Things That Go Bump in the Night

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.

Haunted.

Really.

Demons lived there.

Witches.

Hags.

You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.

We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.

Even in broad daylight.

With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.

Even so, I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams coming from it.

And no, they didn't come from me.

Sheesh.

At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.

Situated about half-way down the block.

A family had lived there.

Mother. Father. Children.

But that was where the 'normal' part ended.

At least that is what my friends had informed me.

Often.

One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.

It was dark in the cellar.

He had lighted a match to see more clearly.

And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.

I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dangerous.

And why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I wouldn't know either.

Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.

But I was four.

Who was scrutinizing?

I was too busy shivering in delight.

Moving on . . .

So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.

It lit up like a huge torch.

The kerosene, that is.

He and his family barely got out alive.

No one knows what happened to the cat.

The family then disappeared.

Never to be heard from again.

Ooooooooo!

Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.

It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.

The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.

But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.

Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.

Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally burned cloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.

We were horrified.

And ran from the house screaming.

I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.

The house was eventually demolished.

Mainly to keep us from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.

But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the 'haunted house'.

Where the family lived.

Before the fire.

And maybe they're there still.

Making noises and screaming at odd hours.

The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Food 'Allergies'

The Bean Man . . . and family.

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.

Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.

We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.

Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.

There's a difference.

But what a scheme!

My kids tried to use it, too.

Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.

His particular nemesis?

Beans.

Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.

My personal favourite.

And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.

Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.

Mmmmm.

From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.

Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.

Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.

“Father in Heaven.” Grant.

“Father in Heaven.” Mark. (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)

“We thank thee for this food.” Grant.

“We thank thee for this food.” Mark.

“Because it's so yum.” Grant.

“Because it's so not yum.” Mark.

Laughter (Grant).

More laughter (Mom).

Grin (Mark).

And so it went.

For 19 years.

At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.

He excitedly prepared to go.

I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”

“What?”

“Bean Town.”

His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”

“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”

He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.

“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”

“Oh.”

He went anyways, brave boy that he was.

And returned two years later.

We met him at the airport.

We had sent our little boy.

We brought back an adult.

The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.

His response?

“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”

Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .

Mark eats beans today.

Mostly to show his children it can be done.

But he doesn't wage much of a battle.

His oldest daughter, Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.

Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

Apologies . . .

The Culprit

I am so sorry that I haven't been able to post regularly these past few days.
I'm really missing it, too.
And visiting all of your blogs . . .
But this book-signing tour has kept me so busy that I just haven't had any time.
Plus I've been spending all of my days smiling and being nice to people.
Tough work!
I use up all of my 'nice' before I get back to the apartment . . . :)
But, the end is in sight.
I am going to be on TV tomorrow morning. ABC4, Good Things Utah, sometime between nine and ten AM.
Then I have a signing.
Then another signing on Wednesday.
Then I'm done.
For now.
Wish me luck!!!

Part Two: They Call the Wind . . .

I know how it feels.

Wind is hell awful.

In Southern Alberta, farmers and ranchers plant three rows of trees.

The first row, furthest outside, is a row of caragana bushes.

They grow the fastest and protect the other, slower-growing trees.

Next come the poplars.

Not quite as fast-growing, but faster than the pines, which form the third row.

The three rows together form an effective, natural wind break.

But they take a while to mature.

Sigh.

My brother, Jerry had a dream.

He wanted to raise hydroponic tomatoes.

He had done his research.

Tested the water.

Literally.

I guess hydroponics have certain water requirements.

Besides 'wet'.

He was ready.

He built two large buildings. Frames really, which, when covered with heavy-gauge plastic, became hydroponic barns.

Perfect for growing wonderful, delicious tomatoes.

He set up his equipment.

Rows and rows of it.

And planted.

And tended.

And watched as his crop grew, flowered and produced little tomatoes.

Which continued to grow.

And were nearly ready to pick.

Remember at the beginning of the story, when I mentioned wind?

This is where that comes in.

Jerry's barns were at the top of a small hill.

His windbreak was in its infancy.

So a plank wall had been built.

Surely that would protect his precious crop.

The wind began to build.

The heavy plastic was billowing in and out.

A great gust went over, kicked up into the air over the barns by the impermeable wooden wall.

It sucked the plastic up with it.

Jerry was standing in his barn when it happened.

In a split second, he saw the walls of plastic lift six inches from the ground.

He had only a moment to consider what he could do to save his barns and his precious crop.

Nothing.

The next gust took the great plastic covers with it.

His crop was destroyed in seconds.

What was it I said about wind?

The Southern Alberta winds yearly cause a lot of damage.

I have lived away from them for over three decades.

I still can't sleep when the wind blows.

Wind: Part One

 . . . like a tumbling tumbleweed!

Wherein We Prove That Wind and Little Kids Aren't A Good Mix . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

But our bedroom was in the West end of our trailer. Where the wind was the strongest.

All day, the trailer would buck in the wind.

And all night.

We never slept.

One time, the wind was so strong that Grant came home from work, put a hand under our little, built-on entryway, and lifted.

The little four by four room took off like a box kite.

Or Dorothy's house.

But there, all similarities end.

It didn't quite make it to Kansas.

And, though it might have taken out a gopher or two, there were no red slippers sticking out from beneath it when we found it later, about a mile away, happily sitting in the middle of the field.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our little home.

I should point out, here, that our little home stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He got to the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop with that.

Instead, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar.

I managed to catch my son.

Sometime before he reached Saskatchewan.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

Baby Swears

She of the foul mouth . . .

There are ways of making one's anger and frustration known.

Even when one is . . . little.

My friends two eldest children were having 'one of those days'.

When arguments erupted at regular intervals.

And no one was happy.

Periodically, one of them would go to their mother and say, “Sister said the 'S' word!”

Now their mother was an adult.

I probably don't need to point that out.

She knew what the 'S' word was.

But had no idea how her children had learned it.

Appropriate punishment was carried out.

A few minutes later, the other child was at her side. “Brother said the 'S' word!”

This went on for some time.

Finally, totally exasperated, their mother pulled both of them aside and asked them where they had learned the 'S' word.

“Well you and Dad say it!”

Now my friend lived in a non-cursing home.

Expletives were kept strictly within certain bounds.

She knew she had never, in her entire life, said the 'S' word.

She shook her head. “When did I say it?”

“Mom, you say it all of the time!”

“Really?”

“All the time!”

Finally, she realized that there was one question she had not asked.

“Kids, what is the 'S' word?”

Together they chorused, “Stupid!”

Ah. Okay.

Not a desirable word, but not quite what she was thinking, either.

Now everyone was on the same page.

We, too had our forbidden family curse words.

Mom and Dad had a problem with children abusing each other verbally.

Stupid was a no-no.

But we were raised on a ranch.

With hired men.

Whose language was, how shall I say it . . . colourful.

And it was inevitable that we should pick some of it up.

I remember the first time we heard our little sister curse.

It shocked my younger brother and I to our toes.

We stared at our tiny sister in disbelief.

Had we heard what we had just heard?

Mom was gonna have something to say about this!

We ran to tell her.

Let's face it, getting each other into trouble was the thing we liked doing the most.

Because.

“Mom! Mom! Anita said something bad!”

Mom stopped what she was doing and followed us to where the guilty party stood.

Feet planted.

Chin out.

Bristling with anger and defiance.

Mom knelt next to her.

“Anita, what did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Anita, Diane and Blair told me you said a bad word. What was it?”

“I didn't say anything!”

“Anita!”

“Okay.” She sighed. “I said 'Stupid Poop'.”

Her three-year-old ears had heard what the hired men had spouted and processed it to this?

There was hope for the world after all.

'Stupid poop' remained our most formidable curse for many, many years.

Until it was replaced by something more worldly, as recounted here.

Ah, the price of living in the world . . .

Gratitude Giveaways Winner!

Congratulations to Martha of Martha's Bookshelf.
She is the fantastically lucky winner of a copy of Carving Angels!
Yay!
And a very big thank you to everyone who entered the contest!
I write for you!

Of Tables, Wind and Making an Ash of Oneself

Grant build our family a picnic table.

Cedar.

Nice.

It was the scene of many, many family meals and celebrations.

And occasionally the scene of . . . adventures.

Let me explain.

First, a little background.

Grant built a little home for us.

Okay. Originally, it was built as a dog kennel.

Then converted to a chicken coop.

Then we cleaned it up, insulated and panelled the interior.

Put down new flooring.

And we moved in.

Snug and cozy.

It was heated with a wood stove.

That is an important point.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

When I was expecting our fourth child, we decided that we needed more than 300 square feet to live in.

Grant built a basement and we moved our little house onto it.

Wow! Double the space!

We could now have such luxuries as . . . bedrooms!

A bathroom!

Luxury indeed.

But still heated with a wood stove.

Now comes the part where the picnic table and the wood stove come together.

It was winter.

Not much call for meals outdoors on our picnic table.

It had been shoved close to the house.

One day, just as we were preparing to head into town, Grant decided to clean out the little stove.

He carefully collected the ashes into a paper sack and carried them outside to put in the ash can.

Yes, we really had an ash can.

Don't ask.

Moving on . . .

One of the kids had a minor emergency just as my husby reached the front door.

He set his bag of 'mostly dead' ashes on the picnic table and scrambled to take care of the problem.

Done.

Then we packed up and left.

The bag of ashes sat, forgotten, in the centre of the picnic table.

I should explain, here, that the wind always blows in Southern Alberta.

This is important.

We were gone for some hours.

The wind blew on the little paper sack full of ashes.

And finally, ignited some of them.

They consumed the bag.

Then started on the nearest combustible object.

You guessed it.

Our picnic table.

Pushed up tight against the house.

When we returned from town, my husby stopped the car and turned it off,

Then hollered something unintelligible and ran for the house.

I was busy unbuckling children and pulling the baby out of her car seat.

I turned around just as Grant appeared with a bucket of water.

Which he threw on the picnic table.

It was then that I noticed the plume of smoke.

And heard the hissing of unhappy flames meeting . . . something extinguishing.

I moved closer.

Grant stood, surveying our picnic table.

Or, through the smoke, what was left of our picnic table.

An expression of relief and chagrin on his face.

“What on earth happened?” Me.

“I think I must have left the bag of ashes on the table.” He.

“Huh.” Me.

I herded the kids into the house while Grant poured more water on the picnic table.

Later, we took stock.

The table, miraculously, was mostly intact.

The bag of ashes had burned a large (12”) hole in the very centre.

The rest of it was still usable.

The miraculous part was the fact that the fire had confined itself to the centre of the table.

With the brisk wind, it could easily have burned the entire thing.

Not to mention our house.

Miracles, indeed.

There is a codicil.

My brother, Jerry, and his family were over to our little house for dinner.

As they were leaving, Jerry spotted the hole in the middle of our picnic table.

He laughed, sat down and said, “This porridge is too hot! said Papa Bear.”

Miracles aside, it was pretty funny.

Mrs. Santa's Panties By Grant Tolley

In recent months I have taken to walking during my lunch hour. 

Walking is my favourite form of just plain old exercise. A holdover, I guess, from my Boy Scout days when I always enjoyed hiking in the mountains and following a long trail through the forests and the trees.

But I digress already.

My noon-hour constitutionals take me most days to a shopping plaza that is about 2 ½ kilometres away from my office – I'm glad to say that I quite enjoy walking 5 kilometres or so most every day. 

For me it is the most natural thing in the world to do, and the most healthy.

When I get to the shopping plaza, I often visit the bank there.

I usually have to put some money into the bank so that they can keep operating.

Ahem! 

When I am not paying penance to the bankers, I sometimes wander through one or more of the commercial establishments. 

Now I should say that I am not much of a shopper-for-the-sake-of-shopping. But in recent years – since the marriages of my children and the arrival of an increasing gaggle of grand-kids – that I have taken to just wandering through stores, casually watching for a bargain on something that one or the other of them would like or could put to good use. 

So I buy it, and salt it away in my joint-occupancy-with-my-Beloved closet, which holds most everything except what a closet is normally supposed to hold.

So the other day, I had found a small item or two, which I had cradled in my arms (having being either too short-sighted or just plain stupid enough not to have picked up a shopping basket) – and I headed to the cash register. 

Now you must understand that this was the first really cold day of our winter, so I had on my bulky winter jacket, accompanied by dis-en-handed gloves which I held in one hand, holding the several items I needed to pay for, and then trying to fish my wallet out of a pants pocket that just happened to be underneath all of the above, and encumbered further by a set of keys and a blackberry, all not-so-neatly crammed into the same pocket. 

I don’t have a clue who the idiot was who put all that stuff there.

Needless to say, standing at the cash register, I was delayed somewhat on my wallet-fishing expedition, which held up the line of people behind me. 

One of my own pet peeves! 

People who wait in line for 20 minutes to pay for their purchases, then wait until the cashier says “Twenty-eight dollars and two cents, please”, before they even start looking for their wallet or opening their purse.

And then inevitably not finding it.

Especially in a purse – in my Beloved’s purse, her cheque-book usually ends up hiding right underneath the kitchen sink.

But I digress again . . . . 

I am sometimes annoyed by those persons – and now I find that I are one! 

Begorrah!

A woman behind me starts talking. 

To me. 

I keep fishing, more hurriedly, figuring that she is like me, and I am annoying her by delaying the line. I drop my gloves. 

I stoop to pick them up – and drop one of my purchases out of my arms. 

The woman laughs. 

Laughs! 

At me! 

And keeps talking. 

I’m not hearing much of what she says, because my eyes are on the floor – not literally, but almost -- and my ears can’t seem to work at the same time that my eyes do under duress. 

I toss my gloves onto the counter, stoop to pick up the dropped item – oops, make that now “items” -- which I quickly scoop up and throw onto the counter.

Whereupon one skids to the other side of the counter and falls, again, at the feet of the cashier.

“I’m sorry,” I say generally, hoping to include both the cashier and chattering Mom-like lady behind me.

And then I notice: Chattering Mom-Lady is smiling -- and still laughing! 

And then, with my eyes back in their sockets, I stop to listen.

Amidst chuckles, Mom-Lady is saying to me, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens! Every time I get into a rush, that happens! Why it happened to me just the other day, and I bent over to pick up the new underwear . . . . “

My mind starts racing . . . . Is this going to be one of those way-too-much-information-from-a-total-stranger type of stories?

“. . . and when I finally bent my back upright again – that floor is a loooong ways down there, these days . . . ." – she points to her rumpled grey hair doing a good job of escaping from underneath a too-small-for-so-much-hair, Canadian-flag touque -- “I turned to the guy behind me and tried to give him the panties that I had just picked up off the floor, and I told him, “You dropped your boxers, Sonny!” And he just about fell over laughing!”

I smile, as a jolly guffaw that reminds me of one of Santa Claus’ rolling belly-laughs rises up through Mom-Lady and shines out through her face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I mutter in an attempt at an apology.

“Oh my heavens!” says Mom-Lady, to me and the world in general. “I'm not in any hurry, Son! You just take your time.”

Fifty-six years old, and she calls me “son”.

“Thanks,” I mutter again. “You’re very patient.”

By this time I have successfully completed my fishing expedition, the cashier has completed the transaction, and I am attempting to put on my gloves and retrieve all my shopping bags. There is one left on the cashier’s counter that I don’t quite know how I'm going to retrieve.

“Can I help you there?” Mom-Lady queries.

Having only two fingers left on which a shopping bag could be hung, I turn to Mom-Lady and, pointing with my last two fingers at the last bag on the counter, say to her, “Would you mind handing me my panties there?”

Mom-Lady guffaws, long and loud. I'm afraid we might have to call 9-1-1. 

The cashier is laughing. As are two or three people in the line-up behind us.

Between rumbles of laughter, Mom-Lady hooks the last bag on my last two fingers, and says: “You have a great Christmas, son.”

“And you too, Mom” I reply through my smile.

Son. She called me “son”, and she couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than me. My hair was just as grey as hers. And even more rumpled.

As I think about Mom-Lady on my walk back to my office – arms loaded with shopping bags, for 2 ½ kilometres – I think, what a genuine human being! What a wonderful person! 

Where so many others might have been consumed by Queue Rage – or Road Rage – or Airplane Rage, or so many other of the non-existent syndromes that we have invented as an excuse to be rude and impolite and impatient and unkind – how very nice it is to encounter whom and what I regard as a genuine, true, Gentle-Woman.

Might Santa Claus bring us many more – this year and every year.

From my Husby's desk

From my Husby!

Just because I thought it was funny . . .

On vacation . . .

Subject: Scam warning! Home Depot

A 'heads up' for those men who may be regular Home Depot customers. This one caught me by surprise.

Over the last month I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Simply going out to get supplies has turned out to be quite traumatic. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you or your friends.

Here's how the scam works: Two seriously good-looking 20-21 year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping into the trunk. They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. It is impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask you for a ride to McDonalds. You agree and they get in the backseat. On the way, one of them climbs over into the front seat and starts hugging and kissing you, while the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen May 9th, 10th, twice on the 15th, 17th, 20th, & 24th, 29th. Also June 1st, 4th, twice on the 8th, three times last Saturday and very likely again this upcoming weekend.

So tell your friends to be careful.

P.S. Walmart has wallets on sale $2.99 each.

Pesky Tonsils!

Now

Then

My second oldest grandson just had his tonsils out.

Poor little guy.

But they were so huge that they made it difficult for him to swallow and were constantly getting infected.

There were perks.

For a week, he got to live on freezies and fruit pops and jello and things cold and wet.

Paradise.

He is feeling much better now.

And able to swallow, perhaps for the first time in his life.

Bless modern medicine.

It was day surgery. In and out.

The whole experience reminded me of my older brother, George.

Who had the same problem, fifty years ago.

Are we seeing a pattern, here?

George had a big appetite.

And a small throat.

He would chew and chew and chew on a piece of tender, wonderful roast beef.

Chew and chew and chew.

Then, finally, give up in despair and sit there, morosely, with a lump of meat in his mouth that he simply couldn't swallow.

My Dad took pity on him and told him to spit his mouthful into Dad's hand.

Which he did.

And which my Dad then disposed of.

Umm. Ick.

Then George would happily move on to the potatoes and gravy.

For a couple of years, the same scenario was played out at the Stringam dinner table.

George starting out with things chewy and delicious.

Then moving on to things mushy and easier to swallow.

Finally, it became so common that Dad didn't even get the chance to offer to help.

George would chew and chew and chew, then reach for Dad's hand and spit his mouthful into it.

Often without Dad realizing it.

Until it had happened.

Sort of hard to ignore then . . .

When he did it at a restaurant, my parents decided that something had to be done.

Checkup.

Diagnosis: large tonsils.

Solution: Removal.

Back then, though the operation was common, it meant several day's stay at the local hospital.

But with lots and lots of ice cream and jello.

Modern medicine has come so far.

Nicknames

Bare Blue Stringam

Both of my parents served in the 4-H calf club in our community.

This duty included attendance at the club's annual summer retreat.

I know you are wondering what this has to do with nicknames, but wait for it . . .

Because both of my parents were going on the trip, all of their children had to come along.

Because.

My brother, Blair, was three.

A happy, friendly little boy.

Who didn't always spit out his words clearly.

One young man, a member of the club, asked the smiling little towhead his name.

"Blair Lewis Stringam."

"What?"

"Blair Lewis Stringam."

Admittedly, it came out sounding something like 'Blairloostringam'.

But I digress . . .

"Bare Blue Stringam?"

"No! Blair Lewis Stringam."

"Okay. Bare Blue Stringam."

And just like that, he had a nickname.

It's that easy.

My Grampa, George Stringam had a younger brother who couldn't pronounce Grampa's name clearly.

It came out "Dard."

Thus, his nickname. Dard.

Which my brother, George, inherited the moment he was born.

My daughter, Tiana, was learning to spell her name.

She wrote the letters 'T', 'I' and 'N' properly. But her 'A's' had the lines on the wrong sides, thus disguising them as 'B's'.

Her second oldest brother, Erik was looking at a sheet of paper she had been practicing on.

"Who's Tibnb?" he asked.

A name we call her to this day.

I, myself have been through several incarnations of my name as told here.

What are the nicknames in your life?

I'd love to hear them!

Break Time!

Mischief-maker extraordinaire!

Halloween was a time of hijinks and high-spirited fun in Milk River in the 60s.

Much like it was everywhere.

My brother's stories always surpassed anything my friends and I could dream up, however.

Our lone constable tried hard to keep order in his town.

By different techniques . . .

1. Keeping a strong presence.

Rather hard when you are the only cop in a town full of 'hooligans'.

His word, not mine . . .

And the kids know that as soon as you've driven past, you can't see them.

2. Locking everything up.

Also only effective if one actually . . . locks . . .

But I am getting ahead of myself.

One group were especially rowdy.

My eldest brother's group.

Oh, they didn't do actual damage, unless you count the time they burned down a rickety old shed and, along with it, the power lines to the entire town.

But that is another story.

They just had fun.

One Halloween, our intrepid, lone policeman decided that the best defense was a good offence.

And the best way to do that was to round up the troublemakers before they actually . . . made . . . trouble.

Which he did.

My brother and his friends were escorted, under protest, to the local jail and locked into one of the cells.

Throughout the evening, many more were brought in.

The cell was getting crowded.

Our policeman was quite proud of himself.

He had single-handedly stopped the mischief in our town.

Genius.

What he hadn't considered was the imagination and daring of this particular group of young men.

And the security of his police station.

With its back door that was never locked.

Ever.

Something that all of the kids in town knew.

Partway through the evening, two of the mayor's sons sneaked in by that door and gave the 'prisoners' a file.

An actual file.

I am not making this up.

Then they left.

The boys locked in the cell immediately went to work and, in short order, filed through one of the bars.

One by one, they sneaked through the opening and out the back door.

One of them, however, refused to leave.

He wanted to see the face of the constable when he discovered the empty cell.

He got his wish.

The constable came in to perform a routine check.

He found, not a sound cell full of potential law-breakers; but instead, a cell minus one bar and most of his prisoners.

Consternation warred with chagrin in his expressive face. (Ooh! Good sentence!)

The lone young man was laying back on a bunk, both hands behind his head.

He sat up. "Sir! There's been a jail-break!"

And you thought Milk River was a sleepy little town!

New Coat! Oh, and Christmas Tree . . .

Clockwise from right: Aly (Hired man's son),
Anita, Blair, and Me - in my little gold beauty.

It wasn't often that we kids were able to go on a field trip with my Dad.

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic.

Exuberant.

Exhilarated.

Elated.

Euphoric.

Electrified.

That's all of the 'E' words I can think of.

Except that 'energetic' should be stuck in there somewhere.

And, for me, usually immediately followed by, "Empty all tanks!"

When I think about it, I guess it's not surprising that we didn't go on field trips with my Dad very often.

Back to my story . . .

Dad was taking us four oldest kids to the Sweetgrass Hills to cut down our family's Christmas tree.

It was the 50's.

Families did things like that back then.

But we had to make a quick stop in Milk River at the Robinson's store to get me a winter coat.

I had outgrown my old one and Dad wasn't excited about trailing me through the forest wrapped in my blanket.

Go figure.

So the excitement level for this trip had just been dialed way up.

In fact, I was so elated, that Dad didn't even wait for the 'announcement' (see above), but sat me in the car with a bucket already in my lap.

Smart man.

We made the 20 miles to Milk River without incident. (see above . . . again.)

And entered the store.

I should explain here that the Robinson's Store was the only shop in Milk River that featured clothing.

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

And if you were really lucky, you got to watch Theo Barrows gift wrap packages at her counter in the middle of the store.

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

Dad asked the manager where we could find coats in my size and was conducted, with me tagging eagerly behind, to a rack at one side of the store.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a gold, furry, wonderful garment.

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh!

"This one, Daddy! This one!"

"Okay, we'll try this one," Dad said.

I dropped my blanket and slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Perfect!

"I guess we'll take it," Dad said.

Good thing, too, because there was no way they were ever going to pry me out of that coat.

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

The other kids excited now to get to the real reason for this trip.

Me brushing and brushing the soft fur on my arms and chest.

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

Me and my coat were happy, sitting in the car together.

And watching through the windshield.

Because, after all - one couldn't wear one's new coat out into nature!

What if it got soiled?

Later:
Blair (in my now-outgrown coat), and Anita
The original recycling program

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.

But who listened?

Saved for Greater Things

Tristan and his wife, Jess.

When we were teenagers, my husby and I got involved in theatre.

And stayed involved.

This year marks 42 years for me.

And slightly more for him.

I know, I know. Do the math.

That makes us both . . . old.

But we love it.

We raised our children on the stage.

All six.

Our most recent production, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers closed last night.

To a standing ovation.

Our youngest son, Tristan was singing the role of Adam.

And as I watched him, I couldn't help but remember his first time on stage, at the age of 5.

We weren't sure if he would remember lines, so we made him a mute.

Big mistake.

He hasn't stopped talking since.

Then I thought about all of the roles he has had in his short lifetime.

And other experiences he has had on the stage.

Let me tell you about one.

We were setting up the stage for a production of “I Hate Hamlet”.

Look it up. It's funny.

We were trying different configurations with our set pieces.

One piece, a double glass door in it's own frame, was built by a home builder.

He hadn't understood that set pieces were supposed to drag around easily.

And be . . . light.

He had built it according to building code requirements.

So . . . definitely not light.

We had stood it up and were discussing where it should go in the grand scheme of things.

My son, Tristan was sitting innocently in a chair on stage, waiting for his parents to finish moving furniture around.

We stepped away from the door, intent on another piece of scenery.

And that's when it tipped.

The door, I mean.

Forward.

Towards my son.

It was one of those things that you could see happening.

But were powerless to stop.

For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.

The door dropped.

Down.

Down.

And smacked the back of our son's chair off.

Really.

A large, heavy, wooden chair.

Broke the back right off.

Our son turned and looked.

The door had missed him by a whisker.

I watched him singing last night.

And thought about that wall falling towards him so many years ago.

Obviously preserved for greater things.

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.
This is your last chance to win a copy of Carving Angels this November!
Win a copy of the book that people are calling "sweet" and "heart-warming" and "a wonderful story of love, family, and inspiration".
So, leave a comment and you'll be entered!
I have only one request. If you win, and like what you read, tell everyone!!!
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.