Wave! It might be someone we know!

Ready to head to town!

The Stringam Ranch was twenty miles from the Town of Milk River.

For the first twelve miles out of town, you were passing through other ranch properties.

So your chances of meeting another motorist were pretty good.

After that, there was just one destination.

The Stringam Ranch.

Any traffic that came out that far needed emergency veterinarian assistance.

Or knew the family.

And the spread that appeared around mealtimes.

This is a long-winded way of telling you that, on any given trip into town, Dad knew every single driver that we passed.

A cloud of dust would appear on the horizon, growing larger.

Finally a small dark spot could be detected, right at the base of said cloud.

The speck grew larger.

And larger.

Finally became recognizable as a vehicle.

Dad would slow down and pull over to the right side of the road.

Because lines hadn’t been introduced into our part of the country.

And who could paint a line on dirt anyway?

Moving on . . .

The other driver would also slow and pull to his right.

The two would give each other a friendly wave.

And continue on.

Whereupon (good word) I would bob up out of wherever.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“That was Mr. Angel.”

“Oh.”

I would disappear again.

Another vehicle.

Another wave.

Me bobbing up.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman.”

“Oh.”

As we grew closer to town, the vehicles were more numerous.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh.”

I should mention that there was one vehicle that I recognized.

Even as a four-year-old.

It was an old car, driven very, very slowly.

I don’t remember what year or model though my brother, George, will.

It was driven by a hat.

I am not kidding.

A hat.

A nice men’s hat.

I would stare in astonishment as this particular, peculiar vehicle drove past.

Yep.

Just a hat.

It was the one time during our entire trip that I wouldn’t bother my dad.

Because I knew who that hat was.

It was Grampa Balog.

After it passed, I would slump down on the seat.

Why couldn’t I have a hat for a Grampa?

A hat that could drive cars.

Some kids have all the luck.

Moving ahead several years . . .

Yesterday, I was driving with one of my grandkids.

One of the hundred-or-so cars that we passed was driven by someone I knew.

I waved.

“Grama! Who was that?”

And I was instantly transported back fifty-plus years.

I was four years old again.

And my Dad knew everyone on the road.

'Babe' Enes

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

My Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-belief.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats.

Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie.

And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting.

Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up.

And the game began.

Mom was picked early.

She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat.

The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

Things Aren't Always as They Appinkle

1. 

   Picture him in 'pinkle'

   Families with children are inevitably the recipients of bags of kindly donated clothing.
2. Families with lots of children receive lots and lots of clothing. And
3. Not everything is as it appears.

These statements go together.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We had six children.

Still do, but that is another story.

Moving on . . .

For this reason, everyone who knew us, and even those who only knew OF us, brought us enormous donations of clothing.

They figured we needed it.

They were right.

Every time another large carton of clothing was dropped off, my children went through it.

Laughing and chattering excitedly.

It was like Christmas morning.

Some items were chosen as keepers.

Others were packed back into the box for donation elsewhere.

In one large box, there was a pinkle jogging suit.

You heard me right.

Pinkle.

Not quite pink/not quite purple.

A little 'hoodie' jacket and pants.

My son, Erik grabbed it.

He liked the bright colour.

For many months, it became his outfit of choice.

The first chosen when his clean clothes were stacked in his dresser.

The one that had to be sneaked out of his room for cleaning.

He was warm.

He was distinctive.

He was . . . let's put it this way – he was the brightest coloured boy in the whole second grade.

He loved that suit.

Occasionally, it would need repair.

Dutifully, I sewed up ripped seams or fashioned knee and elbow patches.

Then folded it and put it back into his dresser.

Where he would snatch it up eagerly.

This went on for several months.

Finally, my growing boy . . . outgrew it.

Something even I could do nothing to help.

The pinkle suit was sent to live out its last days in the rag bag.

Move forward several years.

Erik, now a married father of three was talking about that suit.

That horrible pink suit that I made him wear.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after . . . well, you get the picture.

Made him wear???!

“I thought you liked it!” I said.

“I hated it! I was trying to wear it out!”

Oh.

See?

Things aren't always as they appear.

How Does YOUR Garden Grow?

Mom. My gardening hero.

In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to romance.

A young woman’s fancy turns to gardening.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it . . .

It’s spring!

Even in northern Alberta, we have spring.

It just comes later and leaves earlier . . .

And spring means gardening!

My mom was a gardener.

One of those m-m-m-m-major gardeners.

Her patch of vegetables covered roughly two acres.

Give or take.

And was enough to provide the entire ranch population with food for much of the year.

I had been out in her garden from the time I could lift a hoe.

And even sooner (see here).

Not necessarily productive, but learning.

By the time I was married, I thought I knew everything there was to know about gardening.

Boy, was I wrong.

Did you know that those little plants don’t plant themselves in neat, tidy rows?

No.

They have to be painstakingly put there.

Oh, I admit that I watched Mom string a long piece of twine and follow it with a hoe to make sure her garden was aesthetically pleasing.

But it never occurred to me that her actions had a point.

But I was willing to learn.

My Husby rototilled a large patch of ground near our home.

Armed with a century’s worth of seeds, I started out.

Planting turned out to be quite easy.

Stretch the string.

Follow the line with a hoe.

Plant the seeds.

Cover them up.

Turn on the sprinkler.

Wait.

I should probably mention that while waiting, you have to keep an eye on things.

Otherwise, the weeds tend to overpower the plants.

In my first garden, I had planted a couple of rows of tomatoes.

I love tomatoes.

I had no idea that they needed to be started sometime in . . . December.

The little plants poked through the ground.

As did the weeds.

The interesting thing about weeds is the fact that they adapt themselves to fit perfectly with whatever vegetable plant they are near.

Thus, tomato weeds look like tomatoes.

Carrot weeds look like carrots.

And so on.

My tomatoes had emerged.

The weeds that accompanied them looked nearly identical.

They even smelled the same.

Which was which?

I studied the two plants.

Finally, I made a decision and started pulling.

Soon the rows were clean and tidy.

Happily, I turned the sprinkler on my garden and went back into the house.

A short time later, my mother-in-law, also a master gardener, came out for a visit.

She stood at the end of my garden.

“Why do you have two tidy rows of weeds, Diane?”

I stared at her.

Then turned to look at my tomatoes.

I had chosen . . . poorly.

Then she gave me a piece of advice that I’ve never forgotten.

“Diane. If you’re in doubt about a plant, pull it up. If it comes back, it was a weed.”

Good advice.

Doesn’t help much, but good advice all the same.

Onion Warfare

You see food. We see . . .

Yesterday’s blog reminded my Husby of something.

If you haven’t read that post yet, you can do it here.

Then we’ll all be on the same page.

So to speak.

Ready?

Moving on . . .

In Grant’s small community, Church socials were a highlight.

Tables groaning with delicious food.

And best friends.

An eight-year-old boy’s finest moments.

But once the ‘eating contests’ and trips to the dessert table had reached a point that even eight-year-old boys are satiated, what’s next?

Well, there’s always . . . imagination and creativity.

And, trust me, when boys are that age, the ceiling’s the limit.

Quite literally.

Grant and his cronies had stuffed themselves.

The only things left on their slicked-clean plates were little pickled onions.

That no small boy would be caught eating.

Ever.

One of them picked up a small onion and put it on his spoon.

The others watched, horrified.

Was he really going to . . .?

He turned his spoon and . . . flipped it.

The onion shot across the table.

Landing with a small, wet ‘sploop’ (made up word – but expressive).

Everyone stared.

Hey! That looked like fun!

Instantly, four small onions were placed on four small spoons.

Flick.

Four little, pickled projectiles shot off in different directions.

It was fun!

“Let’s go for distance!”

Four more onions.

Four more spoons.

Flick.

“Mine went further! Mine went further!”

“Let’s go for height!”

“Wait, we need provisions!”

A short raid on the pickle platter.

As astonished parents looked on.

Then:

Four more onions.

“Ready?”

Flick.

“Oh, wow! Look at how high Grant’s went!”

Grant’s did achieve more height.

And, because of that, greater distance.

It shot across the room and landed in the plate of a man seated opposite.

A man who was still visiting and eating.

And not really noticing what was on his plate.

The unsuspecting man speared the onion and popped it into his mouth.

Chewing happily.

Never knowing where the onion had come from.

The four small boys crowed with delight.

It was the highlight of their evening.

Vainly, they tried to duplicate the feat.

Raining little onion balls down on unsuspecting heads.

Finally, one of their little missiles actually . . . hit . . . someone.

Game over.

Instantly.

After that, the little pickled onions, which had usually sat forlorn and forgotten on the buffet table, were the first to go.

What doesn’t disappear into the mouth, will still . . . disappear.

Ask any small boy.

Diane Takes on Church Politics - or - The Battle for Bananas

Epicentre of church politics in the 60s

I've been reading about the politics being played out in some organizations in the modern world.

Even churches have their internal power struggles and vying for position.

It reminds me of our church suppers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the sixties, we had Church Socials.

Big pot luck dinners.

For any and all occasions.

Christmas.

Easter.

New Years.

Fall.

Thursday.

They were fun.

Everyone would show up with their large families and a huge dish – or dishes - of something delicious to share.

The food would be arranged on a long series of tables.

Everyone would load a plate.

And the visiting would begin.

Good food.

Good friends.

It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon or evening.

Invariably, there would be someone’s Grandma’s recipe for home-fried chicken.

And many, many incarnations of potato/meat casseroles.

Salads by the creative and colourful dozens.

Home-made rolls just begging for a large dollop of freshly churned butter.

And desserts of enough variety and inevitable tastiness, to make decision-making difficult to impossible.

But there was one draw back.

As with all pot lucks, the first in line got the most choices.

Made quickly to avoid ‘pot luck crush’.

What is ‘Pot Luck Crush’, you ask?

Imagine a river, dammed by a small obstruction.

Pressure builds.

Finally, the obstruction is forced out and shoved quickly downstream to oblivion.

Pot Luck Crush.

My cousin, Reed was usually the first in line.

He had made an art of choosing – and heaping - quickly.

His favourites were the salads.

I should mention here, that two of the most popular salad dishes were the green jello salad.

With shredded carrots.

And the yellow jello salad.

With sliced bananas.

The carrots in the carrot salad tended to be suspended throughout.

The bananas, however, inevitably rose to the top.

And that’s where Reed came in.

He would deftly and expertly – and quickly - scrape the entire layer of bananas from the salad.

Then move happily on to the rest of the offered dishes.

His actions weren’t popular.

Usually, from further back in the line, there would be a howl of protest.

Reed would just grin.

The you-should-have-tried-harder-to-be-first-in-line grin.

The rest of the assembly would be stuck with banana-less salad.

Or what amounted to plain lemon jello.

But the sheer volume of other dishes soon silenced any further protest.

And before long, everyone was happily munching.

Until the next time.

When Reed would again slip deftly and expertly to the front of the line.

Yes.

Even in the sixties, we had church politics.

The difference was that they were over bananas.

Maybe not so different after all.

We Have a Winner!

I just realized that I forgot to post the name of my wonderful, stupendous, fantastic winner!
Congratulations to
Kris of 

• A TECH'S LIFE
• Unofficial FB Game Tester
• An Elect Lady
• Dear Awkwardness
• A Voice of Light in the Darkness
• Pearls of Great Worth
• And a big thank you to everyone who entered my contest.
• I wish I could send a copy of Carving Angels to each of you.
• You're the very best!
• 
  

Basketball Bribery

You can't do this standing at the back . . .

In Milk River, in Southern Alberta, Basketball was the reigning sport.

All of the 'cool' people played basketball.

My family tried hard to be 'cool'.

Well, at least we all tried out for our respective basketball teams.

'Mixing in' during the practice/game was never a problem.

We were used to wrestling with furry creatures that outweighed us by hundreds of pounds.

Fighting for possession of a ball (with an opponent who didn't outweigh us at all) was child's play.

We could nip in, latch onto the ball, and nip out again, before anyone even knew we were there.

But the important point was that we nipped.

Moving ahead . . .

Having been raised with the idea that all children needed to play some sort of organized sport, I enrolled our two oldest boys in community basketball.

At that point, our family was living in the city.

Children raised in the city are different than those raised on a ranch.

Or at least mine were.

They were polite.

Distinctly un-aggressive.

And perfectly willing to stand back quietly let everyone else go first.

Everyone.

They would even pause and say, “excuse me”, if they happened to bump into someone.

All good qualities.

Except when playing basketball.

'Polite' players don't often get their hands on the ball.

Players who stand back and allow everyone else to go first end up . . . somewhere near the back.

The action passes them by.

Literally.

For the first few games, I watched as my tall boys stood back and let the play go on ahead of them.

When I talked to them about 'getting in there', they stared at me, horrified.

“Mom, we can't do that! That would be rude!”

Sigh.

Now I had a new dilemma.

How to teach them that sometimes, being a little bit pushy was not only allowed, but required.

I decided to go with bribery.

For every foul they collected in basketball, I would pay them a dollar.

Okay, yes, I know how this sounds.

Hear me out.

It got them in there.

Fighting for possession of the ball.

Actually touching the other players.

Trying to get there ahead of everyone else.

It made basketball players out of them.

I should point out that after a few weeks of this, I had to withdraw my offer.

They were getting a bit too aggressive.

But they had learned.

Moving ahead again . . .

My oldest grandson is in his first season of playing soccer.

He has been taught manners.

To be polite and never rude.

His father despaired of getting him into the action.

I reminded him of his early days playing basketball.

And my unorthodox solution.

Hmmm.

He and his son went off to the game.

A short time later, they were back.

“How did you do?” I asked.

“Oh, he was great!” my son said. “He almost made a goal! He got an assist!”

“Wow! What made the difference?”

“I offered to buy him a new Lego video game if he scored.”

Ah.

And another generation benefits from a little bribery.

It's a good world.

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!

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What is it all about?

Our Token Hawaiian Cowboy

This

This

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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.