Jim

Words are amazing.

Descriptive.

Alliterative.

Explanatory.

Lyrical.

Adventurous.

Romantic.

I love words.

I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.

Let me explain . . .

My Dad loves to recite.

Poems, mostly.

On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.

Or verse.

So to speak.

I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.

Always there was a story involved.

The telling was truly magical.

I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.

When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.

Memorizing a poem.

She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim.

A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.

What better poem for a young girl to start with?

As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.

I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.

My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.

I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.

Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.

I followed her around for days.

“What's the next line, Chris?”

She would tell me.

And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.

Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.

I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.

Moving on . . .

By the end of a week, I had it.

All of it.

Then, the fun began.

For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.

In perfect rhyme.

It could only lead to a career in writing.

Or maybe some 'zombie apocalypse/end of the world scenario.

Hmm. Maybe both . . .

For your pleasure –

Jim 

 By Hillaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

P.S. I can still remember it . . .

Don't forget to enter the draw for a copy of my second novel, Kris Kringle's Magic! Simply go here, become a follower, and comment!

Dad's Boots

Baby brother . . . being entertained

My father (herinafter known as 'Dad') was a rancher.

He had been born that way.

In his twenties, he added the title of 'Veterinarian' to that.

But he was first and foremost, a rancher.

As a rancher, his wardrobe seldom varied.

Heavy work pants.

Work shirts. (Which have a history of their own . . .)

And boots.

Which were much more than mere footwear.

They were, in fact, the signal that opened and closed the work day.

And a source of entertainment.

On many levels.

Dad's boots were - because he had 'special' feet – special.

They were heavy.

And specifically designed to compensate for his long, narrow, profoundly flat extremities.

They laced up the front.

And fit . . . well.

They were the favourite entertainment for my baby brother.

When he was a baby.

A source of laughter for us kids when we'd try them on.

Then try to walk.

Usually covered in mud and manure during the day's labours, then scrupulously cleaned before being brought into the house.

With Dad's pocket knife. (But that is another story.)

In short, they were a part of my Dad.

An important part.

Dad always donned them himself.

Said donning, after breakfast, was always the signal that visiting was over and the workday starting.

But Dad never, ever took his boots off by himself.

In fact, the removal of Dad's boots was quite a process.

Let me describe . . .

Dad would take his seat in his usual comfy recliner.

And his numerous children would scatter, suddenly recalling activities that needed immediate attention.

Somewhere else.

But there was always a laggard.

Someone who was the slowest to react.

Dad would pin them to their chair with a look.

Then silently hold out a foot.

Reluctantly, the child would assume the position.

Facing away from Dad and bent forward, clutching said boot with both hands.

Dad would then put his other foot on his helper's backside and start pushing.

His boot would be quickly and efficiently . . . removed.

And dropped on the floor.

The process was repeated with the second boot.

The footwear was then gathered.

And set aside.

Only then was the slave helper, released.

Mission accomplished.

This procedure signalled the end of the work day.

Odd, isn't it, that a humble pair of boots would assume such proportion in our daily life.

But they did.

Now in his late eighties, Dad still wears boots.

They replace his slippers when he is going outside.

And, like his slippers, they slip on and off easily.

I was watching him the other day as he sat down.

Staring at the boots he now pulls on.

And remembering.

Don't forget to enter the draw for a copy of my second novel, Kris Kringle's Magic! Simply go here, become a follower, and comment!

Reading Clean Give Away Hop

A big thank you to Kathy at I Am a Reader, Not A Writer for hosting this month's giveaway, Reading Clean!

Kris Kringle is the round, jolly, elderly man that everyone knows. The man who spends his life giving.

But have you ever wondered about the boy he was? 

The young man? 

The newlywed?

Magic explores the background of the world's most beloved fictitious character. Illustrates the experiences that forged courage and strength, and made the boy into the man.

It also tells the story of the girl, Rebecca, who will one day become his wife. 

It is accepted that Kris Kringle lives at the North Pole. 

With Elves. 

But have you ever wondered how that happened? It must have taken some world-changing, even traumatic event to force an entire race to take up lodgings at a place so utterly inhospitable and unwelcoming.

Kris Kringle's Magic is a story of prejudice. Of hatred and fear and abuse.

And of true forgiveness and love.

And Magic.

You will never picture old Kris Kringle in the same light again. If you loved him before, you will love him even more now.

Filled with messages of love, forbearance, humanity and courage, Kris Kringle's Magic is the perfect Christmas story for the whole family. Using the dark themes of slavery and abuse, it proves that, with love and spiritual courage, one man can make a difference in the lives of thousands. Even millions. 

Let Kris Kringle's Magic change your world!

I am giving a copy of this, my newest book, to one lucky blog follower.

All you need to do to enter my draw, is to become a follower AND leave a comment on this blog.

It's that easy!

Good luck!

Bread . . . Reformed

Twice a week, and sometimes more, the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through the Stringam home.

Magic.

Often, it was followed, almost immediately, by the sight of children munching thick slices of fresh yumminess, thickly spread with fresh butter.

Mmmmm.

I wasn't one of them.

Oh, I loved Mom's bread.

It was amazing.

And I definitely was munching.

But I chose a unique - ie. weird - way of doing it.

Often to be followed by my Mom saying, “Diane! I work hard to make perfectly good, soft bread! Why do you do that to it?!”

She said this because . . . I squished it.

Squished.

Into a tight little ball.

Which I . . . then . . . ate.

Really.

Mom would watch, in disgust, as I took my slice of freshly-baked awesomeness.

Quickly peeled off and ate the crust.

And pressed and moulded the rest.

Then nibbled.

I have no idea why I did this.

Maybe it was because I had seen the screen cowboys eating little balls of bread out of their saddlebags.

Okay, it looked like little balls of bread.

I didn't realize that what they were eating was, in fact, biscuits.

I wasn't known for my powers of observation and deduction.

Moving on . . .

I no longer eat bread this way.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

The biggest one being that it's rather hard to spread any significant amount of peanut butter or nutella on a tightly pressed ball of dough.

And, let's face it, bread is just the medium by which such things are ingested.

And, in a choice between eating balls of dough or getting nutella to the mouth?

Even the cowboys would agree with me.

Mildred's Nose

A poem.

Because it's Monday . . .

Mildred's Nose

Mildred, my friend has a marvellous nose.

Not bulbous.

Or hook-ed.

Or bellicose.

Not crooked.

Or flattened.

Or shaped like a bean.

The most beautiful nose that you ever have seen.

Can't say it's large.

A potato,

A squash.

A crooked ol' carrot.

An acorn.

A cosh.

(A nickname for what's really a good copper's 'billy'.)

Yes, nothing to ever make Mildred look silly.

It is shapely,

And small.

In reality – fair.

The grandest

Appendage

To ever

Suck air.

Fine-boned.

And slender.

With rose petal skin.

The kind that can always draw everyone in.

But with all of it's beauty, her friends still make fun.

They laugh,

And they tease.

They jeer.

And they shun.

But why with such beauty for them to behold,

Would they scoff,

And deride,

Mock,

And then scold?

Ridicule, ostracize, taunt, and tell jokes?

Snicker

With all

Of the fair

Jungle folks?

Because Mildred, oh, she of the wonderful nose.

The beauty,

Perfection.

The colour

Called 'rose'.

Well there's something about her that I've not disclosed.

Something, about which you need to be told.

Though our Mildred is all she could possibly be,

Good friend,

And clever,

And kind

As can be.

Yes, Mildred,

Has one,

Little secret

to hold.

Our Mildred's an elephant, truth to be told.

P.S. If you think that Mildred's true story's a gaffe,

You should hear about Harold,

The short-necked giraffe.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Wornoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Wornoski had a list of words on a large flip chart.

And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it.

I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip.

Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room.

Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

Very well.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn.

Miss Wornoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled.

Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Wornoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Wornoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski.

You changed my life.

Pancakes With Mom

Breakfast.

One of the three best meals of the day.

And especially when one stumbled from bed into the kitchen and realized that Mom had the griddle out.

Mmmm. Pancakes.

The best of the best.

Mom's pancakes were famous.

Well in our world.

Light and fluffy and oh, so eat-able.

And when one started eating, one simply couldn't stop.

My record?

Twelve.

Dripping with butter and syrup.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When I started dating my Husby, I couldn't wait for him to taste my Mom's pancakes.

Fortunately for him, and his status as boyfriend without sleep-over benefits, there were times when she made them later in the day.

What is even better than breakfast for breakfast?

Breakfast for supper.

My Husby-to-be agreed that Mom's pancakes were truly remarkable.

So much so that he asked her for her recipe.

Now, you have to realize that, by this time, Mom had been making these same pancakes for nearly forty-five years.

She could do them in her sleep.

An important skill first thing in the morning.

But I digress . . .

“Hmm,” she said, frowning thoughtfully. “Sure I can give you the recipe.”

She then proceeded to list ingredients and amounts.

As she had been adding them for decades.

“A couple of scoops of flour. Eggs. Sugar. This much salt.” She held up finger and thumb pinched together. “A couple of cake spoons of baking powder. Milk to make it batter-y.”

My Husby-to-be was frantically scribbling, a slight frown between his brows. When he was done, he stared at what he had written. “Ummm . . . okay,” he said doubtfully.

And he went home and tried them.

Adjusted ingredients and tried again.

And again.

For over 36 years, he has been struggling to get it right.

He never has.

And Mom took the original recipe with her when she passed on.

Sigh.

I love pancakes.

I miss my Mom.

P.S. I'd give you the recipe, but it's a work in progress. I'll let you know . . .

Gazebo Geezer

Delores at The Feathered Nest supplied, for Photo Prompt Monday, this wonderfully peaceful picture of someone asleep in a gazebo.

Hmmm . . . gazebos

My Husby loves the movie, “The Sound of Music”.

In fact, if favourites were discussed, that title would probably be the first to come up.

Most particularly, he loves the gazebo scene.

And its accompanying song, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”.

Really loves it.

To the point that, if ever a gazebo is sighted, he has to run inside and sing.

Badly.

Really badly.

Badly on purpose.

Just to embarrass his kids.

He's very, very good at it.

Inevitably, after he has run joyfully to the gazebo and danced around inside for a few minutes, singing at the top of his lungs, his children have disappeared.

Totally.

Completely.

You thought children could disappear quickly in a shopping mall?

That doesn't even come close to how quickly they can vanish when their father-figure is embarrassing them.

Suddenly they have, quite literally, ceased to exist.

And they only reappear some time later.

When anyone – anyone – who might have witnessed their father's performance has defected and/or suffered an aneurism.

As my Husby has aged, the suitability of the words of the famous song have . . . lessened.

With his usual creativity, he has managed to 'age' the words to suit.

I include them for your perusal:

[him]

You wait, old girl, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light off

Your life, old girl, is a filled up page

About which you should not scoff.

Should not scoff.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Baby it's time to think

Better beware, be canny and careful

It's hard to be old, I think.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Old goats will get in line;

Eager old cads and nimble old dads

Will be wanting all of your time.

Totally unprepared are you

To face the world of time.

Timid and shy and scared are you

Of geritol and lime.

You need someone older and wiser

Telling you what to do!

I am seventy going on eighty -

I'll take care of you.

[her]

I am sixty going on seventy

I know that I'm naive

Old goats I meet may tell me I'm sweet

And willingly I believe.

I am sixty going on seventy

Beautiful as a rose

Widower dandies, wheelchair bandies

What do I want with those?

Totally unprepared am I

To take a man again.

Timid and shy and scared am I

Of geezers who call themselves men!

I need someone older and wiser

Telling me what to do.

You are seventy going on eighty,

I'll depend on you!

*  *  *

A word?

If you're walking with us out in public and a gazebo appears in the distance?

Distance yourself.

Cars I Have Known and Loved

The Great Pumpkin. As he was . . .

It started in college.

With Snoopy and The Great Pumpkin.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I love cars.

The older, the better, it's true.

But really, any cars.

When I went to college, my Dad put a down payment on a bright, new, orange beauty for me.

A Dodge Colt.

Any extra money I had was squandered on it.

Any extra time was spent under the expert tutelage of my older brother, traipsing through its inner workings.

We were inseparable, my car and me.

But it was my roommate at school who actually gave my beauty its name.

Debbie, said roommate, drove a little white Chevy.

Named Snoopy.

What else could she call my car but, The Great Pumpkin.

Okay, here's where I admit that the name suited.

The car was orange.

And kind of . . . round.

Great Pumpkin, it became.

And a new tradition was begun.

After the Pumpkin, we drove such darlings as: The Frog. Ralphie. Bluee. WagonHo. WagonHo 2. Lady. The Beast.

And a little firefly named Zippy.

Something to note: We fit my Husby, myself, an eleven-year-old, two nine-year-olds, a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, a two-year-old and a baby in a carseat into that sturdy little firefly.

And made it, unscathed, to church.

Sometime, I'll explain the logistics of such a feat.

Another aside: Our second son, Erik, he of the six foot eight inch height, ended up driving little Zippy. Watching him unfold from that compact little car was a treat in itself.

Back to my story . . .

I don't know where these names came from.

Sometimes, they resulted from some little quirk in a vehicle.

Sometimes from the appearance.

But they caught on.

To the point where people who weren't even in our family knew the names of our cars.

And used them accordingly.

Our children, too picked up the habit.

Our one daughter's family, for example, have driven, successively: Phoebe, Elene, Persephone and Owlyet (the last one named by their daughter).

Because.

Presently, my Husby and I are driving two elderly pick-up trucks.

A 1994 Dodge Dakota with a skin condition, appropriately named Scabbers.

And a 2000 GMC Sonoma, with a bit of a balky nature, encouragingly and hopefully called Everready.

All aboard!

Scaring the Scare-er

Blarney Manor House and Tree

My friend, Susan at The Contemplative Cat, posted this deliciously scary picture for Photo Prompt Monday.
It reminded me of something . . .

The Stringam kids loved a scary story.

Okay, yes, it usually meant that Diane couldn't sleep afterwards.

And needed to leave a light on.

Or, better yet, crawl in with my parents.

But still, I loved to be scared.

And my older sister, Chris was a master at scaring.

One who knew dozens of deliciously frightening tales.

It was a perfect partnership.

The scare-er and the easily - and very vocally - scared.

Chris would gather whatever siblings were near by.

And, with them cuddled close, launch into her current favourite.

Her soft voice would wind through the story, slowly spiralling up in volume and suspense . . .

Or suspenders, as my dad used to call it.

. . . to the end.

Her reward? Several squeaks of alarm as she loudly barked out the climactic line.

“I've got you!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Bloody boots!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Ivory soap floats!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Okay. I admit it. We were easily scared.

My parents were building a cabin on St. Mary's Lake.

The fact that it wasn't quite finished didn't deter us from actually using it.

In fact, our summer was usually spent . . . finishing.

We had finally gotten to the painting. Had actually spent most of yet another glorious summer morning doing just that.

Lunch was finished.

Chris had gathered my younger brother and I on our parent's bed.

For a few delightfully shivery minutes, we could have story time.

I should mention that, unbeknownst (Oooh, good word!) to us, Mom had finished the lunch dishes and returned to her painting.

Right outside the window of the room we were gathered in.

But I digress . . .

Chris was building to her usual grand finish.

“Bloody boots!”

Blair and I were completely absorbed.

“Bloody boots!”

We barely breathed.

“Bloody boots!”

Mom stuck her head through the window. “Bloody boots!”

Her timing and delivery were perfect.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Our story teller proved that she was as capable as any of us of being startled.

And Mom was rewarded with three squeaks of alarm.

A reward indeed.

Intended

When the daughter of my Dad's friend brought her future husband to meet her family, this is what her Dad told her.

The son-in-law never forgot it.

I just thought it would sound fun as a poem . . .

Intended

Her family had all been awaiting this call.

When they finally could meet her intended.

Unsure if a wedding ball'd ever befall

Or if spinster-hood ever portended.

But a young man, she'd met who was perfect, she'd bet,

In whose honour and love she felt sure.

So homeward, she'd set, their opinion to get,

And to tell her her choice would endure.

Her father shook hands with her sturdy young man

And questioned him closely a while.

They talked of his clan, and he asked him his plans,

Then he turned to his girl, with a smile.

“From all that I hear, you have nothing to fear.

But if his standards aren't mine and your mother's

Don't worry, my dear,” he said to her, clear.

“He'll be buried out back with the others!”

DIY Nature

Follow us! We know the way!

Our family was hiking.

The Fenlands Walk in beautiful Banff, Alberta.

A gorgeous two kilometres of shady trails, small bridges, and old forest next to the Bow River.

An easy walk for a group whose members ranged from six weeks to 69 years.

We discovered woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks, several ravens, and at least one bull elk.

Dozens of nests.

And, at last count, nine burrows.

Two members had fallen over tree roots and skinned their knees.

And one had to be nursed.

It was a fun, family type of outing.

Our favourite sort.

Beside the trail were the remains of a large, rotted tree.

A tree that had lived its life.

Perhaps a hundred years or so.

Been struck by lightening.

And then finished off by millions of carpenter ants.

A graceful, natural end to a monarch of the woods.

Our second son was explaining all of this to a rapt audience of five and six-year-olds.

He grabbed the top of the ancient trunk.

“And you see? This is what happened after the tree was killed,” he said, pulling it aside slightly to illustrate.

The entire trunk separated down the middle with a soggy crack.

Our son stared at the remains.

A bit stunned by what had just happened.

The kids were delighted.

They hadn't expected such a grand show on our little walk.

“Wow!” one of the cousins said to his son. “Your Dad just ripped that tree in half with his bare hands!”

His son looked up at him and grinned. “Yup,” he said, matter-of-factly. “My Dad is amazing.”

You can discover a lot of things when you walk through the woods with your family.

Not all of them are about nature.

Remembering

We are vacationing in Banff, Alberta.

To our family, the most beautiful little corner of the world.

Smelling the sun-baked pines as we hike.

Tasting the pure, clear water.

Renewing our up-close-and-personal relationship with the mountains and all things forest.

It is our 22^nd year at the Rocky Mountain Resort.

Our family was raised here.

Our kids learned to swim in that pool.

Lob tennis balls across the net in that court.

Work out in that gym.

Follow those trails.

Paddle down that river.

Wonderful, sunny, happy times.

Anticipated throughout the year.

Enjoyed fully and completely.

And given a fond farewell until the next time.

This year is a bit different.

Many of our kids are here.

With their kids.

Our little two-bedroom apartment has, of necessity, grown to three similar-sized units.

With a different family filling each one.

There is much scurrying down the porch or across the bridge to the other apartments.

Much giggling and laughter as the cousins play together.

Movie night takes up one entire living room/dining room/kitchen.

Just to accommodate the excited little watchers.

And we fill the pool.

One of our granddaughters, aged five, is just learning to swim.

For the first time, she announced that she no longer wanted to wear a life vest.

I was standing at one side of the pool as she swam to me from her mother on the opposite side.

“Kick your legs!” I called to her.

She swam furiously, finally touching my hands and standing up.

Glowing with accomplishment.

And quite suddenly, I was remembering saying and doing the exact same thing with her mother and aunts and uncles.

In the exact same spot.

I'm sure it was just yesterday.

Magic Elixir

Cool, clear water.

The Stringam ranch had plenty of it.

Soft.

Pure.

Clean.

There was only one thing distinctive about it.

And I do mean 'stinc'.

Let me illustrate with a little aside . . .

My Husby's Gramma used to give her kids a dose of 'spring tonic' every year.

It consisted of sulphur mixed in lard.

Eaten from a spoon.

Ick.

But she maintained that it kept them healthy.

Well, on the Stringam ranch, we never had to be dosed with this old wives remedy.

Because we got it merely by living there.

Yes, our water was right full of sulphur.

I am not making this up.

Our water was plentiful and healthful.

But reeked like rotten eggs.

The smell of it permeated everything and everyone.

And, oddly enough, we loved it.

We drank it.

Bathed in it.

Cleaned with it.

Offered it, chilled, to anyone who happened to drop by.

And snickered silently when they would hold their noses to drink it.

Poor, unenlightened visitors.

Our animals happily drank it, too.

In fact, when we took our cattle to show, we always had to take time to get them accustomed to the water in the new place.

Most places added chlorine.

Now THAT really stank.

And tasted worse.

I miss our good old sulphur water.

That elixir that kept us healthy and strong.

There is an addendum . . .

The people who bought the old ranch from us hauled their drinking water.

And finally drilled a new well.

I can only shake my head.

Strange, weird people.

Horse I.Q. Tests

Cute. Cuddly. And clever!

Horses are smart.

A little too smart.

At times, they are almost human in their need to be entertained.

Their ability to problem solve.

And their dislike of anything work-related.

Especially ponies.

The height-challenged members of the horse family.

One such pony, Shay, a little grey Welsh/Arab, was uncannily adept at removing riders.

She would run herself along the fence wall, scrubbing off any hapless humans who may have been astride.

Or, barring that, would duck her head and drop her rider . . . any rider . . . onto the ground.

Fortunately, it was a short drop.

In fact, she was so clever at removal, that the only way she could be controlled was to blindfold her.

That made for an interesting ride.

Nipper, a small, black Shetland cross had his own way of avoiding work.

Once his rider was aboard, he would immediately scurry – and I do mean scurry – under the clotheslines.

I should probably mention that there wasn't a lot of clearance.

Many a rider was quickly and neatly - with almost surgical precision – removed.

His patented technique was foiled however, when his rider, my sister, learned to duck.

Surprise turned to chagrin when he looked back after a clothesline pass and realized that his rider was still aboard.

Back to the drawing board.

Pinto, our cleverly named black and white Shetland pony, had the unique ability to ignore all attempts at enforcing a forward direction.

Or any form of speed.

Cajoling.

Kicking.

Shouting and screaming in frustration.

He was happily oblivious.

His downfall came when his rider – me – learned to lead him far, far from home.

Then mount up and turn his head back towards the barn.

Man, those little legs could go.

Star, another Shetland with a – go figure – star on his forehead, was actually quite well-mannered.

Until there were other horses around.

He was definitely one who was influenced by the company he kept.

Then his innate talent would show itself.

He could ignore any and all attempts at enforcement-by-rein and follow the crowd.

Carrying his little, red-faced passenger to the nearest far-away place.

When these ponies weren't being called upon to perform menial service, they could be found, at any and all hours, with their heads in the feed trough.

The only thing that surpassed their ability to avoid work was their ability to eat.

Why did we keep them around?

They were short and easy to get on.

They were gentle.

And if we could make them do what we wanted, we could handle any problem.

Anytime.

Anywhere.

Education by pony.

It should be a course in college.

Ummm . . . Okay, Dad

Who knew listening to their music could be so . . . educational.

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around,
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

It was 1966.

My cousin, Jody, and I had just discovered the wonderful, magical, empowering world of rock and roll.

And LP records.

The perfect pairing.

Now we could listen to the exciting new music whenever and however we wanted.

Which was all of the time.

And loudly.

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees . . .

Was driving itself like a hammer throughout the house.

For probably the 15^th time that day.

I should probably mention that the only record-player I had access to, was my parents'.

In the front room.

“Diane!”

Over the music, I vaguely made out the sound of my Mother's voice.

I looked up.

She was standing beside us.

“Would you PLEASE turn that down?”

I turned the knob.

A bit.

“What?”

Mom sighed.

Audibly.

“I just wanted you to turn it down.”

I looked at the record player. “I did.”

She sighed again. “Diane. You have been playing that record over and over all day. Can't you think of something else to do? Or something else to play?”

“No.”

“Well, I'm not going to keep coming out here to tell you to turn it down!”

“Okay.”

Now what she had said, and what I had just heard, were two different things.

She had been voicing a threat.

I had understood that she wasn't going to bother us any more.

She left.

Happily, I turned up Jody's and my music once more.

I never heard my Dad's approach.

Let's face it, I wouldn't have heard the approach of an entire herd of water buffalo.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the two of us, sitting there on the floor in front of the record player.

A large shadow.

I looked up.

Just in time to see my Dad reach out, lift the needle from the record.

Remove said record.

And snap it in two.

Oh, my.

He handed the pieces back to me.

“You mother told you,” he said.

I stared at the broken record, aghast.

“But . . . but it was Jody's,” I managed, finally.

Dad shrugged. “I guess you should have listened to your mother,” he said.

Then he left.

Jody and I stared at each other.

Then we quickly gathered up our remaining records and carried them to safety.

I think I bought her a new one.

I don't remember.

I'll never forget the lesson.

And neither will Jody.

Following that . . . incident, whenever someone in her family looked like they might lose their temper, they would immediately be told, “Don't pull a Mark Stringam!”

Ah, lessons taught by my Dad.

And his friends, the Monkees.

Authority

Would you argue with that face?

What is it about some people?

They can walk into a room and you know, instantly, that they are a force to be reaconed with.

Growing up, my Dad was like that.

He had a terrific sense of humour.

But if he ever cleared his throat and gave you that blue-eyed stare.

You ran for cover.

And it wasn't even as though there was a threat of violence.

Although his knuckle, properly applied to the top of one's head, could roll your eyes around a bit.

Nope.

He just had 'it'.

Dad was the family disciplinarian.

Oh, Mom tried.

She did a lot of talking.

Actually got quite animated.

But it was Dad who was instantly obeyed.

And it carried forward into the next generation.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

My Husby and I had gone out for the evening.

Our (then) three boys were being cared for by my parents.

It had been a fun time for them.

Games with Gramma and Grampa.

TV.

Supper.

And then, bedtime.

Gramma bathed them.

Dressed them in clean pyjamas.

And tucked them into bed.

The youngest in a crib.

The two oldest in the double bed in the spare room.

All were told, firmly, to go to sleep.

Only the baby obeyed.

The older two laughed and giggled.

Bounced and played.

Several times, Gramma marched in.

Demanding quiet and slumber.

She was given neither.

Finally, she brought in the big guns.

She sent Grampa.

My Dad opened the bedroom door.

Two little boys turned to look at him.

“That's enough!” he said. “Sleep!”

Then he closed the door.

Silence descended.

A while later, Mom went to check on the boys.

Both were sound asleep.

But how they were asleep.

She gently closed the door and returned to the front room.

“Mark, what were the boys doing when you went to the bedroom door?”

Dad looked up and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know,” he said.

Mom said, “Come with me.”

The two of them went back to the bedroom.

Mom opened the door once more and motioned for Dad to look.

Mark, Jr. was sitting up, leaning against the headboard.

Erik was laying on his side, propped up on one elbow.

Both were sound asleep.

Dad looked at them. “Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

They had passed out almost the instant Dad had ordered it.

Now that's authority.

First Heartthrob

See? C.U.T.E.

How had I never noticed this before?

How long had this been going on?

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was at the movies.

Something the kids in my family did at least once a week.

The highlight of said week.

This particular picture was a western.

My favourite.

But something was different this time.

Oh, there were the usual items of interest.

Horses.

Lots and lots of horses.

And I think there were cattle also.

But for the first time, I noticed that there were also . . . cowboys.

Huh.

When did they get there?

One cowboy, in particular, caught my attention.

Black-haired and lithe.

Slim and well-muscled.

And oh-so-delicious in jeans and boots.

Wow!

No wonder people liked westerns so much.

And I had thought they came, like me, to see the horses.

I was glued to the screen every time he appeared.

Which proved to be frequent.

Being as he was the star of the picture.

I was so enraptured that I didn't follow much of the story.

Oh, there were a couple of noteworthy parts.

One, in particular, featured one of the secondary cowboys being captured by bad guys and then creatively tortured with cactus needles within earshot of his buddies.

The next morning, his badly abused body was dropped in the middle of their camp.

I will admit it. It made me sick.

Literally.

For two days.

But even that horrifying scene couldn't dim the splendour of my new hero as he saved the day.

I watched eagerly for his name to be mentioned in the end credits.

Audie Murphy.

I said the name over and over.

Committing it to memory.

Then I headed home.

“Mom, did you know that there are really cute guys in movies?”

My Mom stared at me. “Umm . . . yes,” she said, rather cautiously.

This was a new topic of conversation for me and I'm sure she was wondering where I was going with this.

“Well, the movie I just saw starred the cutest guy ever!” I said enthusiastically.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “His name was Audie Murphy! Oh, Mom he was soooo cute!”

“Audie Murphy? THE Audie Murphy?”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Have you seen the picture?”

Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “But I used to drool over Audie Murphy when I was your age!”

Now it was my turn to stare. “Really?”

“Oh, I was so in love with him!”

“Huh,” I said and headed for my room.

My mom had been – had been – in love with my hero when she was my age?

He was . . . old?

Suddenly, in my mind, the handsome face I had seen in the movie started to undergo . . . changes.

Lines appeared.

Grey hairs.

False teeth.

Okay, I admit it, I have a good imagination.

I never saw my new/old hero again.

I think the movie I had seen was his last.

Newer, younger heroes took his place in my world.

Heroes that my Mom had never dreamed about.

But, oddly enough, at this end of my life, it's Audie Murphy that I think of when someone mentions their screen heartthrobs.

I guess it's true.

First love is always the sweetest.

A Good Prank

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably explain that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers.

And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

I love it.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite.

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterwards, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.