Gone. Again.

I'm happy to announce the winner of a copy of my newest Christmas novel, Kris Kringle's Magic: 

Teresa Thompson! 

A huge thank you to everyone who entered. I hope you will spread the word about this wonderful story! Available for pre-order from Amazon.

And now, Today's post. 

A tribute:

Happy Barn Burning

What was left of the barn

October second. My birthday. A time of reflection and renewal. Time to reminisce.
It was exactly 53 years ago that I made my way into the world.

Feet first.

Fourth of six children and second daughter for Mark and Enes Stringam. A pretty exciting time for everyone. Well, for me at any rate.
I grew, healthy and strong in a loving, ordered world. My birthdays approached, were celebrated with varying degrees of success, and then left behind. First. Second. Third. For my fourth, something special was planned. Very special. And very secret. No one knew what was coming.
No one.
Early on the morning of my fourth birthday, a frantic phone call jolted my Dad out of his bed.
“There is a rather major emergency at the ranch. Would you possibly be able to come out?”
“Emergency?”
“Erm, yes. The barn is on fire.”
“On my way.”
Or at lest that is how I picture the conversation. It was probably something more in the way of . . . “EEEEEEE (high pitched screaming)!”
And Dad, “AAAAAAAAAH (Not quite so high pitched)!”
And that was the total exchange. But I digress . . .
So dad jumped into his truck and drove the twenty miles to the ranch in record time. Really record time. The only other occasion that would warrant such reckless driving and high speeds was the imminent arrival of yet another small Stringam . . . but that event was months away. He arrived just after the fire department.
By then, the barn was well on it’s way to being a memory. Flames had consumed most of it and the remainder was burning purposefully . . . and cheerfully . . . in the early morning light. Acrid smoke coiled across the barnyard, obscuring the crowd gathered to watch. Tears filled most eyes. Some because of said smoke. Others due to the fact that their most precious possessions had – literally – gone up in it.
One hired man stood there, in his longhandles, shaking his head helplessly. It took some time, and the appearance of the attractive ranch cook, for him to realize that his attire was . . . less than conventional. He beat a hasty retreat to find something a little more . . . conservative . . . to wear.
And not just the humans were concerned. The smaller denizens of the barn had been rudely awakened and forced to – quickly – find new lodgings. One mouse, intent on that very errand, scampered from the mass of smoking debris that had been his home, and into the pale morning light. He stopped. Something was very wrong. There were two humans standing directly in his path. He worked it through his little mouse brain, then darted back into the smouldering pile. Better the evil you know . . .
There was great loss. Two litters of pigs - with sows, several horses, calves. Not to mention saddles, tack and equipment. None irreplaceable, but all valuable. Oh, and my birthday. Somehow, in all the melee, that was lost as well. Not that I cared. I was happily perched on the fence, just within toasting distance of the glowing fire, watching the spectacle. Not really understanding what was going on. Knowing only that, in four years of mischief, I’d never been able to come close to this excitement. Never.
The barn was rebuilt. Bigger. Better. More modern. And my . . . birthday was never forgotten again. Every year, Dad calls on this date to wish me a . . . Happy Barn Burning.

With music.

And the dance.
There is a codicil. Twelve years ago, my barn burned down. Our losses were not as enormous as the ‘original’ barn fire. We lost two little pigs and some equipment. But the most important fact was the date. April first. My father’s seventieth birthday. I had to phone to wish him . . . Happy Barn Burning.
Payback is so sweet.

Further news:

Huge grass fires in Southern Alberta this week have consumed all of the outbuildings on the old ranch.

Including the 'new' barn.

It was a landmark.

I am devastated.

A Good Prank

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably explain that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers.

And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

I love it.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite.

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterwards, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.

Who Put That Tractor There?

My victim. Again.

-or-  I'm in Reverse! Everything Stay Out of My Way!

Dad had bought a new tractor.

Painted bright yellow, it was a thing of real beauty.

Or so the men in my family thought.

Pffff. Men.

It was parked proudly between the shop (formerly our home - see here) and the pasture, wherein my horse was . . . erm . . . pastured.

The tractor stood there in lonely glory, awaiting the delivery of two more back wheels.

Now it was unheard of, at that time, for a tractor to have more than the requisite two.

Back wheels, that is.

But this one did.

Or soon would have.

Each of the existing wheels had three feet of extra axle sticking out in happy anticipation.

This is important.

And I didn't care.

I was getting my horse ready for a show.

I needed to load up my tack.

This entailed maneuvering the car between the pasture fence and the shed door.

Easily done.

I could see the tractor.

I could see the fence.

I could see the shed.

All was well.

Back.

Back.

Back.

Crunch.

What on earth had I hit?

There was the shed.

There was the tractor.

There was the fence.

All in perfect sight.

 I pulled forward and got out to inspect the damage.

I should point out here that this was the same car that I had only recently filled with diesel fuel. My stock had dropped considerably over that event and hadn't had the chance to rise very far. This new stunt guaranteed that it would never rise again.

Sigh.

I walked to the back of the car.

To see six inches of extra axle poking into the rear car fender.

Oh.

The extra axle.

That would, one day, support extra wheels.

In all of my careful looking, I had forgotten to look up.

To the stupid axle hanging in the air three and a half feet above the ground.

Rats.

Once more, I drove to the house to show my dad.

Who labeled me a driving menace.

He was right.

The Best Mother

The only surviving picture of Andrew

Ranching is wonderful.
Most of the time.
You get to spend your days outdoors, working in the pure, sage-stuffed air.
See the heat shimmer on the tops of hills.
Watch the prairie grass bend in the breeze.
You witness births and new life. See groups of calves, and sometimes their mothers, cavort and snort and play.
And see the milk cow try to run with the deer.
You can bury your face in your pony's thick, warm winter coat and just breathe in his 'horsey' smell.
You have long, wonderful talks with family members as you ride to or from.
And while you're working.
Together.
It's a peaceful and serene existence.
And the scenery breath-taking.
But occasionally, it gets pretty gritty.
There are disasters.
Pain.
Death.
But even these can result in something beautiful.
Let me explain . . .
As occasionally happens, a young heifer (cow that hasn't yet produced a calf) got 'exposed' to a bull.
She caught. (Became pregnant)
But something went wrong.
Perhaps because she was so young. Perhaps because she had some physical and undetected abnormality.
Whatever the reason, she was dying and there was nothing that could be done to save her.
And her calf was just days away from being born.
My Dad had to make a quick decision.
He decided to take the calf early and then put the suffering mother out of her misery.
Fortunately, in times like these, a trained veterinarian can work very, very quickly.
One life saved.
Another let go.
And we had a new little bull calf.
An extremely healthy and active little bull calf.
I called him Andrew.
Because.
But Andrew didn't have a mama.
Normally, this doesn't present too much of a problem.
You simply adopt the calf onto another mama.
It isn't easy, but it's worth the effort.
Unfortunately, there were no 'mamas' available.
Bottle feeding was indicated.
Now any of you who have bottle fed a puppy or kitten or other young animal know that it's a time-consuming and constant thing.
Not so with calves.
They only need to be fed three or four times a day.
Fairly simple to work around.
And fun for the kids.
So we dug out our bottle and formula and gave our little man his first feeding.
He sucked strongly. A good sign.
On to the next hurdle.
Finding him a place to bunk.
Firmly rejecting our son's offer of his room, we decided on the corral.
There was only one problem.
The corral already had an occupant.
Old Bluey.
Bluey was an older appaloosa mare, gentle and slow.
Her mottled black and grey hair gave her a distinct 'blue' colour.
Thus the name.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Back to the problem . . .
We decided that Bluey probably didn't propose much of a threat to our little Andrew.
We carried the calf into the pen and set him down.
He stood there for a moment.
Blinking.
Then he spied Bluey.
Bawling loudly, he headed towards her.
She stared at this little apparition.
And moved away.
He kept on coming.
Again she moved.
This went on for some time.
Finally, deciding that Andrew would be all right, we left them together.
A few hours later, I took a new bottle of formula to our little orphan.
And received the surprise of my life.
There stood Bluey, with the calf beside her nursing loudly.
Nursing?
I should point out here that a horse is generally considerably taller than a cow.
Certainly, Bluey was taller than Andrew's mother had been.
In fact, to simply reach the mare's udder Andrew had to stretch as far as he possibly could.
But he was doing it.
And Bluey was letting him.
It was a miracle.
Another thing I should mention is that a calf is a lot rougher while nursing than a colt. Calves get very 'enthusiastic'. And if the milk slows down, they butt their head into the cow's udder.
Not so with colts. They are quite gentle. Even mannerly about their feeding.
I probably needn't point out that Andrew was a calf.
And an extremely enthusiastic one.
I watched as he butted his head into Bluey's udder. I could almost feel her wince.
She raised her leg and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she lowered her leg and let him nurse again.
It truly was an amazing sight.
Throughout the summer, Bluey nursed Andrew.
Once, we left the calf in the corral and took Bluey out to bring in the herd, intending to capture them in that same corral.
As we drew close with the herd, someone opened the gate.
Little Andrew came running out, searching for his 'mother'.
And bawling loudly.
Bluey nickered back at him anxiously and he quickly found her and took up a position at her side, following along happily.
Eventually, in the fall, all the calves were weaned, taken from their mothers and put into the feedlot together.
For a day or two, there was a lot of bawling and angst.
Then they discovered the feed troughs.
And discovered, too that they had very short memories.
Peace was restored.
Bluey, too, resumed her peaceful life as though it had never been interrupted.

There is an addendum . . .
I checked Bluey's udder once while she was with her little adopted boy.
She had no milk.
None.
She had done all of that 'Mothering' with an empty udder.
The pain must have been exquisite.
But she did it.
Cheerfully.
What a mother!
And what an example she is to me.

Summer in a Quonset Part One

Everything Under Construction

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals:

The red letter day was here.

There could be no more stalling - no more postponing - no more compromising.

We had sold our house three months before and we just must move!

All the planning and indecision washed over me like a cold shower.

Nothing had been resolved, though all angels had been considered.

While our new home was being built, should we move into a motel? To a trailer? Rent a house?

All of them were ticked off for various reasons - too expensive, too many children (six when our eldest was home), and homes to rent were not available.

There was one alternative, however.

My rancher/veterinarian husband had built a quonset.

A huge quonset (100 feet by 40 feet).

And it had a cement floor, smooth in the center and rough at one end where he eventually planned to build a barn with stalls for convalescing animals. (The rough floor would keep the animals from slipping.)

It had a cold water outlet and a sewer outlet at the rough end.

I don't know how the great light dawned, but we suddenly came up with this fantastic idea.

Why not move into the quonset for the summer?

We could assemble our living area in the center near the water outlet and carry all our waste water to the sewer outlet in the future barn space.

It would work.

We still had many misgivings about living in 'the shed' and they seemed to multiply as the day for the move drew nearer.

So, it was with many the doubts still swimming through my head that I set myself to the task of packing.

The confusion grew as the moving van arrived and it progressed steadily through the length of the day until by late afternoon my mind and limbs were numb.

Finally, though, I was looking about the nearly-empty home I loved.

It was as if I were viewing a funeral procession of a dear friend.

The car was packed to the roof. There was room only for me as the driver, and my littlest child, Anita, on a heap of articles beside me.

Thank goodness the others were all in school and didn't have to witness this agonizing transformation. (Although I had reason to suspect that they were entranced by the whole idea - anything so unusual would be a great adventure!)

They could not possibly perceive all the 'mechanics' of the operation. And definitely would not experience the re-organization and planning that would have to be done before our family would resume a smooth day-to-day living.

No one could help me with this.

I felt as if I had been prepared for slaughter and my unwilling body was being swept toward the surgeon with scalpel poised and grinning teeth mocking me.

Life's necessities and comforts had gone.

I had to accept that.

So, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and quivering lip clamped firmly in my teeth, I shifted the family car into reverse and drove resolutely toward my 'summer home'.

If You Want to Be Clean, Stay out of the Corral!

Oh sure, she looks clean now . . .

I've decided that ranching is not 'clean' work.

I had been herdsman for my Dad for several months.

This combined my favourite activity, riding, with various other responsibilities.

Like checking the herd every day for cows that were calving.

Cows that looked like they were about to start calving.

Or cows that looked like they were thinking about starting to calve.

Ranching takes a lot of head work.

Also helping them when it became necessary.

And hauling feed.

Cleaning pens.

And grubbing around the barnyard doing whatever Dad came up with.

Yep. Not clean work at all.

This day, though, I was determined to stay . . . unsoiled.

My new boyfriend was stopping by and I wanted him to see me as the picture-perfect cowgirl. 

Sun in her hair and smelling of the outdoors - grass, sage, and fresh air.

Things started well.

I buckled the riding pad on my horse.

Thus eliminating the possibility of being covered with hair when he arrived.

I rode out to the calving pasture.

It was a bright, fresh morning with just a bit of a breeze.

Perfect.

I finished my initial sweep.

The easy, treeless part of the field.

No cows inconveniently doing messy things.

I started back, this time through the brush and small trees.

Still nothing.

Everyone was grazing happily, or contentedly lying down, chewing their cud.

It was a peaceful scene.

A clean scene.

I rode into the last copse (real word, I looked it up) of trees.

And there she was.

That one cow determined to undermine my perfectly planned morning.

Obviously calving.

And just as obviously having trouble.

Rats.

I rode over.

Yep. Trouble.

The calf's head and feet had emerged, but the little creature was obviously caught at the shoulders.

Poor thing.

Thoughts of my pristine wardrobe disappeared as I considered my next move.

The cow had to be herded to the ranch buildings.

And quickly.

We made it in record time, considering she was in heavy labour.

Finally, she was enclosed in the nearest empty corral.

I slid off my horse and quickly erected a 'pen' of plank walls around her, further hemming her in.

Then I reached for the calf's little white feet.

But this cow didn't want my help.

And certainly wasn't disabled by any discomfort she might be feeling.

I should have realized that a cow who had made the trip from the field to the ranch building at the speed she had, while in labour, was actually Supercow.

As my hands closed firmly over her calf's feet, she made a leap, flattening my hastily-erected fence and pulling me through the rubble.

Now a normal person probably would have let go at that point.

I guess I'm not normal.

Because I didn't.

Let go, that is.

Instead, I desperately hung on to those feet as the cow pulled me around the corral.

Through the dust.

And a couple of icky pools.

And that's when the calf . . . fell out.

Soon, mother and baby were happily together.

And I was headed to the ranch house.

I needn't tell you how I looked.

From head to foot.

My boyfriend's truck and I reached the front gate together.

It's all about timing.

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. 

Four Magic Words: Tell Me About You!

That head was learning things. Who could have guessed?!

I learned a few things as I was growing up.

Okay, I know that comes as a surprise to many, but it's true.

Some lessons were fairly severe, but a few, and even some of the most life-changing were quite . . . for want of a better term, painless.

I was staying with my best friend and nearest neighbour at her parent's ranch, fifteen miles from my own.

We had had a glorious week, riding, playing, getting into her father's hair.

Oh, yes, a glorious week.

It was time to go home.

Her Dad needed the break.

It was a fairly easy trip when one was merely negotiating the fifteen miles of dirt roads between our ranches.

But my parents had moved, for the winter, to our town home in Milk River.

A further twenty miles to away.

A trip of approximately an hour, if the road conditions were favourable.

Which they often weren't.

Originally, my Dad had planned to pick me up when he came out to do a vet call.

His plans had changed.

And now, so had mine.

Sigh.

I would be riding with my best friend's uncle.

The scary one.

For an hour.

Just the two of us.

I suddenly didn't care if I ever saw my parents again.

I wanted to stay with my friend.

Or die.

Neither choice was given to me, however.

Amidst much hugging and goodbye-ing, I was pushed out the door and parked in the uncle's truck.

Doomed.

I curled into a little ball in my corner and tried to pretend I didn't exist.

We started out.

The silence was thick.

After a while, the uncle reached out and turned on the radio. A short time later, he turned it up.

Now, at least, we had music to fill the emptiness.

But I found myself getting more and more uncomfortable.

My parents always claimed that visiting made the time go by faster.

I definitely wanted that to happen.

Finally, I thought of a question about his ranching.

I asked it.

He answered. Quite politely, I might add.

I asked another.

Again, he answered. With even more detail than the last.

This went on for some time.

Suddenly, I realized that we were . . . visiting.

And that he was funny.

And not nearly as scary as when we got into the truck.

What a nice surprise.

The trip turned out to be infinitely shorter than I had anticipated.

In fact, we got so animated in our conversation that we were parked in my family's driveway before I even realized that we had reached the town.

And I learned that all you need to do to get a conversation going is to ask a question about whoever you're with.

Generally, they like to talk about themselves.

And that, when you are visiting, no one is as scary as they first appear.

Even someone else's uncle.

Would You Like Some Butter With That?

Fresh, Tasty, and good for the hands . . .?
Picture credit: omnomicon.com

We had manners in our family.

Bad manners are still manners, aren't they?

Let me restart.

We had good manners in our family.

And some bad dinnertime pranks.

Better.

The evening meal was always special at the Stringam Ranch.

Mom was a terrific cook so the food was always good.

The conversation, with two parents, six kids and assorted hired men would be endless and, if not brilliant, at least entertaining.

The day's ranchwork was done, so the men were happy and relaxed.

And the pranks and hijinks were ongoing.

There were several tricks that ocurred regularly.

But the favourite had to do with the butter.

Butter?

With such a large group at mealtimes, much passing of dishes from hand to hand was expected.

And necessary.

Most of it was done politely. With a nod and a 'thanks'.

The meal proceeded smoothly.

But occassionally, someone would decide to 'liven things up a bit'.

And this usually accompanied the passing of the butter.

Now, the butter at the Stringam table was always freshly churned and delicious.

And went with everything.

So it was passed frequently.

Now, I should point out here that it was good manners to receive a passed dish directly, especially if one had asked to have it passed. Thus, if one requested the butter, one should then take the dish right from the passer's hand.

Common courtesy.

But the trick at the Stringam table was to pass it in just such a manner that the receiver's thumb would get stuck in the butter.

Okay I don't know what that's called.

Common dis-courtesy?

Or just plain funny.

Inevitably, nearly everyone at the table would end up, at one point or another, with their thumb in the butter.

Good thing Mom made everyone scrub up 'doctor style' before meals or we might have gotten more than nutrition served with our food.

But I digress . . .

With 'butter dipping' a common prank, it was inevitable that the receivers would get more and more creative with their receiving.

A nod and a simple gesture to set the butter down on the table was usually the first attempt.

It was inevitably ignored as the passer waited patiently for a more polite method of transferrance.

Finally, the receiver would put out his or her hand, thumb tucked as far out of sight as possible.

It can be done.

It just isn't very comfortable.

Inevitably, no matter how hard the receiver would try to avoid, one digit or another would go in the butter.

And the passer would happily return to their meal, content in the knowledge that they had contributed to the evening's fun-filled mealtime.

While the receiver carefully wiped their fingers on their napkin.

Oh, I forgot to mention – napkins were a necessary part of the every meal.

Moving on . . .

Finally, because the prank became such a common part of the meals, people stopped receiving.

The passer could sit there forever with the butter dish in their hand.

No one would reach out to take it.

In fact, people had been know to simply put out their knife and take a bit of butter while the passer was still holding it.

Unheard of!

But clever.

But one night, my brother forgot the new order of things.

He asked my Dad for the butter and put out his hand to take it.

He did remember to tuck in his thumb.

Dad regarded the outstretched hand for a moment.

No visible thumb.

What to do?

Finally, he simply turned the entire dish over and set it, butter side down, on Jerry's hand.

Mission accomplished.

Dad went back to eating.

Jerry went to wash.

After that, no one went butter-dipping anymore.

Who could top that?

World's Best Mountain

Mine. You can look, but remember who it belongs to . . .

Mountains.

Beautiful. Majestic. Snow-capped. Towering.

Noticeable.

I love the mountains.

Maybe not as much as my husband, who is a true connoisseur, but why quibble over details?

All my life, I have lived in the 'shadow' of the great Rockys.

They were the immovable, dependable wall to the west of us.

Our friends.

Companions.

Source of direction.

One distinctive peak, in particular, was familiar to us on the ranch.

It was our nearest neighbour in the immense range. A huge block of stone, standing alone, with a large, rather squared-off top.

Boy scout troops had been know to clamber to its very summit.

Of course, that was in the early days, before safety was invented.

I loved it.

It was my mountain.

I just couldn't remember what it was called.

When we drove west, towards the ranch, it was the beacon, the marker on the horizon that told us we were going in the right direction.

Not a fact that I discovered with my fantastic powers of observation, however.

I had to have it pointed out.

Mom and I were heading towards the ranch.

She was driving.

I was bouncing around in the back seat.

This was before such safety measures as . . . seat belts. Shoulder harnesses.

Discipline.

I had been laying on the back seat, staring up at the roof.

Suddenly, I thought of my mountain.

I don't know why.

Because.

I sat up and leaned over the front seat.

“Mom?”

“Mmm?”

That was her usual response. It didn't necessarily mean that her attention was yours, but it was a start.

“Mom!”

“What, Dear.”

Okay, the line was open.

“Where's the Old Indian Hill?”

“The what?”

“The Old Indian Hill.”

She laughed.

Well, really!

“Do you mean Old Chief Mountain?”

“Umm, okay.” Whatever. I just knew that the name had something to do with the Native tribes.

“It's right there, Sweetheart. Straight ahead. When we're driving to the ranch, it's right in front of the road.”

“Oh.”

She was right. There it was. Rising before us in all its purple glory.

Cool.

I stared at it.

My mountain.

From then on, whenever we were travelling home, I would look out the windshield for my stalwart, immovable beacon.

My guardian. My defender and protector.

The Blackfoot Tribe called it, Ninastiko.

The white man named it many things.

But, to me, it would always be my beloved 'Indian Hill'.

Little Sister

L'il Sis

I have a little sister.

She looks just like me.

Except that she has red hair.

And big blue eyes.

And a cute little chin.

And long eyelashes.

Okay, she doesn't look like me at all.

I love her anyways.

We grew up together, as often happens in families.

And had experiences.

Which also often happens in families.

When Anita was two, my mother asked us older kids to take her swimming with us.

Brave woman, my mother.

But I guess she thought that Chris, at 16, was responsible.

And she was.

Really, really responsible.

When she was awake.

A bit older. Just a bit

On this particular occasion, she had her radio. And her dreams of her current boyfriend.

And the warm sun. And the hot sand.

You're right. It wasn't her fault.

She dozed off.

The rest of us played happily for some time.

I was standing knee deep in the milky water, trying to catch a fish that insisted on swimming tantalizingly close.

Closer. Closer.

Then a strange sound intruded.

A sort of . . . gasping.

I looked up.

Five feet from me, little Anita had toddled off the sandy shelf where she had been sitting, playing, and fell into the river.

She was just coming up for the second time.

Nonchalantly (I like that word), I reached out and grabbed her swimsuit, pulled her out and plopped her onto the sand once more.

She gasped and coughed a couple of times, then went back to her toys.

I turned back to my hunting.

It wasn't until years later that I remembered the incident.

And shivered with 'what might have happened'.

*  *  *

When I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, moved out.

I suddenly had that hitherto (real word) unheard of treat - my own bedroom.

It was wonderful.

During the day.

But, being alone at night for the first time, I made a discovery.

At night, things looked vastly different.

The darkness held many suspicious creaks and shadows.

And, unfortunately, my imagination was always awake.

I needed a companion.

Someone who would protect me from . . . whatever lay in wait in the dark.

My sister's room was right next door.

Okay, she was three, and who knew what she would be able to do if we truly were confronted with . . . whatever lay in wait . . . you understand.

But she was warm.

And breathing.

She was all I had.

Carefully, I would creep into her room, lift the sleeping little girl from her bed, and tuck her into Chris' side of the bed.

Then I would happily snuggle into my side and fall immediately asleep.

If Mom asked in the morning, I simply told her that Anita had crawled in with me in the night.

Everyone was happy.

And no one knew that Diane was afraid of the dark.

Until now.

Oops.

*  *  *

A few years later, we were in the river.

Again.

And Anita was with me.

Again.

This time, it was my turn to be in charge.

And think about boyfriends.

Because my boyfriend was with us.

He and I were sitting in the sand at the edge of the water, visiting, when a sound intruded.

Again.

Only this time, it had just a bit more volume behind it.

"Diane!" someone shrieked.

I looked up.

Anita, who had been floating quite happily close to the shore in an old inner tube, had strayed too far out into the river.

She was now in the grip of the current.

Nonchalantly (that word again), I waded out. Then swam that last few feet towards her.

This time, however, when I grabbed her, she grabbed back.

And nearly drowned me.

Finally, I managed to turn her and her inner tube away from me, then kicked the both of us to the shore.

Then really shivered with 'what might have happened'.

Why do so many of our near-misses happen in water?

*  *  *

Who wouldn't trust that little face!

Today, Anita is a wife and mother. She runs a million-dollar business that she created. She is a flight attendant and cub leader and community organizer.

And still has time to run and keep fit.

But when I think of her, I still see the little girl who broke the lamp for which Blair took the blame.

Who was bright and cute and smart.

And who gave Mom the last of her grey hairs.

The little girl who loved to organize.

And wrap packages.

And get into my things.

And who's middle name, though she would claim it's Faye, is really Trouble (notice the capital 'T').

Today. Or at least not many days ago . . .

Huh. In some ways, she hasn't changed.

But now, she lives most of a continent away.

I miss her.

I love her.

Rodeo. Minus the crowds. And drama

Some of the crew . . . and the all-important 'squeeze'.

Branding.

First a little lot of background . . .

Branding, at the Stringam ranch, invariably took place in high summer.

And lasted forever.

Okay, I was six. Everything seemed to last forever.

Except Christmas, but I digress . . .

For the entire day prior, every rider on the place would be involved in gathering the herds. With an operation the size of ours, this was no easy task. The fields were a section (640 acres) in size and, normally, two riders would have to work together, collecting the herd. Then those smaller herds would be gathered, one by one, into the main corrals.

The sun would be high and hot, baking the wonderful scent out of the sage.

There would be glorious vistas of open, wind-swept prairies where one could see, literally, for miles.

Heat and dust and sweat.

And an unbelievable din.

Picture this: Hundreds of cow and calf pairs, which, when herded together immediately become . . . unpaired.

They start bawling for each other. ('Where are you?' in cow, invariably sounds the same, 'Mooooah') They aren't smart enough to actually . . . look . . . for one another.

The cows merely sniff any calf that happens in their vicinity. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Mooooah'.

And so it goes . . .

Slowly, each herd is driven to the corrals and penned. Hay is thrown into the mangers. The cows finally find their babies. Peace is restored, somewhat.

Then, another herd is brought in and everyone immediately becomes separated again.

More bawling. Then they get sorted out. Then another herd.

This goes on all day and into the evening.

Things are quiet for the night.

Then, the big day dawns. The most exciting, but noisiest day of the year.

Cows and calves are separated and the cows are moved into the largest pen.

The calves go into pens which connect to the chutes. One by one, these smaller, though not necessarily easier to work with, animals are pushed down the chute and into the squeeze (an apparatus which captures the calf and then converts into a table by tilting sideways).

And then, with the noise, come the smells.

Hot metal of irons in the fire.

Burning hair as those irons are briefly pressed to the tough hide.

KRS, a disinfectant.

Manure.

One by one, the calves are branded. Inoculated. Then released.

One by one, they find their Mamas.

And slowly, ever so slowly, order is restored.

Then the entire herd is released and driven back out into the pastures.

More noise and confusion.

Then all is quiet.

 Every year, on the ranch, this is a highlight.

For us humans, anyways. (I have to admit, it probably isn't quite as exciting for the cows, or their babies.)

Enough background . . .

This was the most exciting year of all. This was the first year I was able to participate. Well, as something more than just chief mischief-maker.

The excitement was palpable.

A crew had been assembled. (As branding is such a big job, invariably, neighbors come in to help.)

My oldest sister and I were given the smallest, and nearest field. We left the chatting, gesticulating crowd and headed towards our assignment.

The two of us gathered our herd and pushed them towards the corrals. At one point, just below the ranch buildings, it is necessary to cross the Milk River.

Twice.

But the crossing is shallow and, usually, the cows show little concern.

Our small herd marched across without a pause. We chased them up the hill and into the corrals. Then we sat back and watched as the others herds came in.

There were a few tense moments, but mostly, everything went off well.

The herd was tucked in for the evening.

The next morning, the real work began.

I was assigned to be the 'pusher'.

And no, it's not what it sounds like.

I was the person inside the chute with the calves, pushing each of them into the squeeze so they could be branded.

It was hot, heavy work, especially for a 6-year-old.

And I loved it.

Push. Push. Push. Gate closes. Squeeze . . . ummm . . . squeezes. Tilts sideways. Branding. Shots. Tilts back. Squeeze - unsqueezes. Front gate opens. Calf bolts.

Push. Push. Push . . .

And so it went throughout the day. At noon, Mom appeared with lunch for everyone and we abandoned our posts to gather in whatever bit of shade we could find, and gorge.

Have I mentioned that Mom is a great cook?

Two brothers, neighboring ranchers noted for their pranks and hijinks, were on hand to help us out.

They had found a comfortable spot for lunch on one side of the car Mom had driven up in.

Mom and Dad had relaxed on the other side.

Mom had made the mistake of supplying sliced watermelon for our dessert.

The two brothers, as they had finished each piece of watermelon, launched the rinds up into the air over the car, aiming for my hapless parents.

Two rinds had been met with silence. Obvious misses.

The third rind went up.

"Hey!" My Dad's voice.

Bingo.

Dad got up and stalked, playfully, around the car, but the brothers were already gone. He shook his head, turned towards the corrals and walked over to stand next to the chute.

It was the signal for the rest of us to get back to work.

I crawled up the side of the chute and prepared to drop down inside.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alfred, one of the brothers, sneaking up behind my Dad. I turned to watch.

Alfred was carrying a pitcher of ice-cold water, which he proceeded to empty into my Dad's back pocket.

"Hey!" Dad spun around. But by then, Alfred had, once more, disappeared.

Everyone, including Dad, got a real laugh out of that one. Fortunately, with the hot, dry air, his soaked pant leg soon dried.

By sunset, the work was finished and the herds sent back out to pasture. Everyone who had been involved assembled at the house for supper, feeling sunburnt, windblown, tired . . . and happy.

That year, as in previous years, we all sat around the table, talking and laughing.

And it was then I realized that branding was a time of gathering, not just of cattle, but of  family and friends. Because of the vast distances between settlements in this prairie country, people go months without seeing each other.

So branding, in addition to being the apex of the year, regarding the work, is also a time of visiting. Re-acquaintance and exchanging of news.

Perhaps that is the reason it is so important to all of us who live on the ranch.

The Cow Made Me Do It!

At least one of us was a lady . . .

It was hot!

I was tired!

Give me a minute, I'm sure I can think of better excuses . . .

The milk cow had been quartered in the east pasture, waiting for her to 'freshen'. (A cowboy term for 'give birth'.)

I know.

Cowboys are weird.

Moving on . . .

Her moment was getting close.

Time for her move into closer quarters.

And I was elected to do it.

On foot.

Sigh.

Dad dropped me off at the gate with specific instructions. "Just chase her along the ditch, past the ranch and into the near-west pasture."

I nodded. Instructions received and understood.

He drove off.

Things went well.

Except that Madame Cow (I use this term lightly) couldn't quite get into her head the part of our instructions that said, "PAST the ranch."

I should explain here that the entrance to the ranch was on the north side of the road. The ditch we were following was also on the north side of the road.

And, when the breach in the fence appeared, Madame Cow insisted on turning . . . north. Towards the buildings.

I had to sprint around her (remember I was on foot) and turn her back towards the road.

As which time she took the corner and headed east up the ditch we had just come down.

Another sigh. A little more forceful this time. And accompanied by a "Stupid cow!"

I got around her (feet, again) and turned her back west.

She followed the fence and again turned towards the ranch.

Way wrong!

"Stupid, dumb cow!"

Back towards the road.

Please head west. Please?!

Nope. East.

*#$! Cow!

Just a little swear.

This went on for some time, and my language, I'm ashamed to say . . . worsened.

Or got more colorful. That would be the 'PC' term.

Remember, I was raised around hired men.

Experts at the English language.

Or at least a colorful part of it.

Not an excuse, just a reason.

Again and again, I got round her and tried to head her in the correct direction.

Again and again, she . . . didn't.

And my language got more and more peppered with, shall we say, 'colorful metaphors'?

None of which explained to said cow exactly what I expected of her.

I have to admit that the poor animal was probably quite confused by this time.

There were the buildings. With hay and comfort.

Why were we going the other way?

Okay, strange human, I'll just go back where I came from.

No?

Except that it would have probably sounded more like this:

Food!

Home!

Food!

Home!

In 'cow' of course.

Finally, after what seemed hours of chasing back and forth, and turning the air blue with . . . ahem . . . profanities (me, not her), the cow skipped past the ranch entrance and, wonder of wonders, walked right over to the proper field.

Eureka! (real word)

I opened the gate and she stepped sedately through.

Then turned and looked at me.

Stupid human!

At least one of us had retained her gentility.

I closed the gate and started back towards the ranch, humming happily. All that had gone on before conveniently forgotten.

Dad's truck slid to a stop beside me. "Need a ride?"

I climbed in, still humming.

Dad drove for a moment. Then he said, not looking at me, "I got a real education this morning."

I looked at him, innocently, "Oh?"

"Yes. I discovered that my middle daughter knew words I didn't even think she had even heard of."

"Oh." Very tiny voice, "You heard me?"

"Heard you! They heard you in town!"

"Oh."

That was all that was said.

It was never brought up again.

But I knew that Dad knew.

And he knew . . . never mind.

I'd like to say that I never used 'foul' language again, but I'd be lying.

For some reason, working with cows brings out the lowest form of expression.

Probably a good thing I don't work with them any more.

And I should probably point out that swearing isn't an easy habit to get rid of.

Even now, years later, a very strange word will pop into my head.

I'm happy to report that it never makes it past my lips, but I feel some dismay in the fact that it appears at all.

Sigh.

I'm a work in progress.

I should have taken lessons from the cow.