Stay on the Sidewalk Where it's Safe

My rocketship.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.

The one in town.

It was a whole different lifestyle for me.

I had a tricycle.

Red.

Sturdy.

With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.

Which I did.

Often.

I was the master of the universe!

I could go anywhere!

As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.

The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.

There were dragons there.

Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.

It was so much better.

So, back on the tricycle.

I rode it endlessly.

Doing laps of our block.

The different homes were categorized according to points of interest or what foodstuffs could be procured there.

Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.

It was paradise.

For me.

I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their sidewalk on her trusty steed.

At least they were kind.

And polite.

But I knew that there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.

Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel in search of anything else.

It just didn't make sense.

So I stayed on my sidewalk.

And was safe.

Most of the time.

There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.

Occasionally, it was used for vehicles.

Go figure.

Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.

And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.

On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.

Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.

I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.

For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.

But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.

In size at any rate.

I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.

I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.

In fact, they barely had mirrors.

Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.

Or my tricycle.

It could have been a disaster.

I pulled into the alley entrance,

And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.

This was different.

Closer. Closer.

Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.

I did so.

The truck kept backing.

Backing.

There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle.

Huh. There's something you don't see every day.

The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.

He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.

I watched him go.

Then looked at my tricycle.

Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.

Sigh.

Dad would fix it.

I ran home.

Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.

Brighter red.

And two little tassells instead of one.

And I think he made it a little bigger.

Dads could do anything.

Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.

Conquering worlds.

Staying safe.

I'm Covered, Aren't I?

Swimsuit? Or underwear. You decide.

It was a hot summer day.

The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.

One girl came without a swimsuit.

“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”

She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.

The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressing in a modest blue two-piece.

Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.

And struck a pose.

“What do you think?”

Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.

The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.

All eyes were on her.

“F-from your drawer, like you said.”

“The top drawer?”

“Y-yes.”

“That's my underwear drawer!”

“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.

She had been covered.

In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.

But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.

I thought this cartoon was hilarious.

Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.

Well . . . something similar, anyways.

It was still hilarious.

Our family was getting ready for church.

My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.

I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started talking.

Something I excelled at.

But I digress . . .

My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.

I kept talking.

But for some reason, my boyfirend woudn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.

I kept talking.

He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.

Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”

I did.

As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.

At first I saw nothing wrong.

She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.

Skirt. Stockings.

Oh. Wait. Something was missing.

Her blouse.

Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.

He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.

Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.

Okay, so observant, I wasn't.

Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.

Which was funny.

She had been completely covered.

Modestly, even.

In at least three layers of cloth.

But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.

As I would have been.

As anyone . . . you get the point.

Aren't we weird?

Music to Soothe the Savage . . . Teacher

Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!

I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one.

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Uugghh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"
Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. One trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly.

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.

Important Lessons From the Unlikeliest Places

Dads. There's no one quite like them.

An animated series aired several years ago, to great praise and equally great censure.

Because of the negative and very vocal comments, I chose not to watch.

For three years.

One evening, while working in my office, next to the TV room, I caught a few snatches of conversation coming from the program presently airing.

Two older children were asking their father why there were no pictures of their third and last sibling.

"Didn't you want her?" one of them asked.

It caught me because I am guilty of snapping thousands of pics of our eldest. Hundreds of our second, and then, progressively (or is it de-gressively?) less as each child made an appearance.

I made up for it with the last, when we were back into the thousands, but those in the middle . . . lost out.

The premise intrigued me.

I went to check it out.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that what was playing was an episode of 'that cartoon'.

But I was hooked by the subject matter.

I sat with my teenagers to watch.

The father reassured his children that he had, indeed, wanted their baby sister. Then he proceeded to tell the story.

He had left a terrible job in a nuclear plant and had been working at his dream job in a bowling alley. His work was appreciated and made him, for the first time in his life, happy.

Then his wife announced that baby number three was on the way.

He knew that what he earned at his dream job couldn't possibly support another child.

He would have to go and beg for his old job back.

Have I mentioned that it was horrible?

That he hated it?

Well, it was.

And he did.

Moving on . . .

When one faced the front entrance of the nuclear plant, they were presented with two doors.

One for new workers.

One for returning.

The 'returning' door was small. So small that anyone entering through it was forced to do so on their hands and knees.

Thus, on their knees, they could beg for employment.

It made quite an impression.

I kept watching.

Of course he was given his old job back.

And, of course, humiliated with every step.

Finally, seated once more in his old office, he was presented with a plaque which read: 'Don't Forget. You're Here Forever.'

This was fastened permanently to the wall directly in front of his console, where he wouldn't fail to see it.

Back to the two elder children and their conversation.

"So why are there no pictures?"

And his reply, "Oh there are pictures, kids. Lots and lots of pictures. They're where I need them!"

And then you get a view of his office as it looks now.

On every wall and, indeed, all available surfaces, are pictures of the little girl, in every stage of development.

And they cover much of the plaque.

Which now reads, 'Do It For Her'.

I cried.

It made me think about all of the fathers who go, every day, to a job they hate, just to feed and care for their families.

They are our unsung heroes.

We need to do more singing.

Backing Talkwards a Bittle It

What a cutie! 

My Dad had a speech impediment.

Sometimes, he said things backwards.

Oh, he could control it.

He just chose not to.

An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.

And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.

For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:

Rock a bay bybee

On the tee trop.

When the blind woes,

The radle will crock.

When the brough bakes,

The fadle will crawl.

And down will bum caby

Adle and crawl.

You're right. That's not even English.

But that's how I thought it went.

I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them.

It happened something like this:

Me: What are you singing?

Them: Rock a Bye Baby.

Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

Them: Let's play somewhere else.

As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.

Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.

And that my favourite ice cream wasn't Scutterbotch.

Others had to find out for themselves.

My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother.

The imminent arrival, scheduled for, at most, two weeks, stretched to six.

Leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.

It was a happy six weeks.

Michael was playing cowboys.

And had dressed accordingly.

He had his gun and holster.

His boots.

His overlarge hat.

And his training pants.

He was ready.

Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.

Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style.

"Stick 'em up!"

Oh, he was good.

Dad looked at him.

"What are you? A coy-bow?"

Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .

"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"

"Coy-bow."

"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.

Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."

Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"

That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"

"No! No! Gow-boy!"

Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."

Michael had outlasted his grandfather.

A noble feat.

I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time.

It was the exception rather than the rule.

And he always correct us afterwards.

But it was fun while it lasted.

When the Cure is Worse Than the Disease

Okay, it seemed bad to me!!!
And ignore the glasses!

Okay, it's a very common condition.

But I was twelve.

It was totally the end of the world!

I had acne.

I was devastated.

Looking back, it couldn't have been all that bad, but when I compared my blotched and disfigured face to that of my best friend, with her milky, creamy, clear, totally spot-free complexion, I just wanted to wear a paper bag over my head.

And did, but that is another story . . .

My mom sympathized.

She said she knew exactly what I was feeling.

But I had seen clear-skinned pictures of her as a girl.

She wasn't fooling anyone.

But she did buy me different 'cures'.

They didn't help much.

But they made us both feel pro-active.

One such cure was a thin, pink liquid that one painted on.

With a brush.

What it didn't accomplish in actual pimple eradication, it more than made up for in unique-ness.

And price.

For months, every evening, I would carefully coat my face, neck to forehead.

Then I would wait.

Now, the instructions were very clear on this point.

One applied the product to every visible surface.

Then one waited.

Twenty minutes.

While said product dried and tightened.

And tightened.

Until one's face was roughly the colour and consistency of a native signal drum.

Then, just as the wearer/owner was certain that all facial features had successfully merged into one great shiny shapeless mass, one could wash.

The relief was instant.

And unfathomable.

Okay, I don't know what that word means, but it sounds distinctly . . . deep.

Which is what the relief was.

Moving on . . .

For many weeks, the process was adhered to.

Without fail.

And also without results, but I'm nothing if not persistent.

Then, one night, I made the fatal error:

I painted myself.

Lay back on my bed to wait the requisite twenty.

And promptly committed the final, unforgivable sin.

I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, my pillow felt . . . strange.

Rather . . . sticky. And at the same time . . . gritty.

What had Mom done to the laundry?

And why hadn't I noticed it when I first went to bed?!

I sat up and stared down at the pillow.

It was covered with pink slivers of  . . . something.

I could see them glinting in the morning light.

Slivers?

Then it hit me.

I gasped and made a record sprint to the bathroom.

Then slowed and hesitated before I looked into the 'great revealer'.

Finally, I poked my head briefly into sight.

Okay, my face hadn't fallen off.

Good start.

I peeked again.

Something was distinctly wrong, however.

One more time, a little longer.

Shards of pink stuff clung to my cheeks, chin and forehead.

This time, I stayed.

Well, I guess I should wash.

Better late than . . . you know the rest.

I did so.

Then, toweled myself dry.

And leaned in for a closer look.

And shrieked.

Lines seamed my normally youthful skin.

Deep lines, following the natural and heretofore unseen creases in my skin and caused by the drying and cracking of the evil pink coating.

I looked . . . old.

At least thirty!

Or a hundred.

My life was over.

I slumped down on the side of the tub and hid my face in my hands.

Mom skidded to a stop beside me.

She had come running when she heard me scream.

Old habits . . .

She moved my hands aside and looked at me.

Her eyes widened.

"What did you do?"

"I fell asleeeeep!"

She started to laugh. "It'll be okay."

OKAY???! Was she nuts?

I stood up and moved, with her, to the mirror.

"Look at me! I look . . . ancient!"

"It'll go away."

I shook my head in disbelief.

I knew I was forever disfigured.

Nothing on earth could fix this.

I would be regarded as the freak.

The 'Seamed One'.

The . . .

"Breakfast is ready," Mom said.

Okay, my despair could wait until after I had been fed.

I followed her, glumly, to the table.

And, for a short, wonderful while, forgot my troubles in a stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs, bacon and hot chocolate.

My favourite.

But meals can only last so long.

And the school bus was drawing nearer, even as we ate.

I could put it off no longer.

I got up and made my slow, unhappy way back to the bathroom, feet dragging.

Only to discover that Mom had been right!

The lines were nearly gone.

Ah, the resiliency of youth. And youthful skin.

With lighter steps, I bounced back into the kitchen.

"You were right, Mom!"

She nodded.

But she was careful not to say, 'I told you so'.

I learned from that experience.

After that, I spent very little time 'pimple hunting'.

I really didn't have that many.

And I had definitely seen worse.

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.