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.

Sing We Now While Driving . . .

Dad. He of the wondrous voice.

My Dad loves to sing.

Fortunately, for the rest of us, he has a very nice voice.

And great rhythm.

It's just his timing that needs work.

Let me explain . . .

When one lived as far from civilization as we did, 'going somewhere' inevitably involved . . . well . . . travelling.

For extended periods of time.

I'd like to point out here, that wonderful inventions like DS's, cell phones , IPads and the all-important DVD players existed only in science fiction. Our entertainment consisted of visiting, looking out the window, and books.

Or, in my case, just visiting or looking out the window. Reading in a car, though perhaps my favorite diversion, unavoidably made me carsick.

How did I get over here . . .? Oh, right. Dad . . . and singing.

Whenever we travelled, there was always that stretch of road (I know you've been there), usually somewhere in the middle, where we ran out of conversation and the scenery got boring.

And everyone in the car, driver included, got sleepy.

That's when Dad would start to sing.

At full volume.

He really only had one.

See what I mean about timing . . .?

His family was treated to such classics as, "Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder". Or, "My Diane" (my personal favorite), "Two Little Boys" (which always made me cry), "Daisy", or the ever popular, "The Doors Swing In and the Doors Swing Out".

Usually, Mom would also join in.

Suffice it to say that, before us kids could carry on a lucid conversation, we could sing. We didn't always know what we were singing, and our school teachers sometimes questioned the suitability of a song that took place almost entirely within a saloon ("The Doors Swing In . . ." - see above.)

But that's beside the point . . .

We were in tune and definitely had the words right.

Or at least as right as Dad did.

It wasn't until some years later that I realized my Dad used . . . poetic license. One day, I was singing "Two Little Boys" while I cleaned out a pen in the barn. Unbeknownst (real word!) to me, Dad was leaning on the fence in the far corner, listening.

I got to one line and just did what he had always done. "Da Da Da Da Da Da Dum Dee."

He burst out laughing.

When I glared at him accusingly, he told me that he'd been waiting for me to get to that line so he could finally hear what the real words were. He had never been able to remember and had just put in 'placer' lyrics.

I had memorized them accordingly.

Scary, isn't it that we pick up what we are taught . . . mistakes and all?

I've wandered from the point.

Again.

Now, whenever I drive along a road that Dad took us down, or even a road that resembles a road that . . .

I remember. Feeling happily sleepy. And that beautiful baritone voice, suddenly belting out the lyrics to some song that probably only Dad remembered.

Or possibly that Dad made up.

But so soothing to us denizens of the back seat.

Though in his 87th year, my Dad still drives.

And sings.

Wait, he's started, "Cause Some Dirty Dog Put Glue on the Saddle".

I have to go . . .