It Moved! It Did!

The Behemoth

Things move.

Big things.

They move.

I have proof.

On the ranch, we had a large power pole.

Full sized.

Firmly planted.

It had been there since the beginning of time.

So . . . for quite a while.

It stood in the very center of the turn-about.

People driving in would go around it, conduct their business and complete the turn as they drove out.

Simple.

Unless you lived there.

Then you would have to drive in and park.

Preferably somewhere out of the way so the next person would have a place to drive in and turn.

At times it got a little . . . tricky.

I lived there.

I had parked.

I needed to leave.

This entailed backing the van up, maneuvering into the lane, then completing the turn to head out.

I should probably point out here that our van could quite easily have been described as a behemoth (good word!). It held 12 passengers.

Or two parents and six children, neatly spaced to avoid argument-age.

Well to try to avoid argument-age.

Well . . . never mind.

I loaded in the kids.

I sorted out the first argument.

I started the van.

I sorted out the second argument.

Good so far.

The third argument started.

I began to unknot that disagreement just as I stepped on the gas.

The van reversed, as it should.

Straight back.

All of us inside were concentrating on the ongoing conversation.

None of us noticed the pole directly behind the van.

Well, not until we smacked into it.

Oops.

I pulled ahead and got out to survey the damage.

The bumper had a lovely crease in it, bending it towards the van and forming a point that made it impossible to open the back door.

Double oops.

Later, when I showed my husband, he shook his head and simply sawed the top point off the dent. Just enough so the door would clear it.

But leaving the dent for all to see.

Sigh.

The conversation went like this . . .

"Honey, didn't you see the pole? The large one that has been standing in the center of the yard since forever?"

"Ummm . . . I don't know how to answer that question."

"You did know about the pole, didn't you?"

"Ummm . . . yes."

"You did see it?"

"Well, it was like this . . . I was backing out carefully . . ."

"Yes."

"And then that nasty old pole just jumped behind me."

"Jumped."

"Yes."

"Right out of the ground."

"Yes. It was the weirdest thing!"

"I'm going to go lie down."

True story.

I also have an experience with Cuba and move-age. But that is another story.

Wind: Part One

 . . . like a tumbling tumbleweed!

Wherein We Prove That Wind and Little Kids Aren't A Good Mix . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

But our bedroom was in the West end of our trailer. Where the wind was the strongest.

All day, the trailer would buck in the wind.

And all night.

We never slept.

One time, the wind was so strong that Grant came home from work, put a hand under our little, built-on entryway, and lifted.

The little four by four room took off like a box kite.

Or Dorothy's house.

But there, all similarities end.

It didn't quite make it to Kansas.

And, though it might have taken out a gopher or two, there were no red slippers sticking out from beneath it when we found it later, about a mile away, happily sitting in the middle of the field.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our little home.

I should point out, here, that our little home stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He got to the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop with that.

Instead, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar.

I managed to catch my son.

Sometime before he reached Saskatchewan.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

New Coat! Oh, and Christmas Tree . . .

Clockwise from right: Aly (Hired man's son),
Anita, Blair, and Me - in my little gold beauty.

It wasn't often that we kids were able to go on a field trip with my Dad.

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic.

Exuberant.

Exhilarated.

Elated.

Euphoric.

Electrified.

That's all of the 'E' words I can think of.

Except that 'energetic' should be stuck in there somewhere.

And, for me, usually immediately followed by, "Empty all tanks!"

When I think about it, I guess it's not surprising that we didn't go on field trips with my Dad very often.

Back to my story . . .

Dad was taking us four oldest kids to the Sweetgrass Hills to cut down our family's Christmas tree.

It was the 50's.

Families did things like that back then.

But we had to make a quick stop in Milk River at the Robinson's store to get me a winter coat.

I had outgrown my old one and Dad wasn't excited about trailing me through the forest wrapped in my blanket.

Go figure.

So the excitement level for this trip had just been dialed way up.

In fact, I was so elated, that Dad didn't even wait for the 'announcement' (see above), but sat me in the car with a bucket already in my lap.

Smart man.

We made the 20 miles to Milk River without incident. (see above . . . again.)

And entered the store.

I should explain here that the Robinson's Store was the only shop in Milk River that featured clothing.

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

And if you were really lucky, you got to watch Theo Barrows gift wrap packages at her counter in the middle of the store.

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

Dad asked the manager where we could find coats in my size and was conducted, with me tagging eagerly behind, to a rack at one side of the store.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a gold, furry, wonderful garment.

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh!

"This one, Daddy! This one!"

"Okay, we'll try this one," Dad said.

I dropped my blanket and slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Perfect!

"I guess we'll take it," Dad said.

Good thing, too, because there was no way they were ever going to pry me out of that coat.

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

The other kids excited now to get to the real reason for this trip.

Me brushing and brushing the soft fur on my arms and chest.

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

Me and my coat were happy, sitting in the car together.

And watching through the windshield.

Because, after all - one couldn't wear one's new coat out into nature!

What if it got soiled?

Later:
Blair (in my now-outgrown coat), and Anita
The original recycling program

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.

But who listened?

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.

Rodeo Pigs

Admit it . . . this looks like fun!

Okay, we weren't supposed to do it.

In fact we had been strictly forbidden.

But we were kids.

Is that an excuse?

On the Stringam Ranch, two things were understood.

Horses were for riding.

That's what they were there for.

Pigs were food.

They were to be fed and left alone so they could grow and . . . produce.

Stirring them up was something that kept them from achieving their purpose.

And riding them definitely . . . stirred them up.

But it was so much fun! (Don't tell my dad.)

One could walk into the pig pen and socialize.

Pigs are very social animals and they love to play.

And after you have played 'pull the string' or 'follow the humans around the pen' or 'scratch me', the next logical step is 'ride the pig'.

Don't you agree?

Okay, Dad didn't see it, either.

He said that it might injure their backs.

Or slow their growth.

Pffff.

What did he know?

I weighed all of 40 pounds.

And the pigs probably maxed out at 240.

No way I was going to hurt anyone's back.

And they ran around all of the time.

It was a no-brainer.

And the one thing I was naturally blessed with was the ability to function with no brain.

Moving forward many years . . .

My second son and I had just finished building the new corrals.

We had turned the cow and pig in together to mow down some of the weeds.

They had a little altercation, in fact, two of them.

But that is another story. 

Moving on . . .

Nog, the pig, was huge.

And fat.

And slow moving.

What better time to introduce my youngest son to the wonderful world of 'pig riding'?

I suggested it.

"No, Mom," he said. "I'll fall off in the poop."

"There haven't been any animals in that pen before." I pointed out logically. "There is no poop."

It took a bit of coaxing, but I finally convinced him.

I helped him straddle the broad, red back, then stood back.

"Isn't that fun?"

The pig stood for a moment, chewing.

Then decided, in usual pig fashion, that where he really wanted to be was over . . . there!

He made a sharp left-hand turn.

Right out from under my son.

It was then that we discovered one of us had been right.

About the poop, I mean.

And it wasn't me.

Huh. Dad had been telling the truth all of those years ago.

Riding pigs is hazardous.

Just not to them. 

The Last Fun Phone Call

Stringam Ranch - everything . . . except a phone

“I want to talk to Jody.”

“Number, please.”

“Six.”

Electric ringing.

“Hello?”

“May I talk to Jody?”

“Yes, one moment.”

“Hello?”

“Jody! We got our phone!”

It was the most exciting day of my life.

The Stringams. That weird family who lived at the back of beyond, had joined the twentieth century. The modern world had finally found its way to our door.

But therein lies a story.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the bustling metropolis of Milk River (pop. 499). The phone lines went as far as Nine Mile Corner, a bend in the road situated, interestingly enough, just nine miles from the ranch buildings.

The phone company refused, uncategorically, to take the phone lines any further. Why would people living that far from civilization need the convenience of modern communication?

Why indeed.

But Dad wanted a phone.

As the only veterinarian in the area, he needed a phone.

Dad was determined to have a phone.

Finally, he bought all of the poles and cable to run his own phone line.

He and the hired men spent several weeks installing said poles and cable.

Voila!

The magical day dawned.

The phone company unbent enough to hook up our line to theirs. (And then proceeded to run many, many lines off of it, but that is another story.)

The family gathered around the large, wooden box.

It shrilled. Twice.

Two longs.

We stared at it.

Then looked at each other.

We had arrived.

From that moment on, the peace of the Stringam home was often shattered by the shrilling of the magical box in the hallway.

And the pounding of numerous feet as various denizens of the house sprinted to answer.

It was a whole new, and very exciting, experience.

Followed, soon after, by the discovery that, if one was careful, one could gently lift the receiver and . . . wonder of wonders . . . listen in on other conversations on the 'party' line that had nothing to do with you.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you why it was called a 'party' line.

My sister and I became the masters of it . . .

“Well, I'm sure she meant well. But I can tell you that Gloria wasn't very flattered.”

“Well, I can imagine. Poor Gloria!”

“Yes. I mean, I can only guess, but I would well imagine that being told that one was as big as a whale, albeit a pretty whale, wouldn't go over too well.”

“Well, I wish I'd been there. I would have given her a piece of my mind!”

“Well, Dorothy brought a yellow jellied salad with bananas in it that was just divine. I got her recipe!”

“That reminds me. I wanted to get Dorothy's recipe for her devil's food cake.”

“Oh, I have it, just wait a moment.”

“Ladies?”

“Umm, yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the 'phone.”

“Oh, sorry, Hank. Problems?”

“Yeah. I need to talk to Joe at the feed store.”

“Go right ahead. Grace? I'll get that recipe and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Mabel.”

This was fun!

Another conversation . . .

“Well, she was out half the night!”

“No!”

“Yes! Until midnight! And when she got home, Papa could smell . . . liquor on her breath!”

A sucked in breath. “Oh! What did he do?”

“Well, he wasn't happy, I can tell you! She's grounded for a month!”

“A month!?”

“Yes! And that includes prom and everything.”

“She might as well die right now!”

“Exactly!”

And another . . .

“Well, Doc, my poop looks like . . .”

We ended that conversation before it was begun.

And . . .

“Okay, don't spread it around . . . yet . . . but the Larsons are going to be away next weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Jeff says his folks should leave about 6.”

“So what time does the party start?”

“Well, he has to do chores and tidy up the dishes, so 8:00 should about do it. He will beep the phone line twice when he's ready.”

“We'll be waiting.”

Finally . . .

“You have to be careful what you say on this line. Uncle Bob may be listening in.”

“I am not!”

It was the most fun we had ever had.

Until we were introduced to . . .

“Hello?”

“Is your 'fridge running?”

“Just a moment, I'll check.”

A pause.

Then, “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Well, you'd better go catch it!”

Ah. the memories.

I don't remember the last conversation I had on the old party line.

I should.

Because now, phone lines are private.

And boring.

Uh-oh! Mom! I'm Car . . .!

Ready for town . . .

We lived 70 miles from the nearest city. Thus, a 'trip to town' was more of an event.
Inevitably, I got car sick. Not a pleasant thing for anyone stuck in the vehicle with me.
And, being four, I sometimes confused being excited with being sick.
Let me explain . . .
On the ranch, the most exciting thing our Dad could say was, “Everyone get in the car, we've got to go to the town!”
It was equivalent to being told we were going to Disneyland.
All right, I admit it, sophisticated world travellers, we weren't.
We would then pile into the car (and I do mean 'pile', seatbelts hadn't been invented yet) and head up the gravel road towards the great white lights of Lethbridge. The trip took an hour and a half. Usually more, when Diane was one of the passengers.
Invariably, at some point between the ranch and the first town, Milk River, a small voice would pipe up from the back seat, “I'm sick!”
The car would slide quickly to the side of the road. Mom's door would fly open. Diane would pop magically to the top of the heap of humanity in the back seat and . . .
I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
Every trip.
Every time.
But then . . . something changed.
The little voice would speak up sooner.
And sooner.
Until the car wouldn't even have made it out of the driveway before the fateful words were heard.
Mom and Dad tried to puzzle it out. Why was Diane getting sick so quickly after getting into the car?
They must have figured something because they certainly came up with an effective solution.

On that fateful day, Dad announced that he had to make a trip into town.
Just before he was trampled by his entire enthusiastic family.
With much talk and laughter, we kids piled (that word again) into the car.
Dad got in. His door closed.
A pause while he found the key and jammed it into the starter.
He turned the key.
The motor roared to life.
He reached for the gear shift.
“I'm sick!”
His hand hovered there for a split second. Then dropped down and shut off the key.
“Then, you'd better stay at home with your Mom.”
What?! No! I stared at him, horrified.
“Go on. Get out.”
The tears started.
I should mention here that my Dad is a real push-over for tears.
Any tears.
Except, obviously when his small daughter needs to be taught a lesson.
“Diane. Get out.”
“Daaaady!”
Suddenly, Mom was there, opening the car door.
“Nooooo!”
She carried me, by now crying bitterly into the house and set me down on a kitchen chair.
Over my sobs, I heard the car start up and pull out of the driveway.
They were really going to leave me! It was more than my little four-year-old heart could handle.
I lept off the chair, ran to my parent's room and crawled under the bed.
Now, I should point out here that, never before or since have I crawled under my parent's bed. Maybe because, never before or since has anything been that traumatic. But I digress . . .
I lay under there, sobbing for hours. (Or more probably five minutes – it's all the same when you're four.)
Suddenly, a banana appeared at the side of the bed. A fresh banana, with the peel still on, but just slightly opened to reveal the yumminess underneath.
It stayed there, just temptingly out of reach.
I looked at it.
I love bananas.
And it really looked good.
I slid towards it. Just a little.
It stayed there.
A little more.
I could almost reach it.
More.
There! I could touch it.
And I was out from under the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
I looked up. Mom was sitting there on the floor, holding the banana.
I nodded and crawled into her lap. She held the banana for me to take a bite, then handed the rest to me and snuggled me tightly.
I munched my way through the treat, still sniffing occassionally.
Mom waited until I was done.
“Was it good?”
Nod. Sniff.
“Would you like something else?”
Nod.
She stood up, taking me with her and carried me into the kitchen.
Where she fed me a cookie.
Then another.
Why does everything look better on a full tummy?
Then she sat down. “Diane, in the car, were you really sick?”
I stopped chewing and looked at my cookie. Then I stared at her, wide-eyed.
“I don't think you were, were you?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“So why did you say you were?”
I looked at the cookie again, my mind working frantically.
“Were you excited about going to town?”
I nodded.
“Okay, I want you to think about this . . .”
Great. Thinking. The one thing I was good at. Not
“When we go in the car, I don't want you to say that you're sick. Unless you really are sick.”
I turned that over in my mind. I nodded.
“Can you remember that?”
Another nod. I started chewing again.
Mom smiled and stood up. “Good.”
And, oddly enough, that was all it took.
Never again did I pipe up from the back seat for anything less than genuine illness.
Or the potty, which Mom kept under her car seat.
But that is a whole other story.

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.