Blair's Prayer

 . . .or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were out . . . doing ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly . . . playing quietly in the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Mistaken Identity

Okay. YOU figure out who's who . . .

My Husby has four brothers.

All of which look/sound a lot alike.

Our oldest son, Mark was a daddy's boy.

He adored his father.

They spent a lot of time together.

A lot.

In the early years of our marriage, all of my Husby's family lived in close proximity to each other.

Getting together was easy.

And frequent.

Looking back, it was a fleeting, wonderful time.

One day, the entire family had been invited over for dinner.

They began to gather.

By ones, twos and threes.

My Husby, on the closing shift, was the last to arrive.

Our oldest son, just turned two, was missing him.

He toddled through the group, looking for that one special, familiar face.

Finally, he spotted it.

Ran over and lifted his arms.

Then, lifted by strong arms, he snuggled down and nestled there, happy and content.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

And his father came in.

“Where's my boy?” he asked.

Mark stared at him.

Then spun around and looked at the man holding him, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

He looked back at the new arrival.

Then, again at the man who held him.

Finally, he made a choice and dove towards his father.

His real father.

Then stared accusingly at the uncle who had been holding him.

There is a codicil:

My sisters and I look a lot alike.

At one of our family reunions, my youngest son patted the leg of the woman he though was me. “Mom? Mom?”

She turned and looked at him.

Definitely not Mom.

He gasped and hid his face in his hands.

Mistaken identity.

It happens in the best of families.

Mom Mistakes

Two sweet faces

Occasionally, Moms make mistakes.

I just want to get that out there.

They do.

Not often.

But occasionally.

Moms are busy.

Usually keeping at least three balls in the air at any given moment.

Totally understandable . . .

My younger brother, Blair was playing in the front room.

Quietly.

Because he was always quiet.

Our baby sister, Anita, was playing nearby.

Less quietly.

Because she . . . never mind.

She had disdained her basket full of colourful toys and was climbing up on the coffee table and sliding off.

This had been entertaining her for several minutes.

Then, she mis-calculated.

Slid off a little too quickly.

And bumped something important.

Tears ensued.

Bringing Mom in a hurry from the kitchen.

She picked her sobbing daughter up from the floor where she lay in a crumpled, miserable heap.

“Blair! What did you do?!”

Blair looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth a perfect 'O' of confusion. “Ummm . . .”

He was summarily parked in the 'you've done something terrible' spot.

The piano bench.

Huh. You know I just figured something out.

Whenever we did something horrible, we were set on the piano bench to think about our sins.

Maybe that's why none of us liked playing the piano.

Just a thought.

Back to my story . . .

Blair blinked and frowned thoughtfully.

Had he done something?

He didn't think so.

He had been quietly reading.

Anita had been playing a few feet away.

On the coffee table.

“But Mom . . .!”

“Don't you 'but mom' me! You stay there and think about what you did!”

Mom marched back out to the kitchen.

Leaving a very confused little boy sitting on the piano bench in the front room.

Anita, tears forgotten, was back crawling onto the coffee table.

Yep. Moms make mistakes.

Fortunately for the future of the world as we know it, it doesn't happen often.

Clean, Clean on the Range . . .

Okay. You do this without getting grimy . . .

Ranching doesn't encourage cleanliness.

You heard it here first.

In fact, ranching and cleanliness don't go together.

At all.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I had worked on the ranch all my life.

And had finally been promoted to 'herdsman'.

Where I served for two glorious years.

This included such things as:

Riding herd

Checking herd

Feeding herd

Treating herd

Worrying over herd.

Hovering when herd was ready to calve.

Calving out herd.

Recording herd.

Eating and sleeping with herd.

Okay, maybe that last is a little extreme, but you get my point . . .

Sooo . . . cleanliness.

Cows aren't naturally clean.

I know this will come as a shock.

I'm sure you've seen the romantic pictures of mama cow licking her baby.

I have one thing to say about this.

Cow spit.

How clean can that be?

Cows also have other orifices that are . . . nasty.

And to which I have one response.

Cow pies.

Enough said.

On with my story . . .

I was ready to go to work.

Clean shirt.

Clean jeans.

Clean kerchief.

Clean socks.

Recently cleaned boots.

I headed out the door.

Bridle and riding pad on my horse and I was away.

We made good time reaching the calving field.

And almost immediately spotted a cow.

Calving.

But having difficulties.

I decided to take her back to the corrals.

And restrain her.

And help.

That's as far as my plans went.

I grabbed the protruding calf feet.

And that's when the cow broke out of my hastily-built restraint.

Grimly, I hung onto the calf.

As the cow started across the corral.

Dropping me and her calf in the middle of a puddle of . . . let me put it this way - it wasn't spring water.

I got up.

Carted the calf to safety.

And headed for the house.

My mother met me in the doorway.

Her clean daughter had gone out the door only half an hour before.

Now, dripping from head to toe with . . . barn puddle, said daughter had returned.

Mom stopped me in the porch.

“You just left here. Perfectly clean!” she said. “What did you do out there!”

“Well . . .”

“Never mind. Clothes off here!” she ordered.

I was divested of anything gooey.

Whereupon (good word) I sprinted for the shower.

In my underwear.

Ranching.

Not for the faint of heart.

Or for the fanatically clean.

Okay, let's face it . . . not even for the somewhat clean.

Don't you wish you were here?

Mom the Rum Runner

The Smuggler - and her get-away vehicle

Mom was a teetotaler.

I thought I should mention that or what follows won’t make any sense.

Dad had surprised Mom with the trip of a lifetime.

Okay, in the 60’s it was the trip of a lifetime.

Driving down along the scenic 101 through Washington, Oregon, California and into Mexico.

They were going to be gone for weeks.

She was just a bit excited.

They set out.

Visiting every landmark, great and small.

Every roadside exhibit.

Every tree, post and rock along the entire route.

Dad loved to see . . . things.

When they had finally finished with SeaWorld, time was growing short.

They had one day to make a hop into Mexico.

Tijuana was all they would have time for.

They set out.

Crossed the border into Mexico.

And had a day of shopping the family-run stalls and businesses on the streets of Old Mexico.

Mom was in her element.

The sheer amount of purchasable ‘stuff’ was mind numbing.

She set to work with a will.

Picking up such treasures as: Velvet paintings.

Items of leather work.

Jewellery.

And some lovely bottles, encased in clever, hand-woven reed containers.

Happily, she piled her purchases into the back seat of the car and the two of them set off on the long road back to Canada.

Crossing the border from Mexico to the US was a simple matter of declaring that, yes, they had done some shopping and spent ‘X’ amount of dollars/pesos, and no, they weren’t transporting any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

They continued on.

Back through California, Oregon and Washington.

Seeing whatever sites Dad had missed on their first pass.

There weren’t many.

Finally, they reached the border, again declaring how much they had spent and that they weren’t carrying any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

The last few miles to the ranch were covered quickly.

Mom had children to see.

And gifts to bestow.

Their homecoming was noisy and enthusiastic.

Mom handed out her purchases.

Brought all the way from Mexico.

Across two borders.

She had purchased one thing for herself.

The three little bottles in their fancy, hand-woven cases.

She arranged them proudly on the mantle above the fireplace.

One larger.

Two smaller.

Perfect.

For many months, they sat there, unopened.

In their place of honor.

Then one of my brothers happened to pick one up as he was dusting.

It was full of liquid.

“Mom! What’s in this bottle?”

“Liquid.”

“What kind of liquid?”

“Well . . . just water, I suppose.”

“Huh.” He twisted off the cap.

Let’s just say that, if it was water, the water in Mexico is vastly different than anything that flows in Canada.

“Mom. I hate to tell you this, but this isn’t water!”

Mom appeared. “It isn’t?”

“Umm . . . no.”

“Well what is it then?”

“I think you have three bottles of tequila here.”

Okay, remember the part where I mentioned ‘teetotaler’?

That would apply here.

 “What’s tequila?”

 “It’s a very strong alcoholic drink. From Mexico. With a worm in the bottom.”

“Oh.”

The ‘liquid’ was duly poured out, worm and all, and good old 100 proof ranch sulphur water poured back in.

Mom went back to the kitchen and my brother went back to his dusting.

All was well.

But I can’t help but think about my teetotaling Mom bringing her three bottle of tequila across two borders.

It’s always the ones you don’t suspect . . .

The New G-String

It's not what you think . . .

Okay, I’m a farm girl!

I had never heard of things like this!

Never mind . . .

I learned to play the guitar when I was twelve.

After an afternoon spent with my big brother, Jerry.

He made it look like so much fun.

We were sitting downstairs on the piano bench.

With an opened ‘Reader’s Digest’ music book propped up on the piano.

We were singing, “When You Wore a Tulip”.

Loudly.

And happily.

With Jerry strumming the guitar enthusiastically.

Picture it: “When you wore a tulip, a sweet, yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose” . . . whereupon (good word) he’d stop and say, just under his breath, but completely in rhythm, “I don’t know that chord!”

“When you caressed me . . .” And the song would continue.

We sang and laughed for hours.

After that, I insisted on learning to play.

Patiently, he handed me the guitar and then taught me.

Fortunately for him, I caught on quickly.

And went on playing.

I was never an expert, but I enjoyed myself and played for family and friends.

Moving ahead . . .

I was happily playing “Puff the Magic Dragon” for my two young sons.

Well, ‘playing’ would be largely a misnomer at this point, because the oldest one kept trying to ‘help’.

Resulting in the dull ‘thump’ of a dead string.

Finally, one of the strings broke.

Rats.

I removed it and coiled it, then set it aside.

When my Husby returned home that evening, I handed him the string and asked if he could pick me up another.

He nodded. “Sure.” Then, “Do you know which string it is?”

“Yeah. G.”

“You want me to pick you up a new G-string?” He started to laugh.

I nodded. “Yeah. I need a new ‘G’ string.” I frowned at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you just asked me to pick you up a new G-string.”

I stared. Was he getting goofy?

Had marriage and fatherhood finally tipped him over the edge?

“Yeah. I broke my ‘G’ string and I need a new one.”

 “You broke . . .?” He laughed harder, bending over and holding his sides.

“Yeah. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his eyes.

“Well, can you get me a new ‘G’ string?”

Another paroxysm (ooh, another good word) of laughter.

Then, finally, “You don’t know what a G-string is, do you?”

Remember where I said the words, ‘farm girl’? That would apply here.

“No.”

He explained.

“Oh.” I suddenly understood his laughter.

He got me the string.

After a laugh with the guy in the guitar shop.

But, in true Tolley fashion, never let me forget the lesson . . .

Parentisms

I'm going to call them parent-isms.

The things parents tell their kids.

Some of which are true.

My Husby's dad was known for his parentisms.

He had his kids convinced that he could measure their potential – with a yard stick.

He'd hold the yard stick near them and announce that their ability was 'nigh onto nothing'.

Fortunately, they didn't believe him.

He was also famous for asking them if they'd rather 'be dumber than they look or look dumber than they were'.

His victim would choose one or the other and he would grin and say, “How could you be?”

Which would result in a heated glare.

And just widened his grin.

He also convinced his children to eat carrots.

Lots of carrots.

By telling them that if they did, they could see better.

Okay, I know that all of us were informed that we would be able to see better if we ate our carrots.

Even in the dark.

But he took it just that much further.

His exact words?

Not only would they see better in the dark, but they would be able to see through hills in the dark.

And at least one of his children believed that one.

For years, my one-day-husby-to-be would peer into the night, trying desperately to see through hills.

He never did.

But he sure ate his carrots.

Sometimes, when his kids were with him in the yard, Husby's Dad would stoop and pick up a small pebble. Then hand it to the nearest child with the words, “Suck on this. The flavour will come.”

They caught onto that one fairly fast.

After trying it only a time or two.

Or three.

But the dreaded phrase for which he is most famous? “Go get the switch.”

This only occurred during moments of extreme stress.

When a misdemeanour was grave.

I should point out that 'the switch' was a long willow branch.

Kept in the garage.

And that the culprit had to go and fetch it.

Hand it to his father.

Then wait for punishment to be meted out.

Sigh.

The culprit would take the 'long route'.

Through the barn.

Around the corrals.

Through the chicken coup.

And the pig pen.

Past Grandma's.

And finally into the garage.

Emerging with the dreaded willow switch.

By this time, having already suffered agonies.

Husby's Dad didn't have to do anything more.

He would make a light, token swipe at legs or bottom, then hand the switch back with the words “don't do it again”.

And they didn't.

What parentisms did your parents use on you?

LDS Author Giveaway Hop!

I'm giving away one free copy of my family Christmas book, Carving Angels to one lucky participant!
Open to everyone!
Here's what you have to do:
1. Become a follower of On the Border and
2. Leave a comment.
That's it. That's all!
Don't you love simplicity?!
Oh, and one more thing . . . let me know me what you think!
I hope you win!!!

What is it all about?

Our Token Hawaiian Cowboy

This

This

+

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the nearest bus route.

But it still managed to attract a lot of employment-seekers.

In the earlier days, cowboys would arrive on their horses.

In my day, they arrived by ‘hitch-hike’.

Because they had been pointed in our direction when they got off the bus in Milk River.

And no one driving that road would ever pass by someone on foot.

So they arrived.

Often hot and sweaty.

But usually ready to work.

There were exceptions.

Oh, they still arrived, hot and sweaty.

It was the ‘work’ thing that they weren’t ready for.

They didn’t last long.

Case in point:

A young man arrived on the bus from Hawaii.

Okay, yes, I know that’s impossible.

Let’s just say he arrived on the bus.

And that he was from Hawaii.

Sheesh.

He told the local bus-terminal operator that he was a cowboy looking for work.

Dutifully, the operator called Dad to see if the Stringam Ranch could use an extra couple of hands.

If they were attached to a large, happy, Stetson-sporting fellow from Hawaii.

Well, this was something new.

Our first Hawaiian cowboy.

Dad drove the twenty miles to bring this curiosity home.

He was a pleasant fellow.

Charming.

Cheerful.

And he sure loved Mom’s cooking.

So far so good.

Dad gave him an assignment.

An easy one, to start.

Tear out the fence along the tree-lined drive.

Dad wanted to replace it and he needed the old one removed.

Our newest hand was given tools.

And instructions.

And left on his own.

Some time later, he was discovered, lying in the shade, visiting with my eldest sister while she shelled peas.

He looked at Dad.

“Oh!” he said, jumping to his feet and hurrying back to work.

Dad went on with his day.

Only to stumble across the young man, once more, lying in the shade and visiting with my sister as she snapped beans.

Dad merely raised his eyebrows.

“Guess I’d better get back to work,” the young man said, pushing himself to his feet and sauntering back to his job.

Sometime later, the bell rang, calling everyone to supper.

The young man was first in line.

Smacking his lips over more of Mom’s cooking.

After supper, he remained in his seat and chatted with my sister while she washed the dishes.

For the next two days, he managed to find time to talk to my sister whenever she set foot outside.

He talked as she weeded the garden.

Washed the 4-H calves.

Hauled hay.

And shucked corn.

Are we seeing a pattern forming here?

Progress on his own project was minimal.

Actually, non-existent.

On the third day, Dad loaded him into the car after breakfast and gave him a ride back to the bus stop in town.

The job that had taken him three days?

My brothers finished it in three hours.

That was our one and only experience with a Hawaiian cowboy.

I’m sure there are other Hawaiian cowboys.

Who are very hard workers.

They just haven’t made it to Milk River, yet. 

Uncle Roy

Uncle Roy as a boy

My Uncle Roy Torgny Berg was the sixth in a family of eight boys.

And one girl.

He was born on April 8, 1927

He died last night, May 8, 2012.

Today, my mind is filled with memories.

Uncle Roy was just over three years my mom’s junior.

As youngsters, they played together.

On one fateful afternoon, documented here, he even allowed himself to briefly stand in for the little sister she didn’t have.

Wearing the dress and bonnet she happily bestowed on him.

Until someone drove into the yard.

In later years, they worked alongside each other on the family farm, near Brooks, Alberta.

And competed against each other in 4-H shows and sporting events.

Living quite a distance apart, our families only got together at reunions, so, for many years, Uncle Roy was a shadowy figure, known mostly as the father of some of my favourite cousins.

Things changed when I was a teenager.

For a brief, wonderful week, I got to stay with my cousin, Paula, in Edmonton.

Uncle Roy’s daughter.

And that’s when the Friendly Feud started.

Highly intelligent, Uncle Roy was a professor in the Agriculture Department at the U of A. Eventually working his way to the head of that department.

Distinguishing himself through many academic achievements, he was one of the major proponents of importing exotic breeds of cattle from around the world to improve Canada/The World’s beef industry.

My Dad raised Polled Herefords.

Purebred Polled Herefords.

The Feud was on.

Uncle Roy gave me a copy of his book, New Concepts of Cattle Growth.

As I remember him best . . .

It had Herefords on the cover.

“That,” he pointed to the cover, “is the only place you will find Herefords in this book.”

To which I shot back, “Must be pretty boring reading, then.”

And it went downhill from there.

Finally culminating in my designing and cross-stitching two silly pictures for him.

One of a cow.

The other of a bull.

And both Herefords.

Because every house needs Herefords.

His book stands in my bookcase.

My pictures hang on his wall.

Uncle Roy.

I will miss him.

Crime and Punishment in the 60s

The Sweet and Innocent Grade Ones. Really.

In the sixties, schools had strict rules.

Breaking said rules carried punishments.

A severe ‘talking to’.

Being kept in at recess or lunch hour.

Or *shudder* being sent to the *gasp* principal’s office.

Where there was always the looming specter of ‘THE STRAP’.

Which, I should point out, none of us had ever seen.

But which our entire class had heard on one occasion.

But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

I started grade one in the fall of 1960.

There were three of us Stringams in Milk River Elementary at that time.

Myself.

My next older brother, George, in grade three.

And our eldest brother, Jerry, in grade six.

Our eldest sister, Chris, had just graduated to Junior High.

Because she had reached the unbelievable and unreachable age of twelve.

Wow.

Jerry and his classmates ruled our school.

We lowly serfs in grade one observed their doings with awe bordering on worship.

I should mention that this was the brother who teased me mercilessly at home.

And who Mom chased around with the broom.

But at school, he was a lord.

He could do no wrong.

We spent hours in observation.

And mimicry.

Until . . . the event.

Remember when I was talking about rules/punishment?

Well that comes into play here.

In Milk River Elementary School in 1960, the principal had instituted a bold new form of punishment.

Lemons.

I am not making this up.

We really had punishment by lemon.

And no one was exempt.

No one.

On Friday mornings during Assembly . . .

Oh, I should tell you we also had Assembly every Friday morning.

Back to my story . . .

On Friday mornings, any malefactors were marched to the front of the gym, before the entire school population, and handed a lemon.

Which they then had to peel and eat.

For most of them, it was a painful process.

For those of us watching, it was a painful process.

Let’s just say it. Rules in Milk River Elementary weren’t often broken.

But one time, it was my brother, Jerry who had transgressed.

It was his turn to stand there.

And he had company.

Let me explain . . .

Jerry’s teacher was busily doing 'teacher' things at her desk.

Jerry and his friend, Stan had made a paper jet.

Okay, yes, they were supposed to be doing school work.

This was more fun.

They threw it.

And watched, proudly, as it flew, straight and smooth.

Then, in dismay, as it sailed neatly out into the hall.

It landed at the feet of the Principal, who just happened to be standing there at that precise moment.

He picked it up.

The boys held their breath and watched.

The Principal looked at the clever little plane.

Then, forgetting himself for a moment, threw it back into the room.

In full view of the teacher, who chose that moment to look up.

If there was a punishment bell, it would have clanged loudly at that point.

Paper planes were on the ‘forbidden’ list.

And all three ‘launchers’ were guilty.

At that Friday’s Assembly, my brother and Stan . . . and the Principal all took their places at the front of the gym.

Each was handed a lemon.

Which Jerry and Stan peeled and ate at lightning speed.

Just to get out of the spotlight.

The Principal took his time.

Wincing with every bite.

The assembled students were screaming with laughter by the time he was done.

Finally, he waved for silence and dismissed us.

Then probably hurried to the bathroom to gargle.

We never forgot.

And school crime hit an all time low.

Genius.

Not the Career His Mama Chose

Heading overseas.

Our second son, in his first career, was a soldier.

Engineer.

Mine/explosives expert.

Not a career his mama chose for him, I should point out.

He was slated several times to go overseas.

But only did so once.

I probably should explain . . .

There is a good deal of heavy training that goes into a call overseas.

Both physical and mental.

My son’s squad had received their notice.

They were slated to go to Nijmegen, Holland

And were preparing.

Picture men and women running. Climbing.

And lifting heavy objects.

Sitting at desks and puzzling over complicated logic problems.

Okay, that’s how I pictured it.

In reality, their short tour to Nijmegen was one of goodwill.

So their training consisted of marching.

And marching.

The day of departure grew closer.

They were representing Canada.

They needed to be properly outfitted.

They were issued new uniforms.

Including new boots.

Which they were instructed to wear.

While marching.

Now I don’t have to point out to you what the combination of new boots and 8 hours of marching can do.

Our son developed blisters.

Blisters on his blisters.

Which immediately became badly infected.

You’ve heard about a soldier only being as good as his feet?

It’s true.

He was put on the ‘injured’ list and sent back to base.

Somewhat disappointed and rather embarrassed.

But another tour was announced.

A real tour.

To Bosnia.

Real training this time.

Including the aforementioned (good word) running, climbing and lifting of things heavy.

Two days before they were ship out, my son was clearing some brush near the base.

Using a machete.

Which he had just sharpened.

His hand slipped. Slightly.

And he nicked his opposite thumb.

Barely.

A quarter of an inch.

But it was a surgically precise quarter of an inch.

He managed to sever the tendon in his left thumb.

The surgeon assigned to fish out the two tendon ends and put them back together said she’d never seen anything like it.

Is she hadn’t been an eye-witness, she never would have believed that anyone could manage such a delicate and accurate operation with a scalpel.

Let alone with a huge machete.

‘Injured’ list again.

Sigh.

Needless to say, by this time, he was getting quite discouraged.

But I must admit that his parents were secretly happy.

Don’t tell him . . .

His third call came to serve overseas.

He again responded.

Trained.

And this time - finally - succeeded.

For the better part of a year, he served as head of the mine cell on the base.

He did well.

And was commended.

Then came home to us.

I remember that first evening, after he stepped out of our van.

He immediately walked over and stood in the middle of the lawn.

We stared at him.

What had our son been learning overseas?

“I haven’t stood on grass for 10 months,” he said. “You don’t dare. Over there.”

Huh. Something we had never really thought about before.

We had assumed all of his sacrifices were made in the going.

We hadn’t realized the extent of what he was giving up while he was there.

My 'Almost' Performance

Admit it. This scares you . . .

I'm sitting, waiting for my Sunday services to start.

I'm in a peaceful, wonderful place.

Quiet hymns are playing.

People are about me, speaking in hushed, reverent tones.

My mind is centred on things spiritual.

Not.

Okay, everyone else around me is probably having spiritual thoughts.

I'm remembering my most embarrassing moment in church.

Does that say something about me?

Moving on . . .

In our church, the speakers every week are chosen from the congregation itself.

Usually in threes.

There is a brief first talk.

A longer second one.

Followed by an intermediate hymn.

I should explain here, that this hymn is usually something instrumental, played by a member of the congregation.

Or an actual song, sung by said congregation while standing.

In case anyone is getting sleepy.

Thus refreshed, everyone is ready to listen to a third, and final, speaker.

My most embarrassing church moment concerns the intermediate hymn.

And my one chance to shine.

Which I flubbed.

Let me tell you about it . . .

In an effort to include everyone, the men who organize the Sunday services are always alert for hidden talents.

I should probably point out that some of them are hidden for a reason.

I had started taking piano lessons.

A smidgin of information my mother proudly conveyed to said men within a few weeks of my first sitting down at a piano.

And which immediately resulted in an issued invitation to provide the spiritually uplifting intermediate interlude for the next Sunday services.

Sigh.

I can sum up my feelings in one word.

Terrified.

But I had been asked.

I would do my eight-year-old best.

I practised hard all week.

I only had one song that would be suitable and I needed to have it perfect.

My family probably got sick of hearing it played over.

And over.

And over.

But they kept quiet about it.

Sunday dawned.

As Sundays do.

Disdaining my little music book, I walked up to the piano.

Rubbing suddenly moist fingers on my dress.

I took my seat and raised my hands in the approved 'piano-playing' manner.

I took a deep breath and struck the first note.

Then I let out my breath and played the next.

And the next.

This was going to go all right.

Confidently, I played the fourth note.

Then my mind blanked.

I stopped.

I couldn't remember the rest.

I hesitated.

Then I started again.

Surely, my fingers would remember it this time.

But they failed me.

I got stuck on the same note.

I tried a third time.

And met the same fate.

I put my hands in my lap. Maybe the congregation would think that the first four notes of the piece were all there were.

Maybe.

Okay, no.

Completely crushed, I stood up and walked back to my seat.

The congregation, consisting mostly of young families were, for the first time ever, silent.

I felt their sympathetic eyes on me as I made my way.

And while I sat with head bowed through the rest of the service.

I survived.

Pretty much unscathed.

I even played again.

Much later.

But never without remembering that first time.

What is it about the power of an embarrassing moment that makes you remember it . . . forever?

Do you have one?

What I Meant to Say Was . . .

I know you’ve done it.

I know I have.

Blurted out something that sounded a whole lot different in your head.

It’s true.

Your brain coughs up a thought.

And hits ‘send’.

Then, somehow, during transition, it gets . . . mixed up.

Maybe exposure to the air changes it.

And it ends up sounding like . . . nothing you intended.

My mom was a master at this.

Example one:

Picture Christmas Eve.

Every available surface in the kitchen groaning beneath seven layers of freshly-baked Christmas delicious-ness.

No supper in sight.

A starving son-in-law, passing the piles of goodies.

Hunger overcomes discretion.

He pops a butter tart into his mouth.

Mom, emerging from the point of action in front of the oven, red-faced and carrying yet another pan of treats, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

Example two:

Mom brings home the good peanut better.

Not the cheap stuff which comes in a tin, allowing all of the oil to rise to the top so that the upper layers are too creamy and the bottom layers need to be chiseled from the container with a hammer.

Then passed through the meat grinder to make them of a consistency to spread.

Which tin, I should mention, is still on the shelf.

Gathering dust.

Sooo . . . good peanut butter.

Which is immediately set upon by the ‘finickily-starved’ (I just made that up) peanut butter fiends that inhabit the house.

 “I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

Mom taught her daughters well.

I, too have had my share of ‘things-said-that-didn’t-come-out-just-right’.

We were discussing a young man of our acquaintance who had been born with weak joints in his hips.

My mother-in-law was cautioning my kids not to jump off the retaining wall in her back garden, citing this young man as an example of ‘damage that could follow’.

I knew that his condition was genetic.

Or congenital.

Which mean the same thing.

What came out was, “Oh, but I thought his condition was genital!”

Something vastly different.

Wait. Everybody un-hear that!

Just let me suck those words back into my mouth!

Admit it.

It’s happened to you . . .

C'ava Bite?

Want some?

My parents were very conscious of teaching us proper manners.

Starting at an early age.

There were ongoing lessons on ‘Please’ and ‘Thank-you’.

The difference between our ‘Inside voice’ and our ‘Outside voice’.

Being polite and respectful to others, especially other adults.

Offering aid when needed.

Being kind.

Oh, and sharing.

Dad had a very unique method of teaching this last aspect.

He would ask for a bite of something.

Usually something delicious that was being rapidly and happily consumed.

I should mention, here, that travels with my Dad were punctuated periodically by stops for the potty.

And treats.

Usually chocolate bars and pop.

A health food nut, he wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Inevitably, once the frantic tearing of paper wrappers had ceased, Dad would approach whichever child was sitting closest.

The exchange went something like this . . .

Dad: “Oh, that looks good!”

Child: Hesitant nodding.

Dad: “Would you like to share with Daddy?”

Now here is where it got tricky.

The child never really wanted to share.

But this was Dad.

The man who had just provided the entire delicacy.

Perhaps sharing a tiny bit with him would be okay.

Hand, clutching said treat was cautiously extended.

Whereupon (good word) Dad would take a small bite.

Child went happily back to eating and Dad would consider the lesson on sharing well learned.

But sometimes, like all potential teaching moments, his lesson backfired.

The exchange then went something like this . . .

Dad: “Would you like to share with Daddy?”

Child’s hand extends what had only recently been a pristine bar of deliciousness.

And which now was a lump of goo.

Dad: “That’s okay. I don’t need a bite.”

Child happily goes back to eating.

The funny thing about this lesson was the fact that the Adult was the one learning.

What is the saying about teaching ‘old dogs’?

Case in point. Many, many years into the future . . .

My son was eating a chocolate bar.

I use this term lightly.

The liberal coating of chocolate on face, arms and clothing should have given ample warning.

But Grampa leaned toward him anyway. “Would you like to share with Grampa?”

My son held out his hand.

There was no discernible difference between fingers and actual chocolate bar.

My Dad stared at the proffered hand and smiled, with difficulty.

“That’s okay. Grampa doesn’t want a bite.”

The lesson? Sometimes, sharing is painful.

For the shar-ee as well as for the shar-er.

Some lessons take a long time to get through. 

Lego - The Leading Edge In Home Defense

Approach with caution!

We were visiting/staying with my husband’s sister.

Her home was in the country, surrounded by acres of Adventure.

Our kids loved it.

They had worn themselves out and were tucked into their respective beds.

The visiting adults had finally followed their example and were peacefully snoring.

My Husby and I were on the hide-a-bed in the family room.

All was quiet.

I should explain, here, that our bed was situated at the top of the stairs.

And that the master bedroom was down said stairs.

And that anyone wanting to use the bathroom would have to walk between our bed and the only source of light in the entire house, the glass doors.

Back to my story . . .

I heard a noise.

As the mother of six, I was instantly awake.

A floor was creaking.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

An adult-sized figure materialized out of the gloom beside me making their slow, careful way towards the bathroom.

For a moment, they were silhouetted against the door/window.

Then they disappeared.

I’m not making this up.

They disappeared.

One moment they were there.

Black cutout against the lighter door.

And the next . . . gone.

I sat up.

“Who’s there? What happened?”

My whisper sounded loud in the stillness.

My Sister-In-Law’s voice from the end of the bed, “[Minor expletive removed here] Lego!”

The figure reappeared, rising up from the floor.

Its gait subtly altered, it continued towards the bathroom.

Only those who have had the misfortune of stepping on a Lego block with an unprotected foot know the pain.

Let’s wince together.

This story’s for us!

P.S. I've just had an amazing thought! Spread Lego blocks around the house for defense. As long as the enemy approaches barefoot, you've got them!