and played in the water beside us.

"We could always try the Universal Animal Call."

We had explained the UAC to our new friends.

And had a good laugh.

Then I whistled.

Tweee-eet! Tweee-eet.

And we laughed again.

Silence settled over us once more.

Silence broken, suddenly, by . . . chittering and giggling.

We looked down.

Several dolphins were leaping and playing alongside us.

I blinked and stared, open-mouthed.

Then rubbed my eyes and stared again.

Yes. There really were dolphins.

And yes, they really were playing beside the ship.

My husband and I looked at each other.

And laughed.

Happily, this time.

Maybe the UAC actually worked.

Maybe it was just an amazing coincidence.

Or maybe a trick by some gifted and very 'on the spot' magician.

Whatever.

It had made the evening truly perfect.

And I'll never, ever forget it.

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."

The Golden Rule

Me. Far right, second row. Renee, directly behind me.
One of us was perfectly dressed.
It wasn't me.

I'm a horrible person.

I mocked/made-fun-of someone.

I have repented.

It was my first day of school.

I was breathlessly, happily, finally in grade one.

I had just enjoyed my first bus ride.

It was bumpy and dusty.

But magical.

I had been duly delivered to the sidewalk outside my brand new school.

Where I stood in indecision.

Okay. The other kids were lining up at the doors.

I followed.

A tall, slender woman was calling for all of the "Grade Ones!"

I saw several kids about my size line up beside her.

I followed.

The bell rang and Miss Warnoski turned and went into the school.

We all followed.

In Miss Warnoski's room, we toted our book bags (mine was homemade by my Mom) to our first desk.

I was in the second row.

Second seat back.

It had my name pasted onto it.

D-i-a-n-e S-t-r-i-n-g-a-m. I spelled it out by tracing with a finger.

Yep. That's me!

I watched to see what the other kids were doing.

Unpacking.

Okay. I could do that.

I began to pull out thick, red pencils and half-lined scribblers.

Cool. There was a cubbyhole under the desktop that could hold a mountain of stuff.

Soon it was home to my stuff.

I hung my bag over the seat back, sat down at my desk, folded my hands together on top, and let my legs swing.

School was a breeze.

Miss Warnoski began to teach.

Okay, not such a breeze.

Then, it was time to line up for Recess.

Capital 'R'.

The great unknown.

I followed.

We filed back outside. And kids began to run and play.

This was Recess?

Pffff. What was I worried about?

This was just like playing with kids at home.

In fact, I recognized some of the kids from playing at home.

Suddenly I was in my element.

And that's when the trouble started.

I should point out, here, that I didn't always get into trouble during recess.

It just seems like it.

Moving on . . .

There was a tall, very slender girl in my new class.

Renee.

She had long, silky, platinum-blond hair, perfectly groomed.

And she was dressed in the very pinnacle of fashion.

Something that would remain a trademark with her throughout our school years.

And something that would pass me by throughout . . . you get the picture.

Today, she had on a poofy pink dress.

Which I secretly thought was very pretty.

And of which two or three of the other kids were making fun.

They called out jeers and snide remarks.

A five-year-old's version of insulting.

And none of which I can remember.

Probably a good thing.

But it looked like fun!

I would join in.

"Renee, you look like a big, poofy candy floss!"

Renee just smiled. As she had been doing all along.

And suddenly, I didn't feel all that clever.

In fact, I felt stupid.

I had made fun of someone.

And I didn't like it.

I handled my new feelings of embarrassment and chagrin with aplomb and maturity.

I went and hid.

Till the bell rang and Miss Warnoski came to gather all of us.

I've forgotten much of what I was taught in grade one, I'm sure, but one thing stayed with me.

Don't say anything you wouldn't want said to you.

Okay, I never had to worry about anyone teasing me about my 'candy floss' dress. Or any dress for that matter.

But you get the point.

Climbing - Yes; Flying - No

Mom, George, Chris, Jerry, Dad and me.
Not picuted: The clothesline.

Climbing was my thing.
I loved it!
Ask anyone. My climbing ability was legendary. My experiences, many and varied.
Many's the time my mom would sprint up the old machinery hill to save her tiny daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Or at least from a very unpleasant fall to the bottom of the 100 foot TV tower.
And my father, too was no stranger to my favorite activity. During a visit with the manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Alberta, the new chandelier in the great room was being discussed.
"It's magnificent," Dad said, gazing up into the rafters 50 feet above them.
"Yeah, we really like it," the manager said, following his gaze. "The only thing I'm concerned about is how we're going to clean it."
"Clean it!" Dad said. "Well, I have a daughter who will climb it!"
Together, my parents plucked me off the top of horses, bulls, pigs, haystacks, combines, tractors, trees, shed roofs, barn roofs, garage roofs, car roofs - I really seemed to have a thing about roofs - water towers, windmills, and even the propane tank.
Admittedly, a fall from many of them probably wouldn't have been fatal. Just . . . uncomfortable.
But no amount of lecturing or lurid stories illustrating the dangers of such activities could discourage me.
I just had to climb.
And then that fateful day . . .
Isn't it odd that fateful days never, ever seem to start out any different from any other day? I mean, sullen, red skies would be entirely appropriate. That way, you'd know that something momentous was about to happen.
But I digress . . .
I had discovered a wonderful new activity.
It included Mom's clothesline and the picnic table.
And climbing.
What else.
For some reason, the table had been shoved close to the clothesline. Close enough that someone daring - me - could make a run along the table and launch oneself - also me - onto the clothesline.
Now I should point out here that Mom's clothesline wasn't one of those boring long stretches of wire so useless to an enterprising youngster. No.
It was a new-fangled round one.
That spun if it was pushed.
And if you leapt and caught the wires just right, you could spin all the way around and back to the table.
Which I did.
Several times. In fact, I was the neighborhood champion. Again and again I would perform for my audience to appreciative oohs and aahs.
Several of the kids tried it, but no one could go quite as far or as fast as I could.
I decided it was time to up the ante, slightly.
I was going to try for a double axel.
Two times around.
It had never been done. Never even been attempted.
But I was going to do it.
My audience was assembled.
I dusted my hands together and poised at the back edge of the picnic table.
The crowd grew hushed.
I took a deep breath and launched myself along the table.
Perfect.
I flew gracefully across the intervening space.
Even more perfect.
I reached out for the wires.
And for the first time in my life, missed.
Missed?
I reached again, frantically, then looked up at the wires, as they slowly moved further and further from me.
How could this be?
With a heavy thump, I hit the ground, driving every square millimeter of air from my lungs.
My friends stared at me, frozen. Then there was a collective scream and they all rushed forward.
"Diane! Diane! Are you all right?"
I just stared at them and tried to catch my breath.
Then a horrified, "Diane, you're bleeding!"
I looked down. They were right. Blood was spattered on my shirt and shorts. I looked at my arms. My legs.
Nothing.
Then I tried to talk.
And realized where the blood was coming from.
My mouth.
Shocked, I put a hand over it.
"Mrs. Stringam! Mrs. Stringam!" several voices began shouting.
My Mom came on the run.
She was so used to me.
"Oh, my!" She knelt beside me and put a towel to my chin. "Open your mouth, Honey."
I tried to obey, but my mouth didn't want to. It had suddenly begun to hurt. It wanted to stay shut.
I felt the tears begin.
"It's okay, Honey, just open your mouth."
Finally, I was able to open it. A little.
Mom gasped, and put the towel over my mouth.
"Come on, Dear, let's get you into the house."
"Mrs. Strin-gam? Will Diane be all right?" I vaguely recognized Laurie's voice.
"She'll be fine, Dear. I'll just take her into the house and get her cleaned up."
Mom half-led, half-carried me into the cool, quiet house and sat me down on the cupboard in the kitchen. Then she sponged the blood off my face and neck.
"Let me have another look, Honey," she said.
Obligingly, though I really didn't want to, I opened my mouth for her.
"Okay, well, you've cut your tongue, Honey. It's probably going to hurt quite a bit. But it'll be all right."
So she kept saying. Why didn't I believe her?
"Here. Hold this while I call Doctor Clemente."
I took the towel she was pressing to my face while she went to the phone.
"Yes, Doctor." I could hear her in the hallway. "Yes. Okay." She hung up the phone.
Then she was back beside me. "Here, Honey, let me take it."
She gently swabbed at my mouth again.
Mom could make anything feel better.
Almost
Later, after I had refused supper, a new thing for me, I overheard her talking to Dad.
"Yes, I think it's bitten at least half-way through. It's still attached, but barely. The doctor thinks it will heal just fine, but it'll be a while, and it'll be painful."
A while?
That is parent code for 'forever'.
Sigh.
It did heal. And quite quickly, too, in 'Parent' time.
During that time, I was the focus of all of the neighborhood kids. Everyone would come up to me and ask me to stick out my tongue.
Then ooh and ah delightedly.
I was a celebrity.
It was almost enough to get me climbing again.
Almost.

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 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