Life on the Ranch

The new barn

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated half way between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of this past summer. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

And in my stories.

Stay with me and let me take you there . . .

Snow Day

Ahhhh! Snow!

I was raised on a ranch twenty miles from the nearest town.

It was a wonderful place in which to grow up.

I lived and worked and spent my days with family and farm animals.

A peaceful, beautiful sunlit life.

Except when it snowed.

And then it was something else entirely.

It was perfect.

Maybe I should explain . . .

To get to school each day, my siblings and I rode the school bus.

There were flaws in the system.

The bus driver of the day refused to make the entire trip to the ranch.

And instead, would meet us at Nine-Mile Corner.

Situated nine miles from the ranch.

Okay, so, creative name-ers, we weren't.

Moving on . . .

Every day, Mom, and occasionally Dad, would drive us to meet the bus.

So we would be driving a vehicle to the middle of nowhere to meet another vehicle.

We didn't always connect.

At which time, Mom, and occasionally Dad, would have to take us the remaining eleven miles into town.

Sigh.

And that was when the weather cooperated.

When it didn't, things were a tad different.

If it rained (and very occasionally, it did), the ungravelled roads were positively greasy with mud.

The chances of us making our connection became very uncertain indeed.

In fact, the chances of us making it anywhere safely or on time were . . . iffy.

If it snowed . . . well, that is another story entirely.

And now we get to the point of today's ramble.

During the winter, when it stormed, driving to the school bus was very nearly impossible.

But our parents would gamely try.

Unless told to do otherwise by someone in authority.

The announcer on the radio was just such an authority. 

When we awoke to howling winds and/or thickly falling snow, we would wait breathlessly to hear the magic words.

Which schools were being closed.

Inevitably, Milk River was on the list.

At which time, we would rejoice, loudly, and proceed to plan out a day of skating and/or sledding and/or playing in the snow. With fresh doughnuts and hot chocolate to follow.

The very best of days.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and isn't to be wasted.

Moving ahead . . .

When my own kids were growing up, schools were never closed due to snow.

But buses were often cancelled.

When that happened, even when our family was living in town, I kept my kids home.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and isn't to be wasted on going to school.

Moving ahead again . . .

Yesterday, a blizzard blew into Edmonton and area.

A large blizzard.

Preceded by freezing rain.

Which made the roads almost impassible.

The commute to work quickly became a snarled mess of broken automobiles and frustrated drivers.

I kept my Husby home.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and simply isn't to be wasted on going to work.

Thankful for Books Giveaway Hop

Now is your chance to enter the Thankful for Books Giveaway hop sponsored by I'm a Reader Not a Writer and Tristi Pinkston!

I'm giving away a set of my Christmas books, Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels.

One more chance this year to win both of them!

It's easy.

Super easy!

Just be a follower and make a comment.

That's it!

That's all!

You're entered!

Thank you so much!

Good luck!

What Grade Five Taught Me

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.

It was 1965.

And I had just realized that boys didn't have (as I had always suspected) cooties.

I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.

The two went together.

Perhaps I should explain.

Grade five.

The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.

Times tables proved important.

Story writing, more intense and personal.

Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.

And boys became . . . interesting.

The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.

“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”

It was signed, 'Paul'.

What???!

A boy?!

Wanted to go to a movie with me?!

What should I say?

What should I do?

What should I wear?!

Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.

He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.

And that was it.

My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the week, actually.

Saturday was a long time coming.

I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.

The popular, cool boys.

And way out of my league.

But his group adopted me as one of their own.

For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.

Back to my story . . .

I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.

For about a month.

Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.

And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.

Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.

Who took me back in without so much as a frown.

For half a morning, I complained bitingly.

Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .

You can see where this is going.

“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”

Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”

I sprinted to join them.

Didn't even look back.

Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.

I know what you are thinking.

Fickle non-friend.

And you're not wrong.

Ahem . . .

This went on for some time.

Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.

Then my popularity waned.

And died.

And do you know what?

My old group again took me back.

Without even a sideways glance.

This time, I stayed.

We went through grade six together.

Then Junior High.

Then Senior high.

And we had fun.

I discovered that it all comes back to math.

♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.

♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.

I learned my lesson.

P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.

Life is the true leveller.

Planning Rocks

Yorkshire Pudding. A solid piece of our history.

My Husby is a Planner.

Really.

It is a legitimate occupation.

He plans . . . stuff.

He has built his career doing it.

Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.

It has been a varied and unusual career.

And he is very good at what he does.

Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.

That never turns out well.

Moving on . . .

Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.

They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.

A fun and exacting job.

Requiring many months spent in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.

At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.

Doing what had become their favourite pastime.

Eating.

One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.

With all of the trimmings.

One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.

With gravy.

Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.

In all its glory.

I love it.

But this particular pudding had been baked too long.

Or left uncovered.

Or simply neglected.

It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.

Its owner poked at it morosely.

“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”

Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile.

All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display.

Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.

A short time later, they had the cover off the large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).

They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.

One of the designers looked at the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly typed up an official-looking label.

When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one, ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.

Nothing more was said.

In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.

Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call.

From the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.

“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Well, that is odd.”

There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”

“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”

“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”

Notice the clever prevarication (Ooo. Good word!)?

Back to my story . . .

“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”

Need something planned?

A building? A display?

A prank?

I know someone you can call.

Our Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an iron-er.

A Demon iron-er.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine.

No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing.

Everything had to be done just so.

I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron.

She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there in a size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

Oh, to Remember!

Yep. Back then, the brain . . . worked.

The summer I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, volunteered to run a summer day camp for the kids in Milk River.

We had a marvellous time.

Games. Treats. Crafts. Treats. Contests. Treats. Activities. More treats.

I was ten.

Anything to do with food took priority.

Hmm. Still does in fact.

Moving on . . .

Chris put heart and soul into the program.

There were no parameters laid out, so she had to come up with the guidelines and curriculum herself.

She did a wonderful job.

Part way through the summer, she decided that it would be fun if she got all of the kids involved in performing a play.

And not just any play.

The Wizard of Oz.

A fairly ambitious undertaking for a seventeen year old girl and her group of pre-teens.

First, she had to come up with a script.

That was all right, because our family had the story on an LP.

LP.

Go ahead. Google it. We'll wait . . .

And that's where I came in.

I had one talent as a child.

I could memorize.

If I listened to it once, I could pretty much give a detailed description.

If I listened to it a lot?

I could recite it.

With voice inflections and sound effects.

And that was what I did.

For three days, I recited and Chris wrote.

The entire hour-and-a-half of 'The Wizard of Oz'.

As it had been recorded.

We had our script . . .

I should mention here that we never got to perform our play.

We simply ran out of time.

But we learned something important.

If you wanted anything remembered, let Diane listen to it ad infinitum for a couple of days and it was there forever.

Word perfect.

This skill stayed with me for a while.

In fact, I played the lead some years later in 'The Rented Christmas', and memorized the entire play.

To the point that I served as the prompter.

On stage.

My point in telling you all of this is simply to reminisce.

And to lament.

I've been trying to figure out what I just had for breakfast.

I can't - for the life of me – remember.

Oh, for just a portion of that bygone talent!

Sigh.

The Circus Tent

For a quarter of a century, we have gone camping every summer with our good, good friends.

We have enjoyed our time in the Great Canadian Woods.

Visiting and laughing around the campfire.

Chopping wood.

Sharing meals.

Watching our children grow.

And our numbers increase.

Seeing our grandchildren introduced to 'nature'.

And seeing our hair get a little greyer and our steps a little slower.

Now, when we go, there is generally just the four of us.

And we still spend the time talking and laughing.

And reminiscing.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Recently, our friends have had a new addition.

I should mention, here, that when we camp, we do so with few luxuries.

Each of us has always used a little tent trailer.

And that is the extent of our amenities.

Moving on . . .

The 'new addition' I spoke of was a 'new to them' tent trailer.

Many, many years younger than the old one (aka: The Circus Tent).

And . . . not quite as brightly coloured.

Their Circus Tent ended up in our back yard, awaiting a new owner.

For some time, we deliberated what to do.

Advertised.

Made phone calls.

With little or no progress.

Finally, my Husby shoved the little trailer through our back gate and onto the boulevard.

Then he put a sign on it which read, “Please Take Me Home – Free!”

An hour later, the little trailer was gone.

Mission accomplished.

But that isn't the end of the story.

Yesterday, as our first snow flew, we deemed it time to place our own trailer into its winter habitat.

Carefully, my Husby was manoeuvring it into the back yard.

As he got out to close the gate, a young man appeared in the opening.

“Excuse me!” he said.

My Husby smiled at him. “Yes?”

“Are you the person who put the little tent trailer out on the boulevard last spring?”

Uh-oh. “Umm . . . yes.”

“Well, my wife and I saw it there and took it home,” the young man said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. We fixed it up. Painted it. And took it camping with our young children this summer.”

“Oh!”

“Our family had the best time! It kept us safe and dry and worked perfectly.”

“I'm so glad!”

“And we've been driving past here every day since, hoping to see someone that we can thank.”

“Oh.”

He put out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “We wouldn't have been able to afford one any other way. We just wanted to let you know that your gift was very much used. And very much appreciated.”

My Husby shook the proffered hand and waved as the little family drove away.

For over a quarter of a century we have gone camping in the Great Canadian Woods.

We have loved it.
We didn't charge anything for the little tent trailer.

But we still got a paycheck.

Saving Savanna

A beautiful, tender little Christmas story of love, faith and forgiveness by friend and author, Sara Fitzgerald.

Devan swallowed and then changed the subject. “We only have three days left until Santa comes down our chimney. What do you want him to bring you?”
“There’s only one thing I want from him,” she whispered, leaning toward him.
He forced a smile. “And what’s that?”
“I want Mommy back.” 

Devan can’t help but blame God for his wife’s death, so the last thing he wants to do this holiday season is celebrate. But when his daughter, Savanna, makes a special Christmas wish, their little family will never be the same. Filled with faith and tenderness, this heartwarming story is sure to remind you of the real power behind the magic of Christmas.

Saving Savanna is the story of one little girl's Christmas wish. And the faith and understanding that make her wish come true. Tenderly, sweetly told, Saving Savanna is sure to be a perennial Christmas favourite with young and old alike.

Our Winner!

Great news!
The excitement has ended.
The dust has settled.
And a winner has emerged, triumphant.
No, it's not the gladiatorial contests.
It's the draw for a set of my books: Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels.
And the winner?
ZaraAlexis of http://zaraalexis.blogspot.ca/
Congratulations, Zara!
If you like them, please spread the word!
And to everyone else - thank you so much for entering! I wish I had a book to send to all of you . . .
If you are still interested in reading either Kris Kringle's Magic or Carving Angels, they can be found at Amazon.com.
Christmas, here we come!

Just Put a Little Love on That

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner last night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

I kid you not.

She would boil it.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Vacuuming. Ugh.

My first official household job when I became a newly minted teenager was the vacuuming.

Ugh.

Mom would drag out her antiquated upright vacuum, wheel it over to where I was sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, and say, cheerfully, “Diane! You've just won a trip!” There, she would pause significantly, smiling widely at me.

I knew what was coming.

Which made it distinctly un-funny.

Finally, she would add, “Around the house with the vacuum!”

Sigh.

I hated vacuuming.

And her vacuum, whatever it's glowing attributes in its younger days, was distinctly past its prime.

In fact, it hardly had any suction at all.

Vacuuming with a machine that hardly sucks really sucks.

So to speak.

Dutifully, and after a significant number of follow-up 'encouragements', I would drag myself out of my comfy chair, grasp the handle of my nemesis, and start in.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Stupid vacuum.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Look at that! It won't even pick up that piece of lint.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Have I mentioned that I hate vacuuming?

Brrrrrrrrr.

And so it went.

Every Saturday, there was a half hour or so of my life that I'd never get back.

Sigh.

I learned a few tricks.

For example, running an upright vacuum with a spinning brush over an area rug usually resulted in disaster.

The ingestion of said rug.

I learned to stand with a foot at either edge of it to hold it down.

Genius.

But I also learned that spinning brushes are not to be tampered with.

Not-so genius.

Maybe I should explain . . .

One day, the wretched vacuum quit sucking altogether.

For several minutes, I ran it back a d forth over the same piece of lint.

Nothing.

Without shutting it off, I tipped it up to see if the problem was something obvious.

It was!

Right . . . there.

Now, just because a vacuum had quit sucking, doesn't necessarily mean that it has stopped working.

I poked one finger towards the problem.

ZZZZZTTTT!

Ow.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I dropped the vacuum and did the dance of pain, clutching my injured right pointer finger in my left hand.

Finally, I spread my hand, palm up and gazed at it.

Looked okay from here.

I turned it over.

My fingernail was black.

I kid you not.

Black.

The vacuum had ripped it free of my finger in one quick, easy movement.

Leaving it attached only by the outer edges.

And it had filled instantly with blood.

Ick.

And it hurt.

Ouch.

Sometime later, an incessant noise intruded upon my pain.

I realized, belatedly, that the vacuum was still running.

Not that it was doing any good.

I switched it off and ran to find my mom.

My black fingernail was with me for a long time.

A long time.

A reminder that vacuuming was not to be taken lightly.

Or at least that vacuums were to be treated with respect.

After that, whenever I needed to see the inner workings, not only was the beast switched off.

But it was also unplugged.

A lesson harshly taught.

But a lesson nonetheless.

P.S. I still hate vacuuming.
Just FYI.

Our New Song. Please.

Sweethearts.

A poem.
Because it's Monday . . .

Now you have a Love that is loyal and true,

And perfect in every way.

But knowing all that, now I put it to you . . .

What in the world would you say?

From the time that we met as she walked down the street,

Just a’singing her favourite song,

Every moment together was perfect and sweet,

Put it mildly, we two got along.

Daily we’d treasure our moments together

And the years have gone past in a blur,

But lately, I’ve found that there’s one sort of weather,

I’m finding it hard to endure.

Now I’m not nasty or mean and I try to be kind,

I’ve given her arms that are strong.

It’s been sixty five years, I’m mos’ deaf and near blind,

And I’m needing a different song!

I admit that I liked it when our Love was first new,

But more and more often, I find,

That ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’,

Is driving me out of my mind!

Texting Through Time

My friend and fellow writer, Christy Monson has released her new novel, Texting Through Time: John Taylor and the Mystery Puzzle!

“Micah and Alicia are excited to meet John Taylor as a child in England. But when their phone won’t let them return to their own time, they’ll follow the prophet around the world, learning some important lessons along the way. Humorous, entertaining, and informative, this book is a wonderful introduction to church history that’s bound to be a family favorite!

Second in the series and targeting Christian YA readers Christy Monson's new book is a fun and exiting dash through the past with our two favourite brother and sister time-travellers, Micah and Alicia.

With their scientist father's experimental (and often particular) time-travel phone in hand, Micah and Alicia's 'quick peek into the past' turns into a full-blown scriptural adventure that they must solve before they can return to their own time.

Beginning with the meeting of a young John Taylor near a castle ruin in 1800's England, our two explorers discover that this future prophet is already a person of kindness, integrity and faith.

As they continue to follow him throughout his life; his emigration to the United States and his life lived in the service of God, they discover a man who is also courageous, prayerful and loving.

Laced with scriptural clues and references and entertaining adventures and mishaps, Texting Through Time is an exciting race with discovery, discouragement and dying cell phone batteries.

There isn't a more exciting way to learn about LDS Church history!

Read about this book at Goodreads!

Texting Through Time will be available November 13 at Amazon or through any LDS booksellers.

Sucker(s)

So nice! Sigh.

I played hooky.

Once.

For those of you who don't know, 'hooky' is a term coined to describe being absent without leave.

In my case, I was absent from school.

And I didn't do it alone.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were in grade twelve. For the last semester of my grade twelve year, I lived with Debbie's family, the Joneses, and attended school in the town of Magrath.

Our school bus arrived promptly every morning at 7:30.

After an hour and a half commute, we would arrive, sleepy and slightly dishevelled at the Magrath High School to begin a day of instruction.

One morning, one of us really wasn't in the mood.

Oh, she got up all right.son

Got ready.

Endured the bus ride.

But, standing there in front of those venerable halls of learning, she balked.

“I don't wanna go,” Debbie said.

I stared at her. “What?”

“I don't wanna go,” she said again.

“Oh.” What did one say to that?

“Let's play hooky!”

“Debbie, we can't play hooky!”

“Yes we can! We've never done it and the semester's nearly over!”

She had a point. Both of us had been exemplary students the entire four months.

Which is precisely what my father expected.

“Deb, my dad would kill me!”

“C'mon, Diane, it's only one day!”

I looked at her.

Have I mentioned that Debbie was the only reason I ever got into trouble?

Well she was . . .

At that point, our friend Leonard, he of the pick-up truck, appeared.

“Leonard! Take us to Lethbridge!”

Leonard looked at Debbie. Then he looked at me.

I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said.

And she got other people into trouble, too.

The three of us trailed out of the school and into Leonard's pick-up.

There was plenty of room on the wide seat.

We settled in for the 12-minute ride to Lethbridge.

For a guy, Leonard had a surprisingly clean truck. No trash rolling around.

In fact, the only thing on the dashboard was his brand shiny new 'Western Horseman' magazine.

“Oooh!” I said, picking it up. “Is this the new issue?”

“Yep. Just picked it up this morning!”

“Do you mind if I read it?”

“Nope. Just don't damage it.”

Leonard took good care of his things. Obviously magazines were no exception.

“I'll be careful.” I sat back happily while the two of them chattered.

Lethbridge is a city of about 75,000 just to the north of Magrath.

Not a huge city, but one with several malls and lots of shopping.

We spent the day going from one to another.

And having fun.

At one of our early stops, Debbie and I bought large lollipops.

Large.

On long sticks.

We spent the rest of the time . . . ummm . . . licking.

Before we knew it, it was time to head back to catch our bus. No sense in proclaiming that we had just spent the day . . . somewhere other than where we should have been.

Leonard stopped his truck.

“This has been fun!” I told him. “C'mon Debbie, we'd better hurry!” I slid out.

At that point, a friend of Leonard's walked up to his window. “Hey, Leonard, where were you today?”

Distracted, Leonard turned to answer his friend.

Debbie started to follow me.

“Oh, my sucker,” she said, turning back.

Now Debbie had gotten tired of holding the heavy sucker and had laid it down. Not certain of the surface of the dash of Leonard's truck, she had chosen to lay it down on his copy of the Western Horseman.

That same brand new copy he had been so protective of earlier.

She grabbed the long stick.

Only to realize that the magazine came with it.

“Uh-oh,” Debbie said.

Not only had the sucker stuck to the cover of the magazine, but it had also stuck the pages together.

“Ummm . . .” she glanced at Leonard, still engrossed in his conversation. “We'll just leave that,” she said, and slid out after me. “See ya, Leonard!” She slammed the door.

Leonard, still talking, waved cheerfully and the two of us headed for our bus.

Leonard never mentioned his sucker-stuck magazine.

The one he obviously never got to read.

And after he had toted two girls all over Lethbridge.

Some fellow hookey-players are just plain nice.

Playgirl(s)

College years are for making all sorts of mistakes.

Right?

Well, that's what I tell myself.

But this is one I didn't make.

My roommate, Debbie did.

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

Maybe I should explain . . .

Debbie and I were browsing through the convenience store.

Both of us were suffering from chocolate withdrawal.

We needed a fix.

There was a magazine rack near the checkout line.

Debbie was glancing over the offerings.

“Hey!” she said. “There's a magazine here called 'Playgirl'!

I looked at her. “I thought it was called 'Playboy'.

“Well, there's that one, too.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“What do you suppose 'Playgirl' is?”

The guy behind the counter spoke up. “It's pictures of naked men instead of naked women,” he said.

We stared at him.

Surely not.

I should explain here that both of us were children of the country. The words, 'sheltered', 'naive' and just plain 'dumb' come to mind.

“I've never seen a naked man,” Debbie said.

“Me neither,” I said. Something I was blissfully happy to continue for a good long time.

“Hmm.”

I should mention, here that when Debbie said, 'Hmm' in just that way, anything was possible.

Anything.

“I'm buying it,” she said, reaching for the cellophane-wrapped magazine.

“Ick!” I said. I was ignored.

She shoved it into her bag with her chocolate bars and we headed home.

At this time, we were sharing a two-bedroom basement apartment with two other girls, both as unworldly as we were. And neither of which was at home.

Debbie set her shopping bag on the apartment's only desk, which stood in our roommates' room and pulled out the magazine.

Then she stripped off the cellophane.

“Okay,” she said. “Ready?”

I shook my head. Again, I was ignored.

She flipped back the cover.

The magazine fell open to the centrefold.

Gasp!

I caught a brief glimpse of a handsome young man leaning casually against the doorway of what looked like an abandoned house.

Fortunately, I got no further.

Roommate slapped the book shut.

“Well, that's that,” she said, her face bright pink.

She shoved the magazine under the pillow of the nearest bed.

Episode over, we forgot about it.

Until a couple of days later when our roommate returned from her weekend home and crawled into bed.

We heard a shriek.

Then silence.

“Uh-oh,” Debbie said.

There was a knock at our door.

Debbie answered.

“What is this doing in my bed?” The magazine, held distastefully by finger and thumb, was extended.

“Oh,” Debbie said. “Umm. What makes you think we had anything to do with that?”

Our roommate gave her a 'Nice try, Debbie' look, dropped the magazine at our feet and disappeared.

Debbie picked it up and threw it into the trash.

Episode truly over.

But to this day, I wonder what was happening during the moment of silence after the roommate discovered the magazine . . .

You learn a lot of things during your college years.

One way or another.

Pudding on a String

A repost for a busy day . . .

Enjoy!

Daddy, George and Me.
I'm the one in the dress . . . and curlers.

My Dad had made me a new toy.
It was a large - very large (about 5 inches in diameter) button on a string.
Intriguing.
You would thread a long, heavy string through the holes of the button and knot it. Then you would push the button to the centre and grip one of the two loops of the string in each hand.
Now you held something that resembled . . . a button on a string.
But then came the exciting part. If you wound up the button, you could pull the string out away from the button on each side and it would unwind and rewind the opposite way.
If you handled it just right, you could keep it going.
All day.
Which I did.
And it created a bit of a breeze if you got it going very fast.
Which I also did.
Enough background.
Mom had just made a large pot of pudding and set it on the cupboard to cool.
I was waiting, rather impatiently for it to be cool enough for me to eat.
That was when I got my, to date, greatest idea.
My button could generate a breeze. It would cool the pudding and I could eat it that much faster!
I pushed a stool over to the cupboard and climbed up.
Carefully, I manoeuvred my button over the pudding and pulled the strings.
It worked!
For a moment.
Until I relaxed my hands on the ‘rewind’ or maybe the ‘unwind’ stroke.
Then, it dipped and skimmed the top of the scalding hot pudding straight into my face.
And my hair.
And the ceiling.
The covering properties of a button on a string have never been fully explored. I think they should.
I believe Mom was cleaning up pudding from the most impossible places for months.
Long after I had healed.
P.S. I still like pudding. I just prefer it inside me.

Don't forget to enter the draw for a set of my books. Carving Angels and Kris Kringle's Magic.
Bring Christmas home early this year! You can enter by becoming a follower of my blog and leaving a comment. Go ahead. Don't be shy!

Titles of Authority

I attended a wonderful college at Rexburg, Idaho for one golden semester in the fall of 1973.

It was as long as I could manage to be away from my family.

Have I mentioned I'm a wuss?

Well, I am.

I was so homesick during those endless four months that I could have died.

I even wrote an article about being homesick that was picked up by the local paper.

I still think the tear-stains on the paper were the real sell.

Moving on . . .

During my time at college, I studied Physical Education.

Really.

I actually took classes in Soccer, Interpretive Dance, Track and Field, and Swimming.

Did you know they offer college level courses in those things?

Yeah. I didn't either.

It was a fun semester.

To round things out, I had to take some other remedial courses.

Chosen from a list.

And including such things as . . . English Language Arts.

And one or more sciences.

Sigh.

I chose Astronomy.

Because Zoology was filled up.

For an entire semester, I studied the stars.

We even went out in the evenings and, with the help of large telescopes, mapped the heavens.

It was chilly.

But fun.

Our instructor for the class was a man named Brother Greg.

Oh, I should mention, here, that this was a Christian school and that we called each other brother and sister.

Even the instructors.

Soo . . . Brother Greg.

Brother Greg was a wonderful man.

Kind.

Patient.

Let's face it, when you are shepherding a group of seventy or more students around, you'd have to have a good dose of both.

And he answered every one of the questions I put to him.

Smiling quietly and nodding whenever my hand shot up accompanied by, “Brother Greg! Brother Greg!”

I enjoyed my Astronomy class.

I even earned a reputable grade.

And it was then that my world stood still.

As well as all of the stars and planets I had been studying.

Because when Brother Greg handed out our final papers, with our grade prominently displayed, I got the biggest shock of the semester.

Brother Greg's name was Brother Nelson.

Brother Nelson?

Where on earth did I get Greg . . .? Oh. Brother Greg Nelson.

On the very first day of class, when I had been writing things down, I had started to write his name and was interrupted.

Thus, he became Brother Greg.

To this day, I wonder how I went through an entire semester without realizing that everyone . . . everyone . . . in the class was calling him something else.

I know the class was Astronomy, but was my head literally in the clouds?

Because he was such a nice man, he never corrected the weird student from Canada who insisted on calling him by his first name.

And neither did the other sixty-nine kids in the class.

Perhaps they snickered behind their hands whenever my hand went up.

Maybe (and this is a faint hope) they never noticed.

Oh, well, as least my grades were good.

Today, I couldn't tell you a single thing taught that semester.

Except for what I learned on the very last day.

And that, I simply can't forget.

Don't forget to enter the draw for a set of my books. Carving Angels and Kris Kringle's Magic.
Bring Christmas home early this year! You can enter by becoming a follower of my blog and leaving a comment. Go ahead. Don't be shy!

Spooktacular Blog Hop

The biggest blog hop of the year!!
Over 400 participants!

And I'm doing something I've never done before . . .
Giving away a 'set' of my books.
That's right.
Carving Angels and Kris Kringle's Magic.
Together for the first time!
And all you have to do to win them is be a member of my blog and make a comment.
That's it.
It's that easy.
Become a member and make a comment.
Good luck!

Carving Angels and Kris Kringle's Magic. Together for the first time!

Fifty Things We Learned This Weekend

Two of our granddaughters stayed with us for the weekend.
While their mother, a professional face-painter, was facepaint-er-ing.
It was a wonderful weekend.
We learned:

1. Little sisters shouldn't sit on big sisters when both are trying to go to sleep.
2. Big sisters shouldn't sit on little sisters . . . ever.
3. Play-dough doesn't taste very good, but it's still better than whatever Gramma just fixed for supper.
4. Whatever Sister is playing with is infinitely better than what I have.
5. Clothes are for spreading all over the floor.
6. Especially clean ones.
7. Sigh.
8. One can sit through any boring church meeting if there is food and/or things to colour.
9. One should never, ever colour one's sister.
10. Even if she would look better.
11. Water in a bathtub is only the beginning.
12. Fireplace ashes can make one's hands . . . and clothes . . . remarkably black.
13. Hot dogs and ice cream make anything better.
14. Especially ice cream.
15. As long as Grampa doesn't try to steal it.
16. Stories with Gramma must be followed by stories with Grampa.
17. Because he can do the voices.
18. Rocking mooses can buck you off.
19. Rocking stools can do the same.
20. When Grampa is holding the remote, we watch what he's watching.
21. Even if it is boring.
22. One can hide from Gramma for incredible amounts of time if one is quiet.
23. Or falls asleep.
24. If Grampa says something a two-year-old doesn't want to hear, one can just stare straight ahead.
25. For hours.
26. Almost six-year-olds know e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
27. And are happy to share it.
28. Especially if it means they don't have to eat their supper.
29. Toys are lots of fun to get out.
30. But not so much fun to put away.
31. Climbing is acceptable only if one doesn't fall.
32. See #13.
33. One should always know where one's head is in proximity to anything.
34. Tables. Chairs. Walls. Doors. Sisters. 
35. See #13.
36. Again.
37. One can do all the things in a pretty church dress that one can do in jeans and a T-shirt.
38. Until Gramma catches you.
39. If one kicks her foot just right, one can project one's shoe great distances.
40. And even hit one's sister.
41. In the eye.
42. Gramma doesn't like it when one sneezes and then rubs one's hand across one's face.
43. But do it anyway.
44. Socks are made for hiding, especially when one is getting dressed for Church.
45. Shoes, ditto.
46. Grampas are good for playing ponies
47. Or Troll-Under-The Bridge.
48. Grammas are good for dancing.
49. Both are good for cuddling.
50. But they get tired fast.

Weekend's over. I'm going back to bed.

28th Anniversary of my 29th Birthday

Early in October, I celebrated the 28th anniversary of my 29th birthday.
Go ahead.
Do the math.
We'll wait . . .
It was a wonderful time.
Good friends.
Good food prepared by someone else.
Beautiful beaches.
Fun shopping.
And amazing activities.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I just had to share.

The view from our bedroom window in the day.

Same view at night. 

The local  groundskeeper. Keeping the grounds.

The view from the beach.

Drinks with friends on said beach. 

My Birthday dinner with my good friends.

My Sweetie and me. Snapped as I was eating the blueberries from my lemonade. Mmmm. 

They are very friendly down in Mexico.

Very friendly indeed.

Please, please come home with me. I have a bathtub!

Today, it snowed in Edmonton.
Need I say more?
Sigh.