The Table

Due to popular demand, today's post is about our table, hand made by my husby and finished for Christmas Eve, 1999. It's been the scene of many, many family get-togethers.

The Craftsman. Ummm . . . crafting.

And yes . . . he dresses like that all of the time.
You should see the looks he gets when he puts on his tie
and goes to work . . .

Building detritus (real word).
These things don't just build themselves, you know . . .

The almost finished product!
A single oak board forms the outer edge.
Grant steamed and bent it to fit.
That's a story in itself!

Legs were crafted from salvaged oak boards, laminated together and then carved.

Finished and ready to feast!

Dining With Dogs: Spoiler/Ick Alert . . .

Now wouldn't you love to invite them over to dinner?

I know you've all had one.

Some of you might have had several.

You never forget them, no matter how hard you try . . .

My husband and I were hosting our very first, ever, dinner party.

We were starting small.

People we thought would be forgiving if things didn't go perfectly.

Okay, it was a few of my former college buddies.

Fellow journalists.

I probably should have given it more thought . . .

Things were going well.

We had served them their before-dinner drinks of chilled ginger ale.

And yes, that is as high-class as we get.

Moving on . . .

They had exclaimed loudly and satisfactorily over our new addition, a cute little Old English Sheepdog puppy named Skaya.

And greeted Skaya's companion and chewing toy, two-year-old Muffy.

Another OES.

Who, by the by, couldn't understand what any of us saw in this small, annoying ball of fuzz.

We chatted. 

That's a classy term for 'gabbed like crows'. 

Because we're classy.

Ahem . . .

Dinner was ready.

They took their places while I proudly carried in the tureen (a classy term for 'bowl' because we were being . . . I'll move on) of Beef Stroganoff.

Yes.

Really.

I made Beef Stroganoff.

Me, who can't even spell Beef Stroganoff.

Talk ceased as all eyes were on me.

It was my proudest moment.

And, just like that, it was over.

The side of the stupid bowl (okay, classy had definitely flown out the window) broke right out and the entire contents of hot deliciousness landed, unceremoniously, in the nearest girl's lap.

Did I mention hot?

Did I mention lap?

There was a breathless gasp of dismay.

And my friend was on her feet, scraping frenziedly at the formerly delicious-looking, now distinctly icky, main course.

But the story doesn't end there.

Too bad.

While my husby and I were frantically trying to clean up our sticky and uncomfortable guest, our  puppy, Skaya, was making quick work of everything that had hit the floor.

She was efficient.

And thorough.

We ignored her, foolishly thinking that we were taking care of the greater problem.

We were so wrong.

I hate it when that happens.

Skaya, having cleaned up the floor crawled under the table and proceeded to . . . umm . . . regurgitate everything she had just managed to swallow.

And managed to place it, quite effectively, on everyone else's shoes.

Something, I might mention, that wasn't lost on the aforementioned everyone else.

There was a mad scramble as people leaped to their feet in a vain attempt to avoid the . . . erm . . . mess.

My Husby grabbed the little pup's collar and dragged her towards the door.

Now, I should point out, here, that Skaya, when frightened, always performed what we later termed the 'submarine manoeuvre'.

Blow all tanks.

She left a (for want of a better term) 'trail' all the way across the floor and out the door.

For just a moment, there was silence in the dining room.

Picture the scene:

Beef Stroganoff, in its many incarnations, everywhere.

Guests liberally bedaubed (great word – I just found it).

Ichor (The long word for ick. Trust me.) in a glorious trail on top of everything else.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Or appetizing.

Needless to say, most of the guests turned down our offer of 'something else to eat?'.

And left soon after.

Never to return.

Our first dinner party taught us three things:

1. Never try to be classy.
2. Never try.
3. Beef Stroganoff – not just for eating anymore!

Now, when we invite people over, they are invariably handed a long, twisted wire and a hot dog and told to 'crowd into the fire and git started'.

It saves on mess.

And embarrassment.

And the dog is in its proper place.

Raising Heroes

A 'Cute' of puppies

For over 35 years, we have raised Old English Sheepdogs.

I love them.

To me, they are the perfect breed.

Happy, loyal, smart, easily trained, friendly, protective, gentle.

All of the best qualities of DOG writ large.

And hairy.

We have had many, many experiences with our puppies and dogs over the years, but one stands out . . .

A family came to look at our newest batch of puppies.

Now, I should explain here that a litter of OES puppies is called a 'cute' of puppies.

True story.

Moving on . . .

This family had a six-year-old boy and a fifteen-month-old girl.

The dog was for the boy, who was suffering from a severe illness.

A puppy was chosen.

By the very scientific method of sitting in the 'cute' and seeing which puppy climbed up into his lap.

Everyone was happy.

They left.

I thought of them from time to time, as I did all of my puppy families.

Then I got a phone call.

From the tearful, almost incoherent mother.

My heart stopped.

Until I realized that what she was crying were tears of joy.

Here is how she told it to me, with a little background added . . .

The family lived on the shore of one of the small lakes that are so plentiful here in northern Alberta. Their house was nestled in the thick trees surrounding the water.

Their yard opened directly out onto the beach.

A beautiful, picturesque spot.

But also dangerous to small children who might wander out into the cold (Canada has no other kind) water or become lost in the thick forest.

They were very careful.

Gates were kept locked at all times.

Back to the mother's story . . .

Originally purchased for their son, the little pup bonded, quickly and completely, with the little girl.

The two of them became inseparable.

Four months passed.

One summer day (we do get them in Canada, occasionally), the mother was in the front yard, filling the wading pool for her daughter who was playing in the back yard with the puppy, now six months old.

And already huge.

The puppy, that is.

Suddenly, the mother was startled by a loud scream.

She dropped the hose and broke records running to the back yard.

As she turned the corner, she skidded to a stop.

Someone had left the back gate, the entrance to all things dangerous, open.

And her baby was standing in that opening.

Or more accurately, struggling-to-move-forward, in that opening.

And screaming at the top of her lungs.

Directly behind her, teeth locked into her diaper and backside planted firmly on the ground, was the puppy.

Those teeth and that backside were all that was stopping her from heading where she wanted.

Into the great unknown.

She wasn't happy.

The mother quickly ran to her daughter and picked her up, relieving the puppy of his self-appointed task.

The dog wiggled happily (normal OES behaviour) and, when the mother set her baby down once more, the two of them trotted off to another corner of the yard to play.

Crisis over.

Everything forgotten.

By the two most active participants, anyways.

It took the mother a bit longer.

For some seconds, she stood there in the open gate, thinking about what she had just witnessed.

For one thing, how had the gate, so assiduously (real word) kept locked, been left open?

And, more importantly, how had that six-month-old puppy known that his friend should not, ever, leave the yard alone?

And how had he figured out what to do, just in time?

That's when the tears started.

Later, when she had calmed some and her baby was napping, she called me.

It was a wonderful story.

After we had stopped crying.

Needless to say, that puppy became the pride and joy of his family.

And ours.

Our Vicious Attack Dog named Muffy!?

Muffy. Okay, she got bigger . . .

We only lived in Winnipeg for eight months.

It was a beautiful city.

It just wasn't home.

But, in support of the breadwinner and student in our family, we had packed up our household and moved.

Dogs and everything.

Now anyone who knows our family, knows that we are completely enamoured (good word) with Old English Sheepdogs.

Hair and all.

So when I say that we moved bag and baggage to Winnipeg, that includes our dogs.

Plural.

Because what's one dog without another dog, right?

And both of them need a dog . . .

Okay, my husband didn't get it , either.

I should point out, here, that OES (see above) are extremely gentle and friendly.

Though they can be protective.

But that is another story . . .

We lived in a townhouse.

Having moved from a mobile home in Alberta, we were overjoyed with all of the extra room.

But that townhouse had a miniscule yard.

Or, in other words, tiny.

That's where the whole 'missing the great stretches of prairie' came in.

I would let my dogs outside, and they would turn to me, doggy faces frozen (another common Winnipeg expression) in shock, as though to say, “What? You expect us to run in here?!”

I would point and tell them to 'go run!'

They would sigh and trot to the far (I use this term lightly) fence.

And back.

In about 3 seconds.

I would shake my head and close the door, leaving them outside for a little while to get some 'exercise'.

Yeah, it didn't make much sense to me, either.

One morning, I had put Muffy outside by herself.

She wanted to go.

And no one else did.

This isn't rocket science.

A few minutes after I put her out, my phone rang.

Cool. Someone wanted to talk to me!

I answered.

It turned out to be my letter carrier, calling from the nearest phone booth. (Cell phones existed only in the minds of Science Fiction writers at this time.)

She couldn't get into my yard because of the vicious dog guarding the gate.

There was a vicious dog in my yard?

How did it get in?

And where was Muffy?

I dropped the phone and hurried to the door.

Swinging it wide, I peered outside cautiously.

Muffy, standing beside the gate, turned and looked at me.

And then I realized that the vicious dog spoken of was my 35 pound stick. With hair.

It's true. An OES, shaved, looks like a toothpick.

On toothpicks.

Yep, the dog world equivalent of a 98 pound weakling.

While I'm in information mode, I should also tell you that OES don't have tails. They are nipped off soon after birth.

Thus, when the dog is happy, or excited, or hungry, or tired, or worried, or . . . you get the picture . . . they wiggle.

Their whole back end.

It's quite a sight.

And that was what Muffy was doing.

So this pile of hair, back end shaking like a hula skirt was what had frightened the letter carrier.

Okay, I guess I can understand.

Someone who isn't used to dogs could certainly be intimidated by the sheer size.

And the motion.

But, to me, it was funny.

That anyone would be frightened of Muffy . . .

I grabbed my dog, apologizing profusely and dragged her away so the carrier could complete her mission.

Then I explained that she was extremely gentle, and even introduced the two of them so Muffy would know that the woman was a friend.

And vice-versa.

All was well.

Until I received a notice from the postal company that no more deliveries would be made to our house if our vicious dog was in the vicinity.

Okay, this had gone a little far.

I looked down at my 'vicious' dog, currently the bottom of a game of 'dog pile' with my boys and sighed.

But we complied.

Yard time was moved to the afternoon.

To avoid any conflict.

And wussie letter carriers.

P.S. I completely understand that not everyone likes dogs, and that some of them even have an irrational fear of dogs that they really can't control, so I apologize to them for this story. I'm the same way with guard-chickens. But that is another story.

Carving Angels is Here!

There it is! In my little hands!
Photo Credit

My book, Carving Angels, was delivered today from the publisher, Cedar Fort.
It is exactly the way I wanted it.
Hardcover, red book.
Green, Christmas-y dust jacket.
It's perfect! (I'm not prejudiced)
I'm so excited, I can hardly see straight.
I actually got to hold it for the very first time!
EEEEEE!

Lessons Learned . . . Part 2

Kids and food and . . . the Table

When we moved to Winnipeg, we brought everything we owned.

In one of my Dad's cattle trailers.

He cleaned it first.

Sort of.

Moving on . . .

But there were one or two things that we didn't bring.

One of them was a decent kitchen table and chairs.

Oh, we had had a table. And chairs.

Just not . . . decent.

Or safe.

We had to dip into our savings and buy something.

I should point out here that Kijiji didn't exist in 1979.

Or personal home computers.

At least in our home.

So we were stuck with the local paper.

And the classifieds.

But the tables we found listed were worse than the one we had left behind.

We had to go to a furniture store . . .

We had done this once before.

Gone to a furniture store, I mean.

It was fun.

And expensive.

But exciting.

We were experts.

We pulled up outside in our little wheezy van and sauntered (expertly) inside.

 And were met by a nice young man with a big grin.

A really big grin.

Looking back, we should have suspected something.

We didn't.

We told him what we were looking for and he led us to the 'kitchen' section of the store.

Wow.

Okay, we weren't expecting that much of a selection.

We divided our options into two categories. 'Those we could afford'. And 'those which were really nice'.

The choices suddenly became easy.

We were down to two.

The one we finally decided on was a faux-wood topped, tubular-chrome-legged marvel.

With four chairs of genuine fake-leather.

We had hit the big time.

The only problem was that we were already a family of four.

And family member number five was definitely on the way.

We needed more chairs.

No problem, the young man said. The company who made the chairs was right here in Winnipeg. They could easily be ordered and at a very special price.

It was meant to be.

We handed him our savings and he filled out the paperwork, promising to send in the order for our four extra chairs as soon as we left the store.

Then he helped us tote our new table and existing chairs out to our little van.

We were kings!

Happily, we set up our new acquisitions (good word) in our little kitchen.

Perfect!

Then we waited for our four extra chairs.

Waited.

And waited.

Finally, we tried to phone.

Huh. Line out of service.

Strange.

We drove over to the store.

And found it closed.

Weird, for a Tuesday.

A large piece of yellow paper, fastened to the front door, fluttered in the slight breeze.

We got out of the van and moved closer.

It was a notice from the police.

Something about signing the paper if we were owed anything by the young men who had absconded (Great word, eh?) with all available cash and left the country.

We stared at the paper.

Then at each other.

Did this mean what we thought it meant?

Had we just been ripped off?

I suddenly wanted my chairs!

We had paid for them!

Jerks!

Grant signed the paper and we were duly contacted by the police and able to place our claim.

The problem was that we were owed a mere $200.00.

We were far down the list of claimants.

And the likelihood of recouping (I'm just full of neat words today) our losses was slim to nil.

I should mention here that the people at the top of the list were a newlywed couple, furnishing a new apartment. They had paid for their furniture, but were having it delivered.

I guess $10,000.00 (a boatload of money in 1979) was just too much for the store owners to resist.

They had taken the money and anything else not fastened down and left the city.

The young couple's furniture had not left the store.

They were furniture-less and out their $10,000.00.

Suddenly our little $200.00 seemed very paltry.

But I still wanted my chairs.

Okay, I a bit OCD.

We went to the furniture manufacturer and explained the situation.

They were very nice and gave us our chairs at their cost.

So, when we worked it out, taking into account the money we had paid Crooked Smiler Guy and what the manufacturer charged, we had actually gotten the chairs for the normal retail price.

We really hadn't lost anything.

And we finally had our chairs.

Oh, they were a slightly different Colour from the first four, but why quibble over details?

That table and chairs lasted us through six children and twenty five years.

As it was nearing the end of its life, my husband decided to realize a dream and build a new one.

Table, I mean.

He did it.

A large, round, solid oak table, capable of seating 12 comfortably and 14 if you want to be really friendly.

He finished it just in time.

I tried to set a casserole on our old table and the poor thing collapsed, casserole and all.

And no, that isn't a statement on my cooking . . .

It was given an undignified farewell at the city dump.

And Grant moved in his great oak wonder.

With twelve chairs.

That matched.

And that we didn't have to chase down and beg for.

Lesson learned.

Lessons Learned . . . Elsewhere

Mark, right and Erik, with Grampa Tolley in the background

To complete his master's degree, my husband had moved our (then) little family to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

Also know as Winter-peg or Windy-peg.

Either one is apt.

And I found myself, for the first time, living in a large city.

There was the usual adjustment period.

Okay, I'm lying, there was no adjustment period.

I never did adjust.

For eight months, my (then) two sons and I hardly left the apartment, unless accompanied by my husband.

Funny how grocery shopping can start looking like a 'date'.

I was homesick for my prairies and open spaces.

I did get a lot of reading and sewing and cleaning done.

And my boys discovered the wonder of 'cable TV'.

I soon learned just how much they watched.

Grant had taken us for a drive. He had an errand to run and his family was suffering from 'cabin-fever'.

A common enough ailment in Canada in the winter.

You can look it up . . .

He was making a quick dash into the mall.

Now those of you who know my husband know that a quick dash anywhere . . . isn't.

Quick, I mean.

The boys and I were sitting in the fire lane in front of the Zellers store long enough to celebrate birthdays.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture.

It was quite a while.

Erik was buckled into his car seat directly behind me, happily blowing bubbles and Mark, his older brother by eighteen months was opposite him, with the clearest view of the storefront.

I was reading.

Again.

Blush.

Mark was chanting something, just loud enough to be heard.

It took a couple of repetitions before I noticed.

I put down my book.

"Mark, what are you saying?"

He repeated it.

"What?" Sometimes, deciphering almost-three-year-old speech takes a Master's degree.

And where was the one person in our family with such a degree???!

"Say it once more."

"Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S."

What on earth was he talking about?

I looked where he was looking.

The front of the Zellers store.

Suddenly, it hit me.

He was reading the letters over the front doors.

Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S.

Well, almost.

It made perfect sense!

If you were two.

What a clever boy!

Genius.

And I had raised him.

Okay, for a very few seconds, I did a bit of back patting.

Very few.

Then reality set in.

The only reason he knew all of those letters was because of his copious amounts of time spent watching Sesame Street.

On a good day, he could catch the program twice!

Funny that my son's showing me how advanced he was, showed me, at the same time, what a neglectful parent I had been.

I'd like to say that things changed.

And they did.

Afterwards, when Sesame Street came on, I was watching with him.

Before long, we were nearly on the same reading level.

A few more months in Winnipeg and I might have caught up to him!

Students and Froggies - Who Learned More?

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast
Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.
                                   George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.

Because it is.

But I didn't learn it until grade twelve . . .

Biology class.

The real one.

Not the one the boys all talk about.

Moving on . . .

We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year.

The part that I found most fascinating.

But that many of the other girls . . . didn't.

We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.

Great!

Field trip!

But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned (good word, right?) poem.

We thought it was cute.

And clever.

And easily folded into paper planes.

Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.

Philistines!

Then we set out.

The walk down was enjoyable.

Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.

Cute boys.

Okay, I know what I said about biology class.

And boys.

But let's face it. We were all thinking about 'Biology'.

Right?

So . . . walking . . . and boys.

It didn't take long for us to reach the pond.

We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.

Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' (their word) little things.

Those of us who were less squeamish filled in.

So to speak.

In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.

One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket.

The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.

Then, to work.

We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.

Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.

It was an interesting morning.

And far too short.

When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.

Or so I thought.

Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention.

Closer attention, even, than I was.

There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."

Payback.

And a fitting tribute.

The Question I Get Asked the Most

Today, I am featuring a guest post by one of my favorite bloggers, Ginger, at 'The Amateur Writer'. A fellow 'rancher', she has captured what life is like on a ranch perfectly.
It is a sweet read!
Enjoy!
The Amateur Writer

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. 

Family Evenings

Family games - mischief made legal

On the ranch in the evenings, particularly the long, winter evenings, opportunities for entertainment were few.

If there wasn't anything on the one TV channel, you pretty much had to come up with your own.

Entertainment, I mean.

This meant music (the make-your-own variety), which we practised with more or less success.

Mostly less.

Reading.

My own personal favourite.

Having a drink with the hired men in the bunkhouse.

Probably the least recommended for us kids.

Or games and/or puzzles.

Usually we went with games and/or puzzles.

One didn't get a lecture from one's parents when one played games and/or puzzles . . .

We had several favourites.

Scrabble.

A word game which aimed for word construction creativity.

But only good for four of us six players.

Probe.

Another word game. This one, disclosure being the goal.

Boggle. (Or if we were feeling daring, Big Boggle.)

Another word game . . .

Huh. I just realized that we played a lot of word games.

And three of us ended up being writers.

Go figure . . .

Bridge.

A card game played by four players.

Unless you're from Southern Alberta.

Where it is played by forty tables of four players.

But that is another story . . .

Rook.

A card game resembling bridge and also played extensively in Southern Alberta. (Also known as 'Apostate Rook' if you played 'One High'. At least according to my husband.)

Rummoli.

Poker and sequence, all rolled into one happy package.

And finally, Monopoly.

The apex of games.

The ultimate in Stringam family fun.

And won, inevitably, by Jerry.

Not that he tried.

Or even appeared to try.

He hummed, sang, bounced his knee rhythmically, talked, told jokes and CLEANED OUR CLOCKS.

Almost every time.

Why did we keep on playing?

Good question.

Inevitably, I would end Monopoly with a tiny little hoard of cash, very tiny, clutched in one hand as I stared with dismay at my little shoe, parked firmly on Park Place or Boardwalk.

Each with their large, expensive hotel.

And each with Jerry's smiling face behind them.

I would hand over my little pile, along with the last of my properties, and quietly fade into the sunset.

And immediately challenge him to a rematch.

To which he happily complied.

Okay, I get it now.

It's just another example of the 'I'll get him next time!' mentality.

I never did.

Get him, I mean.

Moving on . . .

Puzzles posed a bit less competition.

A more relaxing way to spend time together.

Visiting was permitted. Even encouraged.

But minutes could go by with soft music playing in the background and not one word said.

Yep.

Relaxing.

Our family's evenings now consist of visiting or playing cards.

Or watching movies.

Not too different from those I experienced growing up.

Family time.

It's a good thing.

Laundry. Saturday night entertainment

And each of the eight brothers had a sister . . .

My Mom had eight brothers.

And each of them had a sister.

My Mom.

Most of the time, this was a good thing.

They played together.

Worked together.

And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, they 'protected' her.

It was a good balance.

Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.

Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.

Cooking, cleaning, dishes.

Laundry.

Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.

Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.

You never knew what you would find . . .

There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.

You cleaned your plate at mealtime.

Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.

Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.

If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.

Or get creative.

Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, got creative.

He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.

He just didn't want them inside of him.

What to do?

Hmmm.

No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table.

His parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.

His options were definitely limited.

But he would think of something . . .

When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.

Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprize.

Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.

Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes.

While he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenius and inventive method of making them disappear.

He was wearing trousers.

And they had . . . pockets.

What followed was inevitable. And a no-brainer.

Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.

Clever.

And, as I said, entertaining.

And that's just the laundry.

Imagine what he could do with such things as . . . bedrooms. Chores.

Livestock.

But that is another story.

Bread Heels

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.

Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.

Nothing came packaged from the store.

Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the large oven.

No other option was possible.

No other option was needed.

Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.

Mmmmmm.

But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.

Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.

Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.

But I digress . . .

So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.

And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.

That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.

And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.

The only time in the history of the world that that would happen.

Moving on . . .

Carefully, the winner would carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.

Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.

At first, this 'claim' was all that was needed.

But not for long.

Finally, the sacred placing of the bread on an individual's plate wasn't sufficient as a deterrent because as soon as the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.

Then the next person would do the same.

And the next.

This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.

Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won.

Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but better.

As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.

The bread was placed under the plate.

Under the napkin.

Stabbed with the owner's fork.

The owner's knife.

Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would stick out his (or her) tongue and lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread.

Okay, remember what I said about manners?

Forget it.

Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.

The entire contest came to a screeching halt.

But only for a while . . .

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.