Everyone Loves ET . . . Eventually

Okay, he's cute!

The family was at the movies.

Again.

We had popcorn and treats.

Soft drinks.

And the quickest route to the bathroom mapped into our heads.

We were ready.

Erik was four.

A little more than eager.

The theatre darkened.

Slowly.

Expectation grew.

They don't do this any more, but in times past, every step to the opening of a movie served to heighten the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Slowly lowered lights.

Projector springing to life.

Train of white light beamed on the still-closed curtains.

Said curtains slowly drawing back.

Pictures suddenly appearing.

Sound.

It was inspired.

Everyone in the theatre was transfixed.

Hands which only recently had been scrabbling (Grandpa's word) through the popcorn hung suspended, unmoving.

The audience waited, barely breathing, for the first signs of Movie.

And then it finally came, restoring breath and life to those watching.

And they were truly prepared to be entertained. Even bewitched.

Our movie that night was ET. The story about the little Extra Terrestrial.

It began

Cute little kids and family interaction.

ET was introduced.

Erik crawled into my lap and announced in what he fondly believed was a whisper, “I don't like him. He's scary!”

Not scary enough that he wanted to leave, however.

He watched as the children in the movie befriended the helpless, stranded little alien.

Adopted him.

Loved him.

(Spoiler alert . . .)

He cried when ET 'died'.

And cried, again, when he came back to life.

At the end of the movie, he sighed happily and followed the rest of us out of the theatre.

On the way home, as usual, we talked about the film and Erik posed the question, “Why was ET so much cuter at the end of the movie than at the beginning?”

I stared at him. “He was just the same, sweetie.”

“No. He was cuter at the end.”

We thought about it.

How could something that really never changed in looks get 'better' looking?

And then it hit me.

“Because, at the end, you loved him, sweetie.”

“Oh. Right.”

And it was true.

The ugly little alien remained ugly until we got to know him.

Loved him.

And then we saw his beauty.

Truth comes best from a four-year-old.

Mitten to the Rescue

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!
Photo credit: polarbearstale.blogspot.com

We were shopping.

I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity.

I need a really good excuse.

It was Christmas.

Okay, a really good excuse . . .

My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Grant. Their Dad, my Sweetheart.

The hardest person to shop for.

After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools.

My husband's favourite place on earth.

Really.

It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.

But I digress . . .

We set out.

It was December.

Winter.

In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow.

Ask anyone.

But avoid those with chattering teeth.

Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.

Or understood.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.

At first, things went well.

A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.

We made it into the city.

And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.

Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.

The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.

But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost.

This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.

Or, if you are my husband, by opening the window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.

It's all about timing.

And coordination.

Neither of which I have.

And both of which were to be needed shortly.

Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield.

Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in.

Total time wasted? Hours.

Okay, well, it seemed like hours.

There must be a better way.

I would try Grant's method!

It was genius!

When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.

I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)

Closer. Closer.

There!

I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.

Snap!

Okay, that didn't sound good.

As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done.

The blade was still in my hand.

I had snapped the entire thing off it's arm.

Umm . . . oops?

The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white.

Well, half of it at any rate.

Unfortunately, it was the driver's half.

Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.

And usually, the driver does.

Something needed to be done.

And there was no one but me to do it.

Rats!

Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side.

Okay. Now I could see.

That's important.

But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering for the lack of wiper-age.

Hmm.

I looked around.

Our options were . . . limited.

“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.

My daughter holding up her red mitten.

I stared at it.

Huh. Might work.

I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceed to tie it to the other wiper arm.

There.

Perfect.

We switched on the wipers.

Wipe.

Wipe.

It worked!

Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.

I don't have to tell you how it looked.

In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.

But it worked.

We finished our trip.

Shopping done. Purchases made.

Van safely parked back on the driveway.

And Grant replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.

Stupid thing.

The wiper, not Grant.

I learned several things from this:

1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.

Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:

1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.

Wait, I did learn something!

Yes, I know it's summer.

But it's also Canada.

Pack your mittens!

Responsibility + No Sleep = ???

My Dad was big on responsibility.

Like lots of dads.

And he tried to teach it to his kids.

Like lots of dads.

With more or less success.

Like lots . . . you get the picture.

From my earliest memories, my Dad has been a finisher. Any task he was given or that he assigned himself was always completed with exactness.

It was a good example for us to follow.

Most of the time.

At one point, when I was little, Dad had been assigned to teach a class in our church congregation.

He took it very seriously.

Not only did it give him the opportunity to share his thoughts and beliefs with a group of young people, but it also provided a captive audience.

Something else he loved.

Moving on . . .

Every Sunday, one could find my Dad.

Perched on a too small folding chair, expounding to his group of enthusiastic eager excited resigned youngsters.

He was always well-prepared and ready.

Eager to share what he had learned.

But my Dad was also the county's only veterinarian.

At certain times of the year, he was the epitome (great word, right?) of busy.

Still, he would show up for his class on Sunday morning, ready to instruct.

It was spring.

Calving season.

Dad hadn't seen his bed for days.

Mom drove to church because he didn't trust his blurred vision and slow reflexes.

But he could still teach!

He collected his manual and scriptures and took his seat, facing his little congregation.

They were, more or less, his.

He began.

A few minutes later, he jumped.

And . . . woke himself up.

Not a good sign.

He peeked at his audience.

For the first time, ever, they were looking at him.

All of them.

And paying attention.

In fact, one could probably say they were riveted.

Dad felt his face grow hot.

He glanced down at his lesson.

What on earth had he been saying? He had no idea.

Dad taught us two things that day.

1. Neither wind, snow, sleet, or lack of sleep should keep anyone from carrying through with their responsibilities.
2. Lessons are much more interesting when the teacher is asleep.

Don't you dare fall asleep in my class! That's my job . . .

Hmm . . . you heard it here first, teachers.

When City Hits the Country

City Kids!

My cousin was visiting.

For two whole weeks.

She was a city girl.

But the only difference between a city girl and a ranch girl was location.

Right?

I took her swimming in the river.

She got sand in her suit.

She taught me ballet.

I fell over a lot.

I taught her how to swing from a rope in the hay loft.

She got a rope burn on her hands.

She taught me how act out stories.

I . . . actually, I liked that.

A lot.

I tried to get her to ride the pigs.

She stood outside the fence and made faces.

She taught me gymnastics.

I fell and knocked the air out of me.

I decided it was time to teach her my most favourite thing.

Horseback riding.

I drug her out to the corral and pushed her up to the top rail.

Kicking and screaming.

Her, not me.

Looking back, I can see the differences between the two of us as we perched up on that fence.

The country and the city girl.

Me, in my inevitable shirt and jeans.

She in her white slacks and blouse and light blue sweater.

Even a fool would have found it obvious.

I wasn't a fool.

Well, actually . . . never mind.

The horses were drowsing in the corral.

She eyed them suspiciously.

“They're okay,” I reassured her. “C'mon.”

Trustingly, she followed me down and into the corral.

I picked out the nearest horse, Coco.

“Here. This is a good one.”

“But she's so huge!” Her eyes got bigger as she drew closer.

“She's gentle!” I gave the large, coco-brown mare a reassuring pat. The horse reached out and lipped my hair. “See?”

My cousin moved beside me.

“Okay. What do I do?”

I showed her how to stand beside the horse and grab a handful of mane.

Then I cupped my hands, told her to step into them and boosted her up.

At the proper time, she swung her leg.

She was aboard.

The excitement must be coursing through her.

She must be palpitating with accomplishment and eagerness and a sense of 'the world is mine'.

I stepped back.

I must admit that everything my cousin did was graceful.

Her walking. Her dancing.

Her falling off a horse.

It should have been all right.

The horse wasn't even moving, after all.

But she didn't land on the ground.

Instead, she fell into something much softer.

I don't think she was pleased.

I guess some people have a problem with large, steaming piles of . . . horse buns. Road apples. Horse puckies.

To the uninitiated, manure.

Sigh.

People are so weird.

She got to her feet.

And looked down at her light blue sweater.

Her heretofore pristine light blue sweater.

Then she looked at me.

Uh-oh.

I never got my cousin back up on one of our horses.

Instead we spent the rest of her stay dancing. Doing plays and gymnastics. Reading.

While Mom got the marks out of her sweater.

Before her mom saw them.

City girls.

Pffff.

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.

The End of Slavery

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.

He had slaves.

At least that is how his children saw it . . .

Dad worked hard.

Doing . . . ranch stuff.

It took him most of the day.

Every day.

When he came in at the end of the day, his chair looked really, really good.

And it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.

Great motivation.

Silly little things like removing one's work boots or tossing things in the garbage weren't nearly big enough.

Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.

That's where we came in.

His six little, willing slaves.

Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.

This was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.

Don't get the wrong idea.

There was no kicking involved . . .

The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.

The smaller person, standing, would turn their back and straddle the lifted foot.

Then they would grasp the boot.

That's where the large foot came in.

While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.

Small person, and boot, would be moved, slowly, away from the large person.

Until, at last, the boot would drop to the floor.

Surgery completed.

The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.

And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have moved out of his chair.

Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)

Moving on . . .

Dad was also reluctant to leave his chair for such frivolities as throwing things in the garbage.

Call in the slaves once more.

Dad always finished the evening meal with a toothpick.

I know, I know, the rest of the world would infinitely prefer ice cream, but what can I say?

Dad even followed his ice cream with a toothpick.

That's just Dad.

He even had a preference.

For toothpicks, I mean.

He liked the wooden ones.

Which he would then proceed to chew into a little ball of pulp.

Umm . . . ick.

Now in our earlier years, us kids could always be counted on to receive the little ball of 'ick' and drop it into the proper receptacle.

As we grew older, we got, for want of a better term, smarter.

We found other places to be when Dad got to the end of his little splinter of wood.

Dad had to get . . . creative.

My Mom had a plant.

A beautiful pineapple plant.

She had grown it from the cut off top of a pineapple imported from her and Dad's trip to Hawaii.

I think the rules for bringing fruit across the border were different then.

But I digress . . .

It was large.

Really large.

And it sat on the floor right beside Dad's chair.

He's only human, he can't be blamed for what happened next.

He called out for a child.

Any child.

We were all hidden in the family room.

Giggling.

He sighed and looked for someplace to deposit his little, wooden offering.

Huh. A large, leafy plant.

Right beside him.

If Mom hadn't wanted it tampered with, she should have found somewhere else to put it.

He hid his little lump of sawdust in the pot.

Under the convenient leaves.

Mission accomplished.

Hey, that worked great!

And there wasn't a sign of anything!

He had discovered something new and wonderful.

Especially when one was blessed with slacker children.

Like us . . .

He did it the next night.

And the next.

And for many, many nights afterwards.

Then, one day, when Mom was taking care of her beloved plant, she noticed that it wasn't looking very healthy.

She pulled out the pot to investigate.

I don't have to tell you what she found.

At this point, the layer of chewed up bits of toothpick was a couple of inches deep.

The plant was obviously as fond of them as us kids were.

And protesting in the only way it could.

By dying.

Okay, yes, that is a bit extreme, but it was a plant.

You have to admit it didn't have many options.

Huffily (real word), Mom moved the plant somewhere . . . not close to Dad.

And put a garb,age container beside his chair.

Then,soon after, made him wear shoes.

Everyone was happy.

We have all moved away from home.

Dad still has a garbage can beside his chair.

And he still wears shoes that he can remove by himself.

But when we were visiting a short time ago, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.

It was a short walk down memory lane (in work boots).

Of Cabins and Summers on the Lake

Squirrels on the deck of the Stringam cabin.

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

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

Cabin, I mean.

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

He scouted around for a nice piece of property.

And found one.

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

It was truly beautiful.

Clear, icy-cold, blue water.

And I do mean icy. Brrr.

Pure air.

Lots of trees.

We fell in love.

The only thing missing was the . . . cabin.

No problem.

Dad would build it.

He chose a design and ordered materials.

They were duly delivered.

And immediately stolen.

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

So to speak.

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

They came.

And this time, they stayed.

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

Then began to prepare the land.

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

Sweat ran freely.

I know.

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

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

Small rocks.

Really small rocks.

Okay, I was useless.

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

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

Mom kept me near her.

Across the road from the action.

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

Moving on . . .

The cabin went up magically.

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

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

Which they did.

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

Mmm. Food.

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

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

But it was screened on all sides.

Wonderful for gathering around on a cool summer evening.

For visiting.

Something my family excelled at.

The cabin had huge windows facing the lake.

And a large deck.

Another favourite place.

Where we could sit and watch the water.

And dream.

Something else I excelled at.

We spent several summers at the lake.

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

Boating.

Splashing around in the frigid water.

Icy cold cans of pop out of the lake.

Games played beside a snapping fire.

Wiener/marshmallow roasts.

Hide and seek in the trees.

Ghost stories.

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

It was wonderful.

But it ended.

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

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

Dad replaced the window and promptly sold the cabin.

Too bad.

Because it was wonderful way to spend the summer.

There is a codicil.

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

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

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

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

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

The man's mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. A year or so ago.”

“So . . . it's not your cabin?”

“Right.”

“So . . . breaking and entering.”

“Right.”

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

I miss it.

You Can Go Back

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

I have always lived in the shadows of the Rockies.

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

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

In my early years, it was Waterton Lakes.

How our family loved Waterton!

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

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

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

The activities were many and varied.

Paradise for a little girl.

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

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

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

And Waterton certainly had that.

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

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

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

Whichever happened first.

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

My family went back for a reunion.

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

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

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

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

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

But all else had changed.

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

The swimming pool had disappeared.

In its place stood a great hotel complex.

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

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

We wandered around for most of a day, reminiscing.

It was still Waterton.

There was still a lot to see and do.

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

Hike. Explore the great Hotel. Fish. Shop.

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

Boat.

Swim in the new hotel's grand indoor pool.

Just not the things we most fondly remembered as children.

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

They were wrong.

You can.

Just be prepared for some changes.

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

Visit it!

History Through the Eyes of a Four-Year-Old

Turtle Mountain - After the tragedy

Not far from Calgary, Alberta, and just east of the Crowsnest Pass, lies the small, bustling town of Frank, Alberta, nestled on the floor of a deeply-glaciated valley.

Looming menacingly nearby is Turtle Mountain.

Also nearby is a scene of a destruction of such magnitude that it has never been equalled!

In the early morning hours of April 29, 1903, Turtle Mountain collapsed, resulting in the greatest landslide in North American history.

In 100 seconds: at least 76 people were buried alive under tons of massive limestone boulders; three-quarters of the homes in Frank were crushed like balsa wood; over a mile of the Canadian Pacific Railroad was completely destroyed; and a river became a lake.

Yet, few people have ever heard about it.                                                                                                                                      - Neil Simpson

My parents were driving out to the coast. Travelling through Frank Slide was a necessity.

In the years after the tragedy, little of the rubble had been disturbed. The giant boulders and pieces of mountain lay where they had fallen, a silent testament to those trapped forever beneath.

The road had been cut through and the railway reconnected.

Little else had been disturbed.

Driving through, one's car dwarfed by the massive chunks of rock, one could easily imagine the horror and heartbreak of that fateful morning.

Unless one was four.

Which I was.

I should mention here that, when our family travelled, the scenery or anything else flying past us outside the car never interested me. Because when I was in a car I was either:

1. Sick
2. Oblivious
3. Sick and oblivious
4. Asleep

The only thing that could rouse me were the words, “Look! Horses!”

I would leap up instantly, despite being heretofore (real word) comatose and press my nose against the nearest window. “Where!? Where!?”

One or the other of my parents would point out the eagerly anticipated animals.

I would stare at them for as long as time permitted, then collapse back onto the seat with a sigh and return to whatever I had been doing.

I was fairly easily entertained.

But I digress . . .

The road had been long. We had already been travelling for an hour.

I was drowsing on the back seat.

Suddenly, Dad spoke up, “Here we are kids! Frank Slide!”

At almost the same time, my Mom said, “Look at all the rock!”

The tone of voice was the same as what my parents used whenever they pointed out something interesting.

Like horses.

But because the word 'horse' had not actually been used, I was slow to respond.

I must admit that I never even heard my Mom's comment.

I sat up and pressed my face against the window.

I don't know what I was expecting. Dad had said something about a 'slide'.

To me that meant something 'playground-y'.

All I could see were huge rocks.

What kind of playground was this?

Finally, I turned to my parents and said, “Can't see it!”

They burst out laughing.

What was that all about?

Mom pointed out the window. “Can't you see all the rock?”

I glanced outside. “Yeah.”

“Well that's it!”

I looked again. “But I can't see it!”

I don't think they ever figured out that I was talking about the 'slide'.

The real slide. The one Dad had seen.

All they wanted was to look at the stupid rocks.

Parents are so weird.

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?

Not Just the News . . .

My Dad loved to read the newspaper.

At the breakfast table, after we had finished eating.

Let me rephrase that.

My Dad loved to read the newspaper.

At the breakfast table . . . you get the picture.

Oh, he absorbed the important news stories.

And took note of local and international events and even sales.

But after he had digested the headlines, he would continue to read.

And . . . umm . . . put his own twist upon what he found there.

“Huh. Look at that. Jeffrey James died.”

There would be a pause as everyone in the room tried to decide if they had ever heard that name before.

Finally, some curious soul would ask the question, “Oh? Who was Jeffrey James?”

“Haven't got the slightest idea.”

There would be a general groan and much head shaking.

But that's my Dad.

Sometimes he would embroider a story, improving it for our benefit.

And it wasn't until the story got too outlandish that we would realize it.

“Well, it says here that they're planning a new bridge across the Old Man River near Fort Macleod.”

Again, someone would take the bait. “Really?”

“Yeah. Four lane. The works.”

“Well, it is the Alaska Highway. They probably need the improvement.”

“Suspension.”

“Well, that'll be nice.”

“Yep. It's just going to hang there. Suspended. Be hard to get on and off of.”

At which time, he would get a smack on the arm.

Or a platter of scrambled eggs upended over his head.

Either or.

Sometimes, Dad would cut the story out of whole cloth.

“Our taxes are going up.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yep. They need the money for a new fund.”

“Really?”

“Yep, the town council Mexico fund.”

“What sort of fund is that?”

“It's the fund where all of the town council get to go to Mexico.”

“What for?”

“Well, to hold their meetings.”

“In Mexico?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that doesn't make much sense.”

Or . . .

“Well, look at that. The President of the United States is going up with the next Moon Mission.”

“Well, that sounds dangerous. Why?”

“I guess he wants to see for himself what all of the excitement is about.”

“Weird.”

And, for some time we would think that the story was true.

In fact, we were even known to spread the rumour.

With embarrassing, but amusing, results.

You'd think we would learn.

But Dad wouldn't limit himself to making up stories.

Oh, no.

Sometimes, he would improve the staid old news in other ways.

By inserting his favourite poems.

Have I mentioned that he loves to recite?

“Little Johnny took a drink,

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4!”

We would nod and smile.

That part, we had gotten used to.

Anyone new to the family, however, would be understandably confused.

Once, my almost sister-in-law was seated at the breakfast table with us.

Dad was hidden behind the newspaper, filling us in on the day's happenings.

Suddenly, his tone changed.

The boy stood on the burning deck.

His feet were in the fire.

The Captain said, You're burning up!”

The boy said, “You're a liar!”

She peered timidly around the paper, trying to see where he was reading.

Finally, “Where does it say that?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “No where, dear. It's in his head!”

“Oh.”

And still she joined the family.

Go figure.

But that's part of the Stringam legacy.

To this day, I can't simply read the paper.

I especially have great fun with the classifieds.

I guess I just had too good an example.

Don't Die With Your Book Still In You
Carving Angels: A delightful story. An old blind man regains his desire to carve.
http://bit.ly/nttqEj

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'.

You've Been Skunked!

Guelph - 24 years later - the smell is almost gone . . .

Dad was a veterinarian student in Guelph, Ontario.

That fact, alone shouldn't strike terror into anyone's heart.

It will.

Christmas 1946 was a special time.

The veterinarian students (hereinafter known as the Vets) had pooled their resources and bought some decorations and a small tree.

These, they had used to decorate their balcony.

It looked quite festive.

They were rather pleased with themselves.

Something that happened often.

But I digress . . .

Other students also noticed their efforts.

Students who were either too broke or too lazy to decorate their own area.

Not a good situation.

Things happen.

The Vets came back from class a couple of days before Christmas to discover that their tree was . . . missing.

Investigation was indicated.

After a short, very short search, they discovered that the thief or thieves had left a trail of decorations down the hall.

Obviously the work of amateurs.

The Vets followed the telltale trail into their neighbor's corridor and, further, into one of the dorm rooms there.

Oh, if only Law and Order could be this easy to figure out.

They knocked.

Politely.

Actually, they probably hammered violently, but my way sounds better.

Moving on . . .

Several young men answered the door, then vehemently (good word) protested their innocence.

And as strongly denied that they had access to the closet to which the trail led.

Undaunted, the Vets demanded that they open the door or it would be gently pulled from its hinges.

At that point a key was quickly produced, the door opened, and the disclosed tree retrieved.

The Vets wasted no time in restoring it to its rightful place of honor on their balcony.

All was well.

Or almost well.

Remember. These were young men.

In college.

Payback was indicated.

Two of these young men had recently uncovered a den of skunks.

As part of their training, and because they were bored, they de-scented those skunks.

But saved the glands.

Weird.

One of them suddenly came up with a brilliant plan.

They would chop up the glands, add a little water, then carefully fill a syringe with the resulting goo.

No sooner imagined than accomplished.

Now, I should point out here that, in the late 40s, each door in the dorms at Guelph, and indeed, everywhere, opened with a large, old-fashioned key.

The keyhole was big enough to peek through.

And certainly large enough to accommodate a syringe needle.

While everyone was at class, the two vet students took their syringe and squirted a little of their prized 'essence' through the keyhole of every door in that corridor.

The smell was immediate . . . and indescribable.

Hmm. Maybe they had been a little precipitate (another good word)?

But the damage was done.

For the last day before vacation, everyone who had anything to do with that building, did it in as brief a time as possible.

Sleeping was out of the question.

Most of the young men simply left town as soon as their last class was over.

Perhaps distance would lessen the smell.

Dad didn't give the prank much thought during his Christmas vacation.

Some things are best forgotten.

And, astonishingly enough, by the time they got back to the campus, the smell was all but gone.

Good thing carpets hadn't been invented yet.

But everyone learned something from the experience.

            1. Leave skunks alone.

            2. Never, ever play tricks on veterinarian students.

Dating Disasters in the 40s

Who wouldn't want to date this face?!

My 86-year-old Dad and his good, good friend, Shirley just left to head back home after a visit.

I'm missing them already.

So today's post, in honor of my Dad, and because I have 'dating' on my mind, will be about . . .

Dad's Worst Date, Ever!!!

This should be fun . . .

Dad was home from college for the Christmas vacation in the winter of 1946.

He'd been working very hard.

At least that is what he told me.

Moving on . . .

He was ready for some fun.

What could be better than a dance?

With girls.

He gussied (real word - I looked it up) up and drove to Raymond, a nearby town.

The band was hot (my word) and the girls were cute.

He was in heaven.

One young lady (hereafter known as The Girl) particularly took his eye.

He asked her to dance.

The Girl agreed.

They danced.

He asked her again.

Again she said yes.

They danced.

This went on for some time.

Finally, he asked if he could call on her.

This was the 40s. Guys said things like that . . .

The Girl was most agreeable to that suggestion as well.

He floated home.

A couple of days later, he drove out to see her.

Now, I should point out, here, that it was only about twenty minutes from Dad's family home to The Girl's family home. When the conditions were good.

As in - during the summer.

But it was winter.

Anything goes.

Dad reached the girl's house just as a blizzard hit.

That was okay with him. He was warm and safe.

And he had The Girl totally to himself. (Well, totally to himself if one didn't count her parents and siblings. Siblings friends . . . you get the picture.)

They enjoyed a few minutes of conversation.

Things were going well.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Dum, dum Duuuum!

Actually it probably sounded more like," Bing-bong!"

But that would be boring.

And totally not-ominous.

The story needed ominous-ness.

On we go . . .

It was another guy.

And from the ensuing conversation, one who was already close friends with The Girl.

For the remainder of the evening, the two of them tried to engage The Girl in conversation.

And glare unobtrusively at each other.

Finally, the evening drew to a close.

It was time to leave.

Then, the ANNOUNCEMENT.

I capitalized this because it's important.

The Girl's mother announced that the blizzard had grown so bad that she would allow neither of the suitors to leave.

The two of them would have to spend the night.

Okay, not so bad.

Together.

Umm . .

In the same bed.

Yikes?!

It was the most uncomfortable night Dad had ever spent (including his time serving in the army).

At daylight, he peeked out the window.

The storm had blown itself out.

It was the best sight of his life.

No need to even stop to dress as he'd not bothered to undress.

In fifteen seconds he was out the front door.

Leaving an astonished The Girl's mother with a batter-coated spoon half-raised in greeting.

Dad left in such a hurry that he even beat the snowplows.

He didn't care.

The sooner he made it home, the sooner he could begin to forget the whole thing.

And 65 years later, he's beginning to.

First Date

The cute one. Bottom row. Second from the right. 

First dates.

Relationship killer.

Or kindler?

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

He was mine.

We decided to go on a date.

Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

I went along, sitting right behind the driver.

Huh. He was even cute from that angle.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

Sigh.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family.

And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Go figure.

Moving on . . .

I watched.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day, but I am getting ahead of myself . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

And suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Perfect.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.

Really perfect.

He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up.

It moved.

Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure.

Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church. I had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant's heart fell into his shoes.

Really.

It's still there today.

Moving on . . .

Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Sigh.

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.