Sally

It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.

Not a pleasant experience.

And I'll never forget it . . .

When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.

Parents, children.

The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.

I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Sally - on the first day of school in September.

She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.

With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.

And freckles.

We started visiting.

And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.

We started to 'hang out'.

I invited Sally to my house.

And she reciprocated.

I remember my first visit to her home.

Her parents were very glad to see me.

Almost tearful in their welcome.

It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.

But I shrugged it off.

Because they were kind.

And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.

Almost like being in my own.

They asked me about myself and our family.

Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.

Served Sally and I a piece of cake.

I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.

Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.

Though the cake was delicious.

Moving on . . .

As I was preparing to leave, Sally's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.

I smiled.

I liked her daughter.

I liked the whole family.

After that, Sally and I were together a lot.

Hanging out at school.

Hanging out at each other's homes.

One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.

Visiting.

A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.

For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.

Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.

“No. I'm staying here with Sally,” I told them.

“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”

I stared at him.

The town hated my friend?

I had never heard of such a thing.

My friends left.

But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.

The town hated my friend and her family.

Hated.

Weird.

I looked at Sally.

I looked at her kind, caring family.

Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.

Their almost tearful excitement over Sally having a friend.

Their interest in me.

I talked to my parents about it.

They looked at each other.

“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”

“But I was told the whole town hated them.”

“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”

I shrugged it off.

And kept on being Sally's friend.

I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.

Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.

I kept Sally with me when other kids at school teased her.

I didn't understand any of it.

These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.

Caring.

Considerate.

How could everyone not see that?

One day, Sally wasn't at school.

I walked over to her house.

It was empty.

She and her family had moved.

Gone back to where they came from.

For weeks, I was sad.

She had been my friend.

I had loved playing with her.

And now she was gone.

A new family moved into Sally's house.

A new leader for her church.

Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.

They stayed.

But I never forgot Sally.

My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.

Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

A Good Cow Pony

A good cow pony is more than just transportation in the ranching world.
It is partner, confidante, shelter, and yes, even protector.
Dad's horse had been superbly trained.
By him.
Calving season is a rather exciting time of the year.
For at least a couple of reasons.
Because new babies are appearing in the fields.
And I don't care what you think, new baby calves are cute.
And because you are getting up close and personal with warm, furry creatures who outweigh you by several hundreds of pounds.
See? Exciting.
In an unpredictable/ohmygoodness sort of way.
Most cows on the Stringam ranch calved between January and March.
Without ceremony or fanfare.
In the field.
Calves were tagged and given their newborn shots within a few feet of where they were born.
I should mention here that Hereford cows are docile and easily managed.
Except when they have a newborn calf nearby.
You've heard the stories about getting between she-bears and their babies?
Well, Hereford cows would kill to have that reputation.
Actually, they would have to kill to get that reputation.
Just thought I'd point that out.
Because it really has nothing to do with this story.
Moving on . . .
Hereford cows may not be the black-leather-clad, chain-toting members of the bovine family, but they can still be rather aggressive when their babies are in danger.
Or when they think their babies may be in danger.
As when people are around.
My Dad found this out the exciting way.
He had come across a newborn calf, lying 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Dismounting, he straddled the calf and prepared to vaccinate.
And that's when Mama noticed him.
Suddenly, a thousand pounds of red and white indignation were breathing down his neck.
And I do mean down his neck.
I know this will sound funny, but when a cow is threatening, the best place to be in the wide-open prairie is 'under' one's well-trained horse.
Really.
You crawl under your horse and no cow will come near.
Hastily, Dad pulled himself and his captive under his horse and continued with his work.
The cow snorted and fidgeted, circling around, trying to find the flaw in this scenario.
The horse kept one eye on her.
Constantly turning to keep his hind quarters directed towards the irate bundle of hair and aggression.
This worked for a few moments.
But finally, even the presence of a larger, stronger, and infinitely smarter creature didn't deter.
She charged.
Remember where I mentioned that the horse kept his hind quarters towards the cow?
That's because that is a horse's 'dangerous' end.
Always loaded.
And ready to fire.
He let fly.
With both barrels.
He caught the cow in the head.
In mid-charge.
Now a cow's head is composed mostly of bone.
They can be hurt.
But it takes a lot.
This kick merely stopped the cow for a moment.
She shook her head, confused.
Then looked around.
What had she been doing?
About that time, Dad finished with the calf and let it go.
It trotted over to its mother and the two of them hurried towards the nearest far-away place.
Dad stood up and gave his horse a pat.
“Good boy.”
Then mounted up and continued his ride.
Another rather mundane day in the life of a good cow-pony.
What would we do without them?

In the Dark

Cute. AND can see in the dark!

My Baby Sister was the cutest little girl ever!

Really.

She still is

Cute, I mean.

But that's another story . . .

Baby Sister gave a whole new meaning to the word active.

She was born when our mother was nearing forty and slowing down.

Which gave a whole new meaning to the word ironic.

Mom would carry on with her usual daily chores.

And just let Baby Sister run laps around her.

And I do mean laps.

Mom would wash the dishes.

Baby Sister would run laps through the kitchen/dining/living/bed rooms.

And the hall.

Mom would do laundry.

Baby Sister would run laps through the kitchen/dining/living/bed rooms.

And the hall.

Mom would tidy the bedrooms.

Baby sister would run laps through the . . . you get the idea.

'Busy' would have described her very well.

As would 'independent'.

And that's where this story starts . . .

In the spring calving season, as the community's only vet, Dad hardly saw his bed.

Cows usually waited until the middle of the night before getting down to business.

Like many women.

Myself included.

Maybe it's a female thing.

Anyways . . .

The wee hours of the morning usually found him creeping through the house as quietly as possible, heading for his much-anticipated bed.

In complete darkness.

He passed the closed door to the youngest childrens' room and made the turn towards his own.

Then he heard something.

What was that?

He paused and glanced back at the closed door.

Had he just heard a noise from in there?

He looked down where the door skimmed the linoleum.

No light.

Another noise.

Okay. That was a 'thump'.

He moved closer and put an ear to the door.

Definite sounds emanating from within.

He could hear more thumping.

Then a small grunt.

He turned the knob and silently swung the door inwards.

Now I have to paint the picture for you.

The house is in complete darkness.

The only lights on a ranch this far from town come from natural sources.

ie. Moon. Stars.

Or from the mercury vapour lamps which light the feedlots and barnyard.

Neither effectively illuminated the scene before him.

Unrelieved, ebony blackness was all he could see.

But the noises continued.

There was nothing for it.

He would have to turn on a light.

Taking a quick breath, he flipped the light switch.

The room sprang into view.

Double bed, with two sleeping children in the far corner.

Crib, empty, directly ahead.

Wait.

Shouldn't there be a baby in there?

He looked down.

The noises he had heard were explained.

The not-yet-two-year-old 'Baby' had wet her training-pants.

Crawling out of the crib, she had found some clean ones and, seated in the center of the rug, was trying to effect changes.

All in near-perfect darkness.

I don't know about you, but I think toilet-training was moot at this point.

Although some sort of 'I-can-see-in-the-dark' career could have definitely been considered.

Maybe vampire-ism.

The little girl looked him and stood up.

Finished pulling up her pants.

Then crawled back into her crib.

Abandoning her used pants in a little heap in the middle of the carpet.

Dad just stared.

Then, grabbing said pants, he threw them into the clothes basket and turned out the light.

And made his way to his own bed.

Relaxing beside his sleeping wife, he stared up into the darkness.

What else went on in the dark?

Maybe he didn't want to know.

Of Brothers and Cookies and Raisins

It only LOOKS delicious . . .

I love raisins.

Especially in trail mix.

Or coated in chocolate.

I should probably point out, here, that coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.

If you coated a hubcap in chocolate, I'd eat it.

Moving on . . .

I did not always love raisins. (Even now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be raisin-free.)

It wasn't until after I was married that I learned to appreciate them.

There is a reason for that.

Which I'm happy to tell you about now.

My brother, George, is two years older than I.

Throughout our growing-up years, his prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.

He practised his craft at every opportunity.

Mercilessly.

And became very good at it.

One day, our mom made cookies.

Something she did a lot.

On this particular occasion, she had produced mounds of raisin cookies.

They were spread out temptingly across the table.

The aroma drew my brother and I from the depths of the house.

“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin cookies today.”

“You did?” I asked innocently.

“Yep. I did,” he said.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You can tell by the smell?”

“Partially. But that's not the real reason.”

“Well, I give up. How did you know?”

He leaned towards me, a big grin on his face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”

And from that moment on, in fact for the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.

Smart cookie.

P.S. He also tried to convince me that my rice was moving.

But that is another story . . .

How Do You Take Your Milk?

Not for the shy or faint of heart . . .

Recently, there had been a lot of press about women nursing their babies.

Usually because it has been carried to extreme lengths.

I nursed my babies.

And loved doing it.

But this isn't a commentary about that.

Though it is about 'extremes'.

Maybe I should explain . . .

A veterinarian friend of my father's had stopped in for a chat.

An immigrant from the UK, he was very fond of his tea.

My father offered him a cup.

Uncharacteristically, he declined.

With a slight shudder.

Dad stared at his friend.

What could possibly have put Dr. Ilovemytea off his favourite beverage?

He realized that he had aroused Dad's curiosity.

An explanation was in order.

He told Dad that he had just come from a vet call to a farm at the furthest border of his practice.

'Out in the sticks', you might say.

His veterinarian business had been concluded.

And successful.

Hoping to prolong what was, to her, the highlight of a normally solitary day, the woman of the household had invited Dad's friend into her front room for a visit.

She had recently given birth to a fine son.

And was anxious to share her story with someone.

All was well.

She and baby were thriving.

Baby was nursing well and growing rapidly.

The woman offered the doctor a quick cup of tea before he began the long trek back to town.

Happily, he accepted.

The tea was brewed.

The woman brought it in and set it in front of her guest.

“Would you like milk?” she asked.

Dad's friend said that, indeed, yes, he would love milk.

Whereupon (good word) the woman flipped out a breast and squirted some milk into the doctor's tea.

He blinked.

Well . . . at least it was fresh.

As the story unfolded, Dad burst into laughter.

“So, did you drink it?” he asked his friend.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“How was it?”

“Well, it tasted just fine,” he said. “Put me off a bit. But tasted fine.”

“Well,” Dad said, “You're braver than I am!”

Tea, anyone?

Party Line Panic

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word, thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

Then gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

In the Beginning . . . Part 2

Grant's story. Told in my own words . . .

Grant and his 'blonde'.

In Grant's family, dating a blonde was . . . frowned upon.

By the patriarch of the family.

Whenever one of the five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, or otherwise indicated that an activity with a girl was being contemplated, their father would hold up the keys and say,”She's not a blonde, is she?”

Whereupon (good word) the boy would invariably look properly horrified and shake his head.

The keys would be bestowed.

The son would happily go off on his date.

Who probably was blonde . . .

No one knew where this aversion to blondes came from.

Their dad would never tell.

But it was rooted deep.

If you'll pardon the pun.

On occasion, he would threaten to grow out his beard.

Something his wife abhorred.

And she would, in turn threaten to dye her hair blonde.

All discussion ceased.

Moving on . . .

Grant had been serving a mission in Paris, France.

Every week, he received a letter from his family, written by his mother.

When he had been out about six months, one of those letters had included a short note from his father:

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

Love, Dad"

That was it. Short and sweet.

His letters from his mom continued to arrive regularly.

But nothing more from his father until he was about six months from coming home.

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

I have a blonde picked out for you.

Love, Dad”

Grant read this note several times, not believing his eyes.

Surely his father, that dispenser of all knowledge, And allergy-est of blondes extraordinaire, had flipped.

He grabbed a pen.

Letters were hand-written and posted in 1975.

“Dad!

Good to hear from you!

Tell me about this blonde!!!

Love, Grant”

Nothing.

For six months.

Finally, it was time to come home.

Mission accomplished.

So to speak.

As mentioned in my last blog, due to a little mix-up with his flight booking, Grant was forced to take a different flight.

One that dropped him off for a connection in New York City.

The telegram he sent went through to the nearest telegraph office.

In Lethbridge.

Which, for the first time in history, had shut down.

His family, following his original instructions, went to the airport to await his arrival.

He didn't.

Arrive, that is.

After a day of waiting, they returned home.

To make a few frantic, but fruitless phone calls.

Grant's plane touched down in Calgary.

Knowing what a fuss people tended to make of a returning missionary, he waited until he was the last to get off.

And entered a waiting area devoid of . . . waiters.

To say this was a bit of a let-down would have been to put things mildly.

But soon, he was reunited with his family and all was forgotten in the scramble of bringing their missionary home for the first time in two years.

Once in the car, though, he turned to his father.

“So, Dad. Tell me about this blonde.”

His father just grinned.

Grant looked at his mother.

Who shrugged.

Grant had to wait until Church the next week to find out what was going on.

He walked into the building.

A fifty-something woman was standing there, hands on hips, obviously eyeing him.

Politely, he walked over and extended his hand. “Hello, I'm Grant Tolley.”

She grasped his hand and leaned closer. “I wish my daughter, Diane, was here,” she said.

Grant smiled, rather uncomfortably and moved on down the hall.

There, he saw another woman, this one younger and red-headed.

Again, he extended his hand.

She gripped it and leaned in close. “I wish my sister, Diane was here!”

Doesn't this begin to sound like the 'Puss in Boots' story?

“Make way for the Marquis of Carrabbas!”

Just a thought.

Moving on . . .

Diane (me), was in Lethbridge.

I had spent the night with the family of the boy I was currently dating.

Okay, yes, I knew Grant was the one, but that didn't stop me from dating . . .

Ahem.

The next week, again at church, we finally came face-to-face.

We were heading to class and I 'happened to be' following him up the hall.

He pulled aside a curtain and stepped back to let me pass.

“You must be Diane,” he said. 

No, 'I've heard so much about you.' 'So, you're the blonde.'

Just that. “You must be Diane.”

“You must be Grant,” I answered.

He looked exactly like his picture.

And suddenly, in my mind, I heard the words, “That is the man you're going to marry.”

Really.

So clearly.

I even glanced around to see who had said it.

Of course, Grant didn't hear it.

He maintains to this day that either his dad or my mom were hiding somewhere in the vicinity and whispering the words into my ear.

We sat together in class that day.

He, more or less still in 'missionary mode' where girls don't exist.

And me, determined that my 'happily ever after' was definitely on it's way.

Which it was.

It took us a while to get to that first date.

It's a must-read and you can find it here.

But the rest, as they say, is history.

In The Beginning . . . Part 1

Yep. Mine!

Grant didn't have a chance.

Really.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Dad sold the Stringam Ranch in Milk River and bought another ranch in Fort Macleod in the spring of 1974.

We – those of us still living at home - were rather excited.

Alright, yes, it was hard to leave the town where we all grew up.

And where the Stringam's had been a fixture for two generations.

But we were about to meet new people.

Have new experiences.

We packed our boxes and headed out.

I won't describe the move to you.

Mainly because I wasn't there for most of it.

I was studying Journalism at college.

But I managed to show up on weekends.

Mom and Dad worked their usual magic.

And within a few weeks, the Stringam family was officially ensconced in its new digs.

It was a beautiful spot.

In the shadow of the Porcupine Hills.

Just below Head Smashed In buffalo jump.

More about that later . . .

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with Grant.

Especially when he was living in France at the time.

Wait for it . . .

Our family are church-attending folk.

The first Sunday after moving found us standing at the door to our new chapel.

About to meet our new congregation.

It was a time of . . . hesitance?

Excitement?

Doubt?

Exhilaration?

No. I think fear more aptly describes it.

We entered and stood, uncertainly in the foyer.

Hanging on the wall directly across from the door, was a picture frame.

I walked closer.

It was actually a picture of . . . pictures.

Young men, ranged from the top to the bottom in a row.

Twelve of them.

With a country and dates listed beside each name.

The missionaries currently serving from that congregation.

I ran a practised eye down the row.

Hmm . . . pretty cute.

Also pretty cute.

Wow! Most of these guys were gorgeous!

I started at the top again.

This time, I looked a little more closely.

There! I thought to myself.

Third from the top.

That one's mine!

I sounded out his name.

Grant Tolley.

Yep.

Mine.

I studied the information beside his picture.

He was serving a mission in Paris, France.

Cool.

He had been gone six months.

That meant . . . eighteen months before he got home.

I'd be ready by then.

Time passed quickly.

And, suddenly, it was time for Grant to come home.

By this time, I knew his family quite well.

The anticipated Sunday when he was supposed to make his first appearance arrived.

No Grant.

“We've lost him!” his brother told me.

And they had.

Sort of.

Cancelled flights.

And a night's stay in New York had put him in the airport in Calgary a a day behind his anticipated arrival.

A lost telegram put his family at the airport at the originally scheduled time.

They waited in vain, finally giving up and making the two hour trip back to Fort Macleod . . .

Grant arrived.

I should tell you that the return of a Mormon missionary is pretty important.

His family and friends all gather at the airport and scream and make fools of themselves welcome him home.

Grant got off the plane, expecting his loved ones.

Picture here the quiet chirping of a lone cricket.

Okay, it wasn't quite that deserted, but you get the point.

He made a quick phone call.

And two hours later, his excited and worried family was gathered around him.

Ah. This was a little more like it!

The next Sunday, I finally got the meet him.

Mr. Third-From-The-Top.

Mr. I-Live-In-France.

Finally.

Mine.

Yep. He didn't have a chance.

Tomorrow. Grant's side of it . . .

Recording Life

You call it graffiti. I call it family history!

First, a little background . . .

I have to admit that I think it’s cute when kids write on the walls.

Okay, yes. I’m weird.

When my kids wrote on the walls, I usually accredited and dated it.

It was a record of their life.

We were living in a small house, built by my Husby, and set on a cinder block basement.

Also built by my Husby.

It was a temporary dwelling that would one day be our shop/cold-storage.

Once the real house he was building was finished.

The cinder block walls were bare and . . . grey.

Not pretty.

But as it was a temporary set-up, we endured.

Our eldest son, Mark had other ideas.

Okay, on to my story . . .

Mark was learning how to write his name.

Actually, he was getting pretty good at it.

M. A. R. K.

The trouble it is usually looked like this: K. R. A. M.

But he wasn’t even three yet, so we were pretty impressed.

We found his name scrawled everywhere.

On papers.

Furniture.

The piano.

But there was one place he most preferred.

The one place that seemed to get him the most ‘press’.

The walls.

Mark had been sitting on my bed in the cinder block basement, drawing.

I had left him happily engrossed while I went to change his baby brother’s diaper.

When I came back, the word, KRAM had been neatly inscribed on the cinder blocks.

In purple felt.

He had even followed the lines.

I looked at it.

Then at the suddenly-anxious little boy seated beneath it.

“Look at that!” I said.

He looked, then studiously turned back to his papers and continued to draw.

“Who did that?” I asked.

Again he looked.

Finally he shrugged. “Erik,” he said.

I glanced at six-month old Erik in my arms. “Erik?”

“Yup. Erik.”

“Erik wrote ‘Mark’ on the wall.”

“Yup.”

“Erik’s pretty clever.”

“Yup.”

Working on telling the truth remained.

But thirty-plus years later, K.R.A.M. is still written there.

Clearly.

Moving ahead . . .

When Mark’s eldest daughter Megan was two, she wrote on my wall.

He got a pen and put her name and the date beside it.

For posterity.

(Who says kids aren’t watching us?)

But eventually, the wall was painted and the precious record lost.

We learned something.

If you or your kids are going to chronicle your lives, make sure you do it on something that’s going to last.

Because it’s not just what you record.

But also how you record it.

So far, cinder block seems to be your best bet.

The Tolley 'Spots' - And - Teaching Modesty to Three-year-olds

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chicken pox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chicken pox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chicken pox were an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her and she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chicken pox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1.   I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

 2.  The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

Remembering Recess

Milk River Elementary. My home away from home.

The Milk River Elementary School, house of learning to some two hundred children, was on the north-east corner of the town.

On the north and east, it was bordered by farmland.

On the south, by houses.

And on the west, by the field that stretched between it and the high school two blocks away.

The only playground equipment was a set of teeter-totters (see-saws) at the east end of the school building, and a monkey-bar on the west.

Oh and sometime between grades three and four, near the garbage, they installed a tether-ball pole.

The very latest in school-ground play equipment.

Let’s face it, dependance on toys and/or playing apparatus for entertainment wasn't expected.

Or necessary, as it turned out.

Because we made up our own games.

And two hundred-plus kids pooling their collective imaginations can come up with a lot of 'entertainment'.

We held impromptu races.

Which Kathy 'The Jet' Angyal always won.

Flag football games.

I should probably mention, here, that I never saw the use in just grabbing the flag when you can grab the whole kid.

And Lloyd Eagleson has the scars to prove it.

Climbing 'the rock'.

But that was only for the older, cooler kids.

Hide and seek.

Fun, but limiting when you had nothing but an open field in which to hide. (Or the neighbour's barley crop, which stood some feet over our heads. Just FYI.)

Tag. In its many incarnations.

Regular.

Frozen.

Poison.

Kick the can.

And King of the Castle.

Games of hopscotch.

There was one time we tried to get really creative and have some fun 'off site'.

And had an early brush with the law.

But that is another post . . .

Several of the girls played jump rope games.

Very popular and truly amazing to watch.

I, who had a hard time walking and breathing at the same time, was astounded at what many of those girls could do.

And while chanting/singing, too.

I never saw the use for it, though I did try.

But after getting my feet knocked out from beneath me for the 40^th time, I gave it up as hopeless.

And put the jump ropes to better use.

I should remind you that we were mostly farm kids.

And I and many others, like me, were completely infatuated with horses.

Thus, skipping ropes immediately brought to mind – harnesses.

Because.

We would pass the rope around the middle (waist) of our chosen horse, hang onto the ends, give the accepted 'start' command in a firm voice.

Giddyap! or something similarly creative.

And we were off.

Horse pulling.

'Driver' . . . umm . . . driving.

Around, over and through the other kids on the playground.

It was fun.

When we tired of running, we would nip into the aforementioned barley crop across the road and pull up armloads of green, sweet-smelling 'hay'.

As feed.

And to build little nests for our steeds.

You know, now that I think of it, I wonder what the farmer thought when he saw the ragged south-east corner of his crop.

As Milk River still went on to produce three 'Barley Kings', I guess our armloads of stolen barley stalks didn't make too much of a difference.

Back to my story . . .

I was there recently.

At Milk River Elementary, I mean.

The school now has extensive and obviously expensive playground equipment.

And trees.

And tall fences.

The monkey bars are gone.

As are the teeter-totters and tether ball.

There are still farmer's fields to the east.

But a large ball-diamond had been constructed on the west side, between it and the high school.

And houses and development on the north, completely eliminating our old barley field.

I stared at the 'developed' space and pictured us kids playing and laughing at recess and noon hour.

Do these modern children, with their modern conveniences, have as much fun as we did?

Somehow, I doubt it.

Parentisms: The Second Verse

Okay. I'm only going to say this once so pay attention!

A few days ago, I wrote an article about my FIL and his 'Parentisms'.

Little phrases that parents love to use, either as an exclamation point, or just to confuse their children.

Apparently, I struck a nerve.

A good nerve.

Several readers shared their own Parentisms with me

I just had to pass them on . . .

Delores: Mom..."Sit up, shut up and eat up"
Dad..."There's that elf again looking in the window"
Mom..."Don't make me get the fly swatter"

Joanne: Mom's classic: “Don't taste it, just eat it.”

Jeremy: Dad ever stated, “Don't make me pull this car over.”
Mom was equally famous for, “Wait until your father gets home.”

Dr. Ann: One I loved to hate was: "Stop crying unless you want something to cry about!"

Kelly: My Nana used to say, "You look like you were pulled through a hedge backwards," and somehow, I knew just what that meant!

Ah, the memories!

Aren't they priceless?

I would add to those my Mom's famous, “Oh my stars and garters!” Or, “this kitchen is closed due to illness. I'm sick of cooking!” And her favourite, “You have two choices for supper – take it, or leave it!”

And my Dad's “Don't make me come back there!” Or, “If you're going to roughhouse, do it outside!”

But my father lived to recite and many of his most notable Parentisms were designed more to confuse than to exclaim.

“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

It took me years to figure that one out.

Parentisms are fun.

But they can backfire.

For example:

One of Dad's favourite sayings was, “Have you ever seen a gopher gopher a gopher?”

I can't tell you how long it took me to understand that one.

Oh. A gopher go for a gopher.

Ha! Funny!

But this one finally tripped him up.

He was used to his farm kids.

And our rather . . . ribald . . . sense of humour.

One of my cousins was visiting from the big city.

Dad recited his little 'gopher' ditty.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. Then told him, “My dad says that's not nice.”

“Oh.” Dad got a bit red-faced.

And a little more cautious.

But it didn't stop him.

Fortunately for us.

Shovel This! - or - Now that it's Spring, let's talk about Winter!

A normal Northern Alberta winter.

In Southern Alberta, in winter, we get snow.

I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to many of you.

The only problem is that it never stays.

Usually within days of falling, Southern Alberta snow melts away under the warm breath of a powerful Chinook.

True story.

Thus, throughout winter, it snows.

Then melts.

Then snows.

Then . . . you get the picture.

I’m sure Southern Alberta is the only place on earth that can go from -40C (-40F) to +20C (+68F) in the course of three hours.

It is a bit disconcerting at times . . .

In college, I dated a boy from Red Deer.

Okay yes, technically, that is only about five hours drive north of where I was raised.

But a world removed in weather patterns.

In Red Deer, in winter, it snows.

And stays.

And snows some more.

And stays.

I learned about this on a visit to his family one long weekend in February.

Picture going from brown grass and snow only in the ditches, to snow piled four and five feet deep.

There was even snow on top of the fence posts.

Imagine that!

For the first day, I simply stared.

So this is what winter is supposed to be like!

It was . . . beautiful!

But all of that snow causes . . . difficulties.

The sheer weight of it piled on roofs threatens the structural integrity of the homes.

Don’t I sound like an engineer?

I’m quoting, by the way.

Snow piled high on roofs must be removed.

No Chinooks to do the dirty work for you.

People have to climb up and actually . . . shovel.

At first, it was an odd sight.

People standing on their roofs, shoveling snow.

But, after a day or two, I got used to it.

Then it was my turn.

To shovel, that is.

My boy friend’s grandmother’s house was one of those piled high with heavy white stuff.

It positively groaned under the weight of it.

It needed relief.

We volunteered.

Well, actually, he volunteered.

And I simply nodded and smiled.

I found myself standing atop what looked like a large, white muffin.

Did I mention that there was a lot of snow?

Somewhere beneath us was his grandmother’s single story home.

We set to work.

The actual removal of the snow didn’t take long.

The house wasn’t that large.

As we alternately scraped and shoved, our collection of snow on the ground grew deeper.

And deeper.

We were nearing the end of our task.

I slid a large shovelful over the edge and peered down at the huge drift that had collected beneath me.

My boyfriend joined me.

I looked at him. “Do you think you would get hurt if you fell off the roof and into that?” I asked, pointing.

He frowned, thoughtfully. “No, I . . .”

That was a far as I let him get.

 “Aaaaah!” Poof!

He was right.

Unorthodox Team-Building

Moral Booster Extraordinaire

For most of his career, my Husby was privileged to work for the Culture department of our province.

He built museums.

Big, beautiful, world-class museums.

Two were built at the same time.

The two best.

And biggest.

The Reynolds museum in Wetaskiwin.

Devoted to the telling of the story of the automobile.

And the Remington in Cardston.

Which beautifully describes the world of the horse-drawn . . . everything.

Building a single museum took teams of hundreds.

Building two?

The same hundreds.

Working twice as hard.

The stress levels reached, at times, unbelievable levels.

When that happened, morale slipped to compensate.

And everyone in the office seemed to walk around in a dark cloud.

My Husby, the project manager, felt he needed to do something.

A co-worker in an office at the opposite end of their suite, had a Playmobil Stagecoach.

Lovingly displayed behind glass in her office credenza.

It was driven by a little, whip-toting man-figure.

With a tiny, formally-dressed woman-figure and a second bowler-hatted man-figure tucked inside.

Strapped to the coach were an impressive array of cases, crates and barrels.

With a little strong box beneath the feet of the driver.

The coach was pulled by two horses, complete with tiny harnesses.

It was a cute set.

Totally in keeping with the theme of the museum its owner was currently engaged in building.

Husby studied it carefully.

And came up with a brilliant plan.

He would buy a little set of Playmobil figures of his own.

And 'stage' a little excitement.

He duly bought a set of Native American Indians.

War paint, war drums and all.

Which he then set up in his own book case.

Then, one evening after everyone had gone home, he stepped into his co-workers office.

Tied up the horses and the men with thread.

And kidnapped the little woman.

With the barrel.

And the strong box.

Leaving behind a ransom note demanding ‘Tahitum Treatum’.

Tahiti Treat.

 A soft drink that is no longer available but which was, then, my Husby's favourite.

He tied up the woman and sat her and her strong box in the centre of a circle of Braves.

Locked behind the glass doors of the top shelf of his bookcase.

Then he went home.

The next morning, he waited for . . . developments.

He didn't wait for long.

A loud shriek brought everyone from their offices.

Continued loud words drew them to the office at the end of the hall.

“Look! Look what someone did!”

There was much talk.

And, something that hadn't been heard in the office for some time.

Laughter.

Husby was conspicuous by his absence.

Everyone marched into his office.

“Grant, what do you know about . . .”

They got no further.

Every eye went immediately to his book case.

And the little 'kidnapping' scene displayed there.

“Aha! So it was you!”

Husby put on his most innocent expression and shook his head.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

He too walked over.

“Well, what do you know,” he said. “Look what those little guys have been up to! Imagine that!”

To say that the office buzzed for most of the rest of the day would be an understatement.

The next day, the ransom was paid and the woman, and her strong box, returned.

Then it was the co-worker's turn.

Retaliation is sweet.

Other Playmobil sets were purchased.

And the battle commenced in earnest.

Ranging over much of the office.

For the next few weeks, people arriving at the office would immediately head for one office or the other.

Just to see what had developed during the night.

It started out each day with laughter.

And the mood lifted perceptibly.

It got them through.

The museums, both of them, were completed.

And opened to world-wide acclaim.

Those responsible were given new assignments.

The group drifted apart.

But all of them remember those dark days.

When the work seemed insurmountable.

And morale was rock bottom.

When one man's ingenuity and 'joie de vivre' lifted everyone's spirits.

Who knew that all it took to improve morale was a 'little' kidnapping?

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 . . .