Just Another Stringam Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

We join the end of a line of cars.

"Huh. Weird," Dad says.

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom asks, spitting on a Kleenex and cleaning the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet," Dad says. "But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so.

Disclosing the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows.

The house creeps along.

We creep along behind it, more cars joining us every minute or so.

Like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy, blockish monster.

"I wonder if he knows we're here," Mom says, pulling the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear," she says. "We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because we'll be left behind?

As the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 20 MPH.

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss."

"How long till the turn?" she asks Dad.

"At this rate? About three days," Dad says.

We are heading to our relatives for dinner.

I'm beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex and stuffs it back under her seat.

She drops the tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle and glances around at her brood.

Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures hadn't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine.

Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane.

She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses.

The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

And Anita is perched on Mom's lap, nose against the window.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms cross on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap.

"There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink!"

"There's plenty of water in the well!" Dad says.

"You can have some of mine!" Anita says, offering her bottle of cream soda.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red.

"That's okay," he says. "I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.

Again the potty comes into play.

Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad says, leaning forward and peering through the front windshield.

"Let's play a game!" Mom says. "How about 20 questions?"

"Okay! I've got it," Jerry says.

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Alive or dead?"

"Alive."

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

I imagine, for a moment what it must be like to follow our car at 20 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad says. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often," she says.

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour.

It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house.

Like a stream finding its way around a large, recently introduced stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window.

"Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" Dad says, with a grin. "You'd find it immensely easier!"

"I'm so sorry!" the driver says. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks.

What he says is, "Oh, no. Not long!"

They wave to each other and we are off.

Just another family car trip.

Daddy Training

Big Brother

Our third son, Duffy, was two-and-a-half when our first daughter was born.

He stuck to the baby and I like glue.

That doesn't mean he learned anything . . .

At the tender age of three, Duffy was enrolled in the Sunbeam class in our church.

With eight little girls.

Boys were obviously something new.

Moving on . . .

The scheduled lesson was all about babies.

A precious gift from God.

It was a beautiful lesson.

My four-month-old baby, Caitlin was invited into the class.

I came with her.

Sort of like show-and-tell.

But interactive.

And noisy.

Okay, just like show-and-tell.

After the little girls got tired of cooing over the real baby, their teacher (the mother of five girls, herself) brought out a large basket.

Filled with everything 'baby'.

There were dolls by the dozen.

Clothes.

Blankets.

Bottles.

Everything to keep the budding little mothers in the class happy forever.

Duffy was a boy.

And, though his older brother liked cuddling dolls, Duffy was more comfortable with trucks and things 'boy'.

He was handed a baby doll.

Naked.

And a blanket.

He dangled his doll by one foot and looked at the little girls around him.

All had at least one (and some two) little baby wrapped warmly and tucked tenderly into her arms.

Most were singing softly.

And rocking.

Duffy stared at them, then held up his baby.

Still by one foot.

Okay. He could handle this.

He spread his blanket out on the floor.

Then dropped the doll onto one corner and proceeded to roll it up like a sausage.

He then jammed the resulting package under one arm like a satchel.

Done.

The teacher handed him a bottle.

There's more?

He took the bottle and looked at it.

I should mention here that I nursed my babies.

Duffy had never seen a bottle before.

He frowned, thoughtfully.

What an earth was he supposed to do with this?

Finally, he pulled out his little, blanket-wrapped bundle, grabbed a corner of said blanket and gave it a pull.

The doll flipped out, spun in the air for a moment, then clattered to the floor.

Duffy again grabbed it by the foot.

This time, he examined it closely.

Ah. There was a tiny hole in one butt cheek.

Perfect for the strange little bottle he had been handed.

He stuck the nozzle of the bottle into the little hole and beamed happily at me.

All was well.

My son, father to future generations . . .

There is a codicil.

Despite this obviously rocky start, Duffy has proved to be an excellent and loving father.

Gifted with working with children of special needs.

I guess he was watching after all.

Gratitude Giveaways

Welcome to the Gratitude Giveaways Blog Hop hosted by: I Am A Reader, Not A Writer and co-hosted by All-Consuming Books.
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Win a copy of the book that people are calling "sweet" and "heart-warming" and "a wonderful story of love, family, and inspiration".
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This hop runs until November 27th which will give you plenty of time to enter all the giveaways!
Carving Angels

World's Worst Tenants

Okay, he looks cute here . . .

We lived in the country.

Far out in the country.

There were many people living in our house.

But we weren't the only tenants.

The others were warm.

And breathing.

And regularly produced offspring.

But there, the similarities ended.

They routinely got into our food storage.

And made their own comfortable little hideaways in our walls and dressers.

And never, ever paid rent.

They were also covered with hair.

And had tails.

You're right.

We had mice.

Did you know that mice like to nest in clean baby clothes, rendering them un-wearable?

And can squeeze through really, really tiny holes?

Climb anywhere?

So it is nearly impossible to bar them from your home.

And they like everything we like.

Flour.

Sugar.

Oatmeal.

Beans.

Grains.

Cereal.

Cookies.

Any form of treats.

Actually anything that you might find in the average food storage that comes in a cloth or cardboard package.

And some plastic.

They have even been known to burrow into boxes of Kraft dinner or bags of Ramen noodles, which we all know have no nutritional value whatsoever.

We learned to live with them.

Trap them when we could.

Even poison some when we were truly desperate.

But still they kept coming.

We found 'mice tracks' in our clean bedding. On the shelves. On top of the TV. Even on the kitchen counters.

It was a nightmare.

Which I think could easily be turned into a horror movie.

Hmmm. Attack of the Mice? The Teeth That Could Chew Through Anything?

How about: The Really Annoying Things in the Walls?

Okay, I'm out. What are your suggestions?

Moving on . . .

My Husby and I were in bed, drifting at the edges of sleep.

Well, I was, he was reading a magazine.

Suddenly, he spotted movement.

I should explain here, that our temporary bedroom was in the basement and our bed was shoved into the corner formed by the meeting of two cinder-block walls.

Mice can climb cinder block walls.

And I was the person sleeping next to the wall.

Enough exposition.

My husband turned his head sharply and the mouse climbing up the corner, inches from my head, immediately dove for cover.

Huh. My husband rolled the magazine he had been reading and waited.

Soon, his patience was rewarded.

Our intrepid little explorer (see how refined I am? I could have called him *&^%$#@!!!) started, once more, upwards.

This time, Grant waited until the mouse was high enough on the wall that he couldn't possibly get back. Then he attacked.

SWAT! With the rolled-up magazine.

He got it!

The stunned mouse fell.

Right onto my chest.

The edges of sleep vanished as I gasped and sat up.

Whereupon (good word) he fell with a plop into my lap.

Grant scooped him up, quickly dispatched him, and then turned the most apologetic face to me that I have ever seen.

And all I could do was laugh.

What else can you do when it starts raining mice?

Indoors.

P.S. We did solve our mouse problem.

We moved.

Parenting 101: Kids and Phones!

My 'Creative Parenting' Prof.

When Dad spoke. We listened.

Most of the time.

But one ignored my father at one's own risk.

He could make his wishes known.

Creatively . . .

I had a boyfriend.

It was a new and exciting experience for me.

We would say good-bye at the school bus stop, get on our respective buses and head for home.

An hour later, we would be on the phone together.

Talking.

For hours.

Literally.

I should point out here that, in the 1960s, we had one phone line to the ranch.

And, because we were ultra-modern and progressive, two phones on that line.

One in the kitchen.

And one in my parents bedroom.

The epitome of modern convenience.

Back to my story . . .

I don't know what we found to talk about. But talk, we did. Until one or both of us was tagged for chores.

Or supper was announced.

Or our parents got annoyed.

My Mom was usually quite predictable, saying such things as, “Diane! Get off the phone! You've been on there for an hour!”

To which I would comply.

Eventually.

And under protest.

My Dad was a little more creative.

He would walk in the door, see me there on the phone, note the time, and leave the room.

That was my cue.

And my only warning.

I had seconds to say my good-byes.

Because Dad wanted me off the phone. And I wasn't going to like his methods.

They were . . . effective.

He would simply walk into his bedroom and turn on the radio.

Loudly.

Then take the phone receiver and lay it down beside said radio.

If I hadn't already ended my conversation, I did so then.

With a shouted good-bye and hastily cradled phone.

Mission accomplished.

Simply and elegantly, without a word being spoken.

Genius.

Getting Where You Want to Go

Grant . . . navigating.
With granddaughter, Rini.

My husband has iron boogers.

And in Canada, we have The Dominion Land Survey.

These two are connected.

Maybe I should explain.

First:

My husband's favourite program on TV was the Tim Allen show, Home Improvement.

In one episode, Neighbour Wilson told Tim that men are actually endowed with minute bits of metal in their noses that aid in navigation.

Tim, putting his twist on it, called them 'iron boogers'.

A term that my husby whole-heartedly embraced and endorsed.

And:

When Canada was first being mapped/documented, it was divided into a perfect grid.

Or maybe an imperfect grid, but a grid, just the same.

We were raised in an area where the roads were straight and regular and one mile apart.

If one road was blocked, you could find 113 other ways to get where you wanted to go.

It was a perfect system.

People growing up in that environment developed an unerring sense of direction.

Thus, my husby.

See the connection?

Moving on . . .

We were travelling in Ireland.

Have you ever heard it said that there is no green quite like the green of the Emerald Isle?

It's true.

But I digress . . .

We had just driven into town and were looking for our bed and breakfast.

Our map only covered the specifics of reaching said town, not the particulars of what to do when we got there.

There was a woman walking down the street.

Grant pulled over and we asked her how to reach Thus-and-So Bed and Breakfast.

These are her exact words, "Oh that one. It's rather difficult to describe. You need to go up that hill (pointing) and turn right. There is a hotel there and they can direct you."

We thanked her and did as she directed.

Except for the 'turn right' part.

My husby turned left.

At which time, I gave up.

He drove around for a total of one minute, then pulled over to the side of the street. "Why don't we just stop here?" he said.

I looked out of the window and gasped.

Thus-and-So B&B. Right there.

In front of us.

I gasped and turned to stare at him.

He merely tapped his nose and looked at me significantly.

From then on, I used the map merely to get us to the next town, then tossed it into the back seat.

Grant was much better at finding our destination when he wasn't hampered by such distractions as maps.

Old Iron Boogers.

Battleship for Amateurs

Hours of fun. Or aggravation . . .

Mom always appreciated a good joke.

Usually, she stood back and . . . appreciated.

Occasionally, she was the instigator.

Let me explain.

Our family had just been introduced to a new game.

Battleship.

Actually, an old game, originally played with paper and pencil, now in a new format.

Plastic peg boards of Mediterranean sea blue.

With cute little plastic ships.

We spent many hours playing this game, trying to outwit each other with our clever placements.

Very occasionally, we were able to convince one or the other of our parents to play.

Dad was deadly. He systematically shot at your ships.

Every third hole.

You could see his juggernaut (good word) sweeping down on your hapless little fleet and were powerless to stop him.

The game always left you feeling like a butterfly on a pin.

But Mom was a little more. . .  gentle.

She would destroy your ships using woman's intuition.

You were just as dead, but you felt better about it.

One day, she was playing with one of my younger siblings, Blair.

The game had been going on for some time.

"B-8." Mom

"Hit." Blair.

"G-3." Blair.

"Miss." Mom.

"B-7." Mom.

"Hit." Blair.

"G-1." Blair.

"Miss." Mom

And so it went.

Until Mom had cornered Blair's final ship and was closing in for the kill.

And game.

Finally, Blair got tired of the constant discouragement.

"Where are those darn ships anyways?!" he demanded.

Mom gazed down at her board. "Ships?" she said.

Then she grinned.

She hadn't put them on the board.

Game. Set. Match.

We Have a Winner!

We have a winner!!!
Judy at Judy has won a copy of Carving Angels, a sweet little Christmas book!
A big, BIG thank you to everyone who entered my draw!
You made this draw the best one yet.
I hope you will stay around and continue to read my blogs. 
I write them for you . . .
The next contest starts in only a few days.
Hope to see you there!
Thank you again, everyone!

Through the Eyes of Our Soldier

Erik, right and a colleague, Larry.
 On the back of the picture, it says: 'I'm the one in green'.

Remembrance Day.

A day set aside to think about all of the people who have served us by laying down their lives.

And who are risking their lives today.

The ultimate sacrifice.

My thoughts are turned to the times when my husband and I have toured memorials around the world.

The military cemetery in Cambridge, England, where we had to leave because I was crying.

The Vietnam memorial in Washington. DC, when we watched a worker do a 'rubbing' for the brother of a fallen soldier, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The bunkers on the beach in Normandy, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The tiny military museum in the English countryside that we had to leave because . . . I think I'm beginning to see a pattern.

My second son served for eight years as an engineer/mine specialist in the Canadian army.

Including a peace-keeping mission in Bosnia. (When he returned home, he walked over to the lawn and just stood there. When asked why, he said, "I haven't been able to simply walk over and stand on grass for 10 months. This feels wonderful!)

I thought it particularly appropriate to include excerpts from some of his letters home . . .

Be warned, he was a soldier and had a wicked sense of humor and . . . opinions . . .

14 June

Greeting, Earth Dwellers,

The average temperature is currently hovering around +34C, which it has been all week. My secretary, Aida, was translating the radio for me and told me that these temperatures are the hottest in 68 years. Boy, are we lucky. The humidity is about 10000000% on top of that, so as you towel off from your freezing shower, the water droplets are replaced by sweat droplets as fast as you can wipe them off. I'm drinking 10 liters of water a day. 4 of them during my workout alone. Just crazy.

*  *  *

I forget what the date is, July something.

Hi, everybody!

I hope you all had fun at camp this last week, You'd better have. I had a lot of fun diving on the island of Vis. Even without the diving, the scenery was unbelievable. Except for the old ladies on the beach without tops on. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! That sort of thing could scar me for life. It should be illegal. Fortunately, I spent lots of time under water. I even held an octopus. He wasn't impressed. His suction cups felt really neat, though. The laser vision burns, though. Who knew octopus could cook their own food? National Geographic had taught me nothing!

NOTHING!

Calm now.

*  *  *

I'm doing well, since you asked. I just drove here for the first time yesterday, and I had a lot of fun. The road signs are just a vague suggestion to the motorists here, so I had to adjust my driving doctrine to suit the conditions. Basically, we speed everywhere, and pass when we want to. Even driving like a maniac, my boss, Major Thelwell, says that I'm the safest driver she's seen here. I can't wait to drive around with her at the helm. Apparently I'm in for an exciting trip.

Later this week, I get to drive to Banja Luka on Tuesday, Zgon on Wednesday (it's right beside Kluc on the map, if you're looking for it), and then we go to Sarajevo by way of Tuzla on Thursday, returning on Friday by going through Kakanj. Basically, I get to see the whole country in a week. Sarajevo will be fun, I think.

Please send pictures of the dogs. I told my assistant, Aida about them and she wants to see them. There are a lot of dogs around here, but most are the end result of decades of hasty, unplanned dog sex. There was a cute little puppy who lives in the entrance bunker at the camp in Zgon, though. He was there with all the guards who were dressed in their fighting gear, and he was inspecting our vehicle while we talked to the guards. What a little cutie. I think he was a little Doberman without a docked tail, and no doubt he gets away with murder at the guard bunker. Fortunately, everyone seems to like Canadians.

*  *  *

The Book of Bosnia

Chapter One

1. And it came to pass that the soldiers of the Queen did go forth into the land of Bosnia, to bring a lasting peace unto the land.

2. And the soldiers did look about them and did see many peoples throughout the land, and behold, the land was bountiful, and beautiful to be seen.

3. And it came to pass that there was a spirit of contention throughout the land, causing much death and destruction.

4. And the soldiers dwelt in a tent.

5. Now the soldiers went forth unto the people, saying:

6. What is wrong with you people?

7. Lo, these words were heard by many, and the people did listen. But the people did not speak English, so they did continue to fight, and ignored the Queen's soldiers.

8. And there was no air-conditioning to be had.

9. Now the soldiers were angry, because the people were fighting among themselves, and many people had died. Plus one leg had fallen off their foosball table, which did enrage them.

10. Therefore, the soldiers did cry out to their Lord:

11. "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken this land?"

12. And the Lord did hear the cry of the soldiers, and did pity them, and did say unto them:

13. "Quit whining! For crying out loud. You sound like a bunch of little girls!"

14. And many great and glorious things did the Lord speak unto the disgruntled soldiers in this manner, until the soldier's hearts were softened and they did fall to the earth in amazement.

15. Lo, their parachutes had not opened.

16. Now the soldiers were of the mind that the Lord had played a rotten trick on them, what with the parachutes and all, so therefore the soldiers did decide to bring peace unto the land of Bosnia by circumventing Him.

12. And it came to pass that the soldiers did cry unto a false god.

18. And this false god was called Chrétien, the father of lies, the ancient enemy of all men.

19. And Chrétien did speak words unto the soldiers, but the soldiers were deceived, and did misunderstand his words, since Chrétien cannot speak any mortal language.

20. And it came to pass that the soldiers began to wander aimlessly throughout the land, and their faith did diminish, and they forsook the false god Chrétien, and did end their days as wanderers, eating berries and kittens and other nasty stuff.

21. And peace was brought by Superman, and there was much rejoicing.

Calling All Animals

Our Steed. I'll explain . . .

Our oldest daughter believed that there was something called the 'Universal Animal Call'.

It was a simple whistle. A single note rising in pitch at the end.

Tweee-eet!

She swore it worked on all animals.

We all thought she was hilarious.

Enough background.

My husband, for our 25th anniversary, surprised me with a trip to Greece.

And a cruise around the Mediterranean on a tall ship.

My dream of a lifetime.

And the vacation of a lifetime.

Ten days of unbelievable bliss.

I should probably mention, here, that I enjoyed it.

Immensely.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Greece.

Mediterranean.

During the cruise, we discovered the joy of laying in the nets beneath the spritsail at the bow of the ship.

Watching the Mediterranean slip past far beneath us.

It was the most relaxing experience of my life.

On the second last evening of our cruise, we introduced several new friends to this delicious experience.

Let me describe the scene . . .

The sun was setting. It glowed orange and red on the clots of cloud floating far above us in the darkening sky. There was just enough breeze to fill every rosy sail and push us forward through gentle, perfect waves on the impossibly blue water.

The air was a caress. Soft. Fragrant.

The only sounds were the occasional call of the sea birds as they floated on still wings alongside us.

Rocked gently, we hovered at the edges of complete peace.

Conversation lagged as, one by one, the members of our party flirted with the idea of succumbing to the call of Morpheus.

Drowsily, I turned to my husband and said, "What a perfect evening."

He laughed. "No, we need one more thing to make it truly perfect."

"What is that?"

"Dolphins."

He was right.

The last perfect touch would be dolphins, chittering and giggling as they leaped and played in the water beside us.

"We could always try the Universal Animal Call."

We had explained the UAC to our new friends.

And had a good laugh.

Then I whistled.

Tweee-eet! Tweee-eet.

And we laughed again.

Silence settled over us once more.

Silence broken, suddenly, by . . . chittering and giggling.

We looked down.

Several dolphins were leaping and playing alongside us.

I blinked and stared, open-mouthed.

Then rubbed my eyes and stared again.

Yes. There really were dolphins.

And yes, they really were playing beside the ship.

My husband and I looked at each other.

And laughed.

Happily, this time.

Maybe the UAC actually worked.

Maybe it was just an amazing coincidence.

Or maybe a trick by some gifted and very 'on the spot' magician.

Whatever.

It had made the evening truly perfect.

And I'll never, ever forget it.

More Music

Our Engineer - far right.

Our son, an army engineer, was on his Combat Leadership course.

It was gruelling.

Months of training.

An adrenaline rush of enacting scenarios.

Strategizing.

Analyzing situations.

Digging in and getting dirty.

Gruelling.

And added to the daily duty roster, morning inspections.

Not only must they learn how to survive, even thrive in battle situations, they had to look good while they did it.

So each evening, after dinner, was spent in cleaning oneself and one's gear in preparation for inspection directly after breakfast the next morning.

For the most part, the soldiers enjoyed it.

It was a chance to unwind.

Kibitz around a bit.

Laugh and joke.

And keep their adrenalin up with pounding, exhilarating music.

At least that was what they called it.

Loud. Fast. Heavy.

Followed immediately by bed.

Needless to say, it took some time to wind down.

Except for our son.

Whose choice of music was a little more . . . conservative.

He would drift away almost immediately to the soft, soothing strains of Loreena McKennitt.

Or Enya.

One evening some time after lights out, the men were restless.

Knowing that their morning would come fast, not to mention early, they were anxious to get some needed sleep.

And it was proving elusive.

Again, except for our son, who had his stereo by his ear and had already drifted away.

To Enya.

One of the soldiers noticed.

And commented.

It had given him an idea.

The next evening, the group completed their usual day-end tasks.

To their usual music.

Then crawled into their bunks.

Lights were doused.

Then, out of the darkness, a voice.

“Hey, Tolley. Play us some of your music.”

Our son turned up the song he was currently listening to.

Only Time.

Enya.

Within seconds the sounds of snoring filled the dorm.

After that, immediately following lights-out, the strains of choice were something soft.

Soothing.

And sleepy.

The magic of music.

Jam Wars

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.

It categorizes you.

Marks your place in the family.

Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.

It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)

It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.

I'm talking about jam.

Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.

More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.

It is the family 'Maginot Line'.

You can be on one side or the other.

Both of which are tasty.

Or so I'm made to understand.

But wander over to the other side in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.

My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.

His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.

Oops.

I mean - raspberry.

And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.

Mine.

Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.

And prefers apple jelly.

We don't talk about him.

Moving on . . .

Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.

I should point out here that it is a grueling test.

The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.

And I do mean breathlessly.

If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been know to pass out cold.

I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.

Teeheehee.

But I digress . . .

The prospective member of the family makes a choice.

And my side cheers.

It's true.

Every single one has chosen raspberry.

Until our last son-in-law.

Who chose . . . poorly.

I maintain that he was coached.

Money might even have changed hands.

So the score now stands at : strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.

And one son who will not be mentioned.

Now for the next generation.

Our eldest granddaughter is eight.

Time to make a choice . . .

November Giveaway Hop

This giveaway is huge! 
Co-hosted by Tristi Pinkston and I'm a Reader Not a Writer, it is a chance to win wonderful prizes. Many, many wonderful prizes. Here is what you have to do . . .

On either of the two hosts blogs, you'll see a huge, giant, amazing list of blogs that are also participating. Each blog is offering a prize, and all you have to do is click the link and enter their contest. There will be winners! There will be madness! There will be mayhem! And you'll have a lot to be thankful for!

My prize is a copy of my wonderful, fabulous book, Carving Angels, a Christmas story of love, family and magic.

To enter:

1. Become a follower in the box labeled "Smart People" on my sidebar. If you already are a follower, awesome!

2. Leave me a comment and tell me if you are a new follower or existing follower. 

That's it! Once you've done that, you are entered. 

The winner will be notified by e-mail after the end of the hop. If your e-mail isn't visible through your Blogger profile, please include it in your comment so I know how to reach you.

Now go see what my bloggy friends are offering - you could win a prize on every single blog! Okay, not terribly likely, but possible . . . 

Restaurant Manners

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'.

Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.

But especially tacos.

Mmmmm. Tacos.

There was only one problem.

I couldn't get them hot enough.

I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.

Not enough.

Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.

Still not enough.

A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)

Almost there.

Seven drops.

Perfect.

And that's the way I ate them.

The entire nine months.

My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.

I think I burned it off.

This is relevant.

Moving on . . .

After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.

Mmmmm. More food.

I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest.

Toasty and comfortable.

Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.

My dinner arrived.

I looked at the loaded plate.

Then at my baby.

I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.

But that would take effort.

And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.

Hunger decided.

I would just eat.

Over the baby.

It was just like being pregnant again.

Sort of.

All went well.

The mushy peas went first.

That was easy. I just held the bowl close and spooned.

Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.

Mmmm.

And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.

With ketchup.

Paradise.

Dip.

Munch.

Dip.

Munch.

And so it went.

Then, that fateful dip.

Splat.

Oops.

Right on the top of my baby's bald head.

What to do?

I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.

Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.

Done.

I happily went back to eating my chips.

That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table.

Looking at me.

A frozen expression of horror on her face.

Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.

I remember being a trifle embarrassed.

And briefly uncomfortable.

Then I shrugged.

In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex.

It's all a matter of perspective.

And food.

Mark . . . and Doors

Mark, tricycle fiend. Or just fiend.

Mark was angry.

And no one could get angry like our little three-year-old.

Anyplace would be better than this one.

Grandma's was infinitely superior.

She never made him clean up his toys or eat his meals.

He was leaving.

He had his pyjamas and Kermit the Frog.

He was packed.

And out of here.

I sat, nursing the baby, and watched him walk down the hallway, one leg of his sleeper hanging out through the improperly closed zipper of his backpack.

My little independent man.

“I'm going, Mom!” he said loudly, without looking back.

His 'declaration of independence' continued as he moved along the hall . . .

“I'm going!”

“Here I go!”

“Yup. I'm going!”

“Going to Gramma's”

“You won't see me!”

Yup. Living with Gramma now!”

“Bye!”

By this point he had made it the entire length of the hall and was out of my sight.

There was a short pause and I could hear the sounds of movement and a tiny grunt.

Then, “Mom! Can you come and open the door?”

Yup. My independent little man.

Walking to his Grandmother's ten miles away.

If he could make it out of the house.

* * *

Mark was outside, riding his tricycle.

His favourite pastime.

He would navigate over the rough terrain surrounding our farmhouse with ease, little legs pumping happily.

I frequently went to the window to check on him.

But he was a safe driver.

He never went near the road, and would happily drive back and forth between the house and the root cellar/pumphouse.

Doing laps.

Totally safe.

Okay, so adventurous, he wasn't.

Or so I thought.

One afternoon, his grandfather drove in.

With the family travel trailer hitched to his truck.

I watched him wave at Mark.

Mark waved enthusiastically back.

Not only did Mark love his grandfather, but he loved that trailer.

It had the one door in the world he could open.

Whenever he was at Grandma's, it was his playground.

His grandfather parked beside the pumphouse and got out to do something.

I watched my son ride his tricycle towards the pumphouse.

And really didn't consider the trailer.

I went back to my laundry.

A short time later, the truck and trailer pulled out and disappeared towards town.

I went to the window to look for my boy.

And couldn't see him.

A feathering of alarm.

I quickly dashed out of the house.

He wasn't on his normal tricycle route.

I ran towards the pumphouse.

And found his trusty tricycle, laying on its side.

But no Mark.

I looked towards the settling cloud of dust that indicated the path of Grandpa's truck and trailer.

I knew where Mark had gone.

He had gotten into the trailer.

Would he stay there?

Or would he get scared and try to get out when the trailer was moving?

Okay, full blown panic.

Praying frantically, I ran for the phone.

“Mom! Has Dad come in with the trailer yet?”

“Not yet, Diane. Oh, wait, yes, here he is.”

“Could you please see if Mark is in the trailer?”

“What?!”

“Could you just look please?” I was crying by this time.

My little boy.

My little boy.

In a moment, she was back on the phone.

“Diane? He's safe! He's here! He was hiding under the table!”

Some prayers are well and truly answered.

First Day of School by Enes Berg Stringam

Standing: Bern, Eldor, Glen
Sitting: Mom

On Mom's first day of school, she spoke almost no English, only Swedish . . .

My first day of school was anticipated with the fear and anxiety which had been passed down to me from my brothers who went before me.

I recall horror stories with exaggeration about strappings, sitting on a stool at the front of the room for being late, and beatings from older boys.

Beware of the 'older boys'.

As the time came for me to make my debut, my legs became so numb that I could hardly walk.

I was so afraid.

Winnie Charleton (two years older) kindly took me by the hand and led me into the one-room schoolhouse.

Mrs. Hunter smiled as she pointed to the desk at the front of the room where I would work.

Four other girls sat behind me in the same row.

"Good Morning, boys and girls!" said Mrs. Hunter.

"Good Morning!" responded the class.

All except me.

Mrs. Hunter looked at me with a lop-sided smile.

"Can't you say, Good Morning?" she asked.

"Yah," said I, then quickly, the line I had rehearsed with Mama, "Min nom Enes. I am half past six."

Little titters rippled around the room.

"Would you say that again, please?" asked Mrs. Hunter.

Luckily, I understood.

"Min nom Enes, I am half past six."

The giggles turned into a roar as the thirty or so children rocked with laughter.

I was so humiliated that I laid my head on the desk and covered it with my arms.

What would my punishment be for this, I wondered?

Mrs. Hunter simply said, "Enes - that's a nice name."

Then she turned to the blackboard and wrote her name.

I worried all day about the punishment I would receive, but nothing happened.

We were given our first primer and we tried to copy the words DOG and CAT. We copied numbers, 1 to 10, and played 'I Spy'.

My fears finally dwindled.

School was actually fun!

My Little Sister by Enes Berg Stringam

Mom, third from left, and five of her eight brothers.
Her 'baby sister' Roy, alias Rosie, is far left.

Another selection from my Mom's journals.
This was my Mom's favorite story.

Being the only sister near the middle in a family of eight brothers, I found myself competing with the boys and growing up as a 'Tom Boy'.

I was athletic and could run as fast, jump as high and throw as far as my brothers.

I milked cows, drove and rode horses as well as the boys.

As the fourth in the family, I often considered myself the fourth brother.

In spite of this, I yearned for a sister, sharing my mother's yearning for another daughter.

By the time I was five, I had three new, small brothers but still no sister.

My prayers unanswered, I seemed destined to be alone in a mob of boys.

My little brothers seemed more cooperative and trusting than my older brothers; maybe little brothers could substitute as sisters? I decided to try to make one my little brothers into a little sister. Perhaps if I dressed them up in girls' clothes, they would pass as sisters. I rummaged through Mama's trunk and found an old dress and a bonnet with lace trimming.

Armed with these frillies, I looked about for a likely prospect.

Roy, the fifth brother and three years my junior, seemed the best choice. I approached him where he was playing in the yard.

"Roy, come and see what I have here."

He came willingly after I promised him a cookie.

We went upstairs where I slipped him into the dress, tied the belt and put on the lace bonnet, all the time crooning how nice he looked - so very nice. I gave the dress a tug to cover grubby clothes and ankle-height shoes.

I called my new little sister Rosie, my favorite name at the time.

For a while we played games that I supposed girls would play. We played with dolls and improvised a tea party including the promised cookie.

We were having such a good time, just us girls.

It was wonderful having a beautiful little sister.

Finally, I thought and I and my little sister should go for a walk to see the cats and the farm animals which would be frolicking about outside.

I took Rosie by the hand and for several blissful minutes, I led her around the yard, describing all the interesting features of our farmyard and garden.

Luckily, we did not encounter any brothers with their taunting giggles and snorts.

Suddenly a car came into the yard.

 The spell was broken. Rosie, reverting to Roy, leapt into the air and shot like a rocket toward the house.

As the passengers poured out of the car, they were surprised to see what looked like a human tornado, shedding clothes as it sped to the nearest hideaway.

Music by Enes Berg Stringam

My Mom, age 20. Why couldn't I have looked like that?!

It's the first of November. 

If she were still with us, my Mom would have been taking down the Halloween decorations and hunting out the boxes marked 'Christmas'. (Canadian Thanksgiving is in October, so we move directly from Halloween to Remembrance day to Christmas.)

And she would also be digging out the Christmas albums to put on the stereo.

Mom loved music.

I'm thinking about her today . . .

This is another entry from her journal.

There was much music in our house.

Mama had a beautiful voice, singing us to sleep with lilting Swedish tunes.

Papa was quite proficient on the accordion, playing schottisches, polkas and old-time waltzes for dances at the school house, and at home, especially when we had visitors.

Early on, Papa bought an organ at a sale.

I loved music and tried to play that organ.

Later, Papa purchased a piano to which I became attached as to a loving friend.

Tommy Mair, a musician friend of our teacher, arranged to give music lessons after school in Millicent.

I was thrilled to be enrolled and Tommy became my teacher, maestro and hero.

He could play anything without a sheet of music.

As he rippled through my lessons with a magic touch, I was enthralled, floating on a cloud of notes so sweet and heavenly, I wanted the rhapsody to go on forever.

For eight wonderful lessons, I wafted in ecstasy.

Tommy would play a tune and I would copy him.

Then he would improvise with many delightful trills so that the simple little single notes became a whole orchestra of sound.

As his nimble fingers raced over the keyboard, I was transfixed into a fantasy world beyond my fondest dreams.

In that moment, I yearned to be a maestro like Tommy Mair.

But after eight lessons, I was on my own.

At every opportunity, whether at home or at a community dance, I was at the piano watching the artistic mastery of every pianist.

Fascinated by the variety of piano improvisations.

Then, at home, I would spend every available moment trying to replicate what I had seen.

I was drawn to the piano like a moth to light, picking out tunes in a painful process of matching notes to keys until I had memorized them so I could play them by ear.

The piano became my best friend and companion.

It became an outlet for self-expression.

I learned that if we express ourselves well, others will listen, understand, and believe in us.

They will be buoyed up and motivated by our message and inspiration and we, ourselves will also be inspired with a feeling of accomplishment.

Music has helped me to greatly raise my self worth, to feel good about myself.

For this, I am thankful to my first inspirational music teacher, Tommy Mair.

Outhouse Tipping. Sport of Kings.

Seated: Grandma and Grandpa Berg and 'She Who Holds the Horses'
Surrounding them: The Instigators

Halloween.

Ghosts and goblins.

Witches, black cats and scary pumpkins.

Pirates, vampires and mummies.

An evening of treats, tricks and mischief.

And it has been this way for many, many years.

My Mom often talked of mischief perpetrated by her and her eight (yes, I said eight) brothers.

They were in a rural community, with all of the families around them involved in some sort of agriculture, so the opportunities for tricks were almost as endless as the imaginations that enacted them.

Pigs in the hen house.

Harnesses on the cows.

Wagons hauled to the roofs of the barns.

Tires and assorted junk piled in the roadways.

But the favourite, the real king of the pranks was outhouse tipping.

Though indoor plumbing was quite common in the cities and larger communities in the mid-1930s, on the farms and ranches surrounding Millicent, Alberta, most families still made use of the outdoor privy.

Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but necessary the whole year through, the outhouse was an accepted and integral part of family life.

And very few of them were fastened down.

All it took was a concerted effort by two or more strong lads and . . . over it would go.

Followed by much laughter and hilarity as the perpetrators fled.

To the next farm.

Where their adventure would start all over.

Mom held the horses, or so she contends.

But I digress . . .

One Halloween, she and her eight brothers were making the rounds.

One farm, in particular was their destination.

The husband and wife who ran it were 'feisty'.

And protective.

And fun to pit wits with.

The Berg kids crept along in the darkness, trying desperately to be silent.

Finally, they left my Mom holding the horse's reins and crept closer.

All was quiet.

Light was pouring from the farm house.

The couple was likely eating dinner.

The boys picked their target out of the gloom.

It stood in lonely glory (can one use the word 'glory' in describing an outhouse?) to one side of the yard.

Closer.

Finally, they reached the little structure.

Ahh. Now just a little push to set things going . . .

Now, unbeknownst (good word) to them, the farmer had decided, this year, to outwit his antagonists.

By hiding inside the outhouse.

At the climactic moment, he would burst from the building and give his shotgun a blast into the air.

That would scare those little scamps into next week!

His plan was brilliant.

Genius.

Right up to the point where the boys tipped the outhouse over . . . on its door.

Trapping their would-be assailant inside.

Hampered but unbowed, he stuck his head through one of the holes and shouted, "Ye blimey little rats! I'll get ye!"

Then followed with the planned shotgun blast at the sky.

Admittedly, completed as it was through the hole of an outhouse, the action lost some of its 'punch'.

And the boys, by this time were already over the hill, laughing at their cleverness.

But the farmer's actions did achieve one thing.

Made doubly sure that his farm was on the 'trick' list for a long as the boys lived at home.

Or until he got indoor plumbing.

Whichever came first.