I Know What You Did Last Friday . . .

A few years ago, my Husby, a slightly Santa-esque man, was asked to play Santa Claus at a local party.

He discovered that he loved it.

The rest of us discovered that he was very good at it.

A new career was born.

He offered to pay for the materials for a, to put it into his words, nice suit.

I complied.

The next Christmas, he asked if I would be willing to make myself a matching 'Mrs. Santa' outfit.

After a bit of head-scratching and a trip to the fabric store, I again did as he requested.

Mrs. Santa appeared.

And the two of us have had fun with it ever since.

Each year, our portrayal of the famous couple gets a little more . . . detailed.

This year, he began to grow out his hair.

In August.

Then we made a trip to the hairdresser to get him, and myself, dyed white.

Oh, the sacrifices he makes!

The breathing apparatus and nose plugs were his idea!

Definitely lighter . . .

But the rewards are incalculable.

The Bed-Making Game

I have just realized that Mom was infinitely more patient than I am.

It's a bit of a painful discovery.

A moment of silence, please.

Now I will explain . . .

When I was four, I used to follow Mom around as she went through her morning routine.

This was before she really expected me to be of much help.

Though I did try.

I should mention, here, that about the time I became a valuable helper, I no longer wanted to follow Mom around.

Oh, the irony.

Back to my story . . .

I watched Mom clean the kitchen.

Pick up clothes and discarded items.

Tidy.

Dust.

Vacuum and/or sweep.

And scrub bathrooms.

But my most favourite activity . . .

The one I waited patiently for . . .

Was 'the making of the beds'.

Because Mom never just made the beds.

Nope.

That would be boring.

No, what Mom would do was 'make me in the beds'.

I would snuggle in and she would pull the covers up and proceed to make the bed.

With me in it.

I would lay quietly until she said, “Okay that's done. Time for the next bed.”

That was my cue to squeal and sit up abruptly, totally negating her efforts.

She would pretend to be flabbergasted. (Oooh. Real word!)

And I would laugh uproariously.

Then she would order me from the bed and make it again.

This time without any stowaways.

And we would move on to the next bedroom.

And the next bed.

Where the routine would be repeated.

I don't ever remember Mom making a bed just once.

No.

That's something other mothers did.

Moving ahead fifty or so years . . .

Several of my grandchildren were staying over.

Everyone had finally crawled out of bed.

And were awaiting breakfast, which Grampa was cooking.

I took advantage of the interim to make the beds.

I decided to teach them the game I used to play with my mom.

“Hide in the bed,” I told them. “And don't move.”

They crawled in.

And managed not to move.

But giggling was definitely optional.

I made the bed, then said, loudly, “Well that's done. Time to move on to the next bed!”

Three kids suddenly sat up. “Gramma! We fooled you!”

I pretended to be shocked and ordered them out.

Then I made the bed a second time and we moved on to the next bedroom.

“Can we hide in this bed?” they asked.

I looked at it.

Then thought about having to make it twice.

“No. Once is enough,” I told them.

“Awwww . . .”

“Next time we'll do it again,” I promised.

They were happy.

And I had made two conclusions.

My first was that being the made-ee was infinitely more fun than being the made-er.

You know, my Mom used to play that game at every bed.

Every bed.

My second conclusion? She was much, much more patient than I am.

I'm sure you agree with me.

The Woman Inside

Mom being Mom

My Mom was amazing.

She was the force behind:

Meals appearing at clockwork intervals.

Soiled clothes in hampers being replaced by clean, folded clothes in neat stacks in drawers.

Floors scoured to a mirror finish.

Dirty dishes disappearing from the table.

Clean dishes appearing.

Yummy snacks, (ie. Puddings, cakes, pies, pastries) showing up with amazing regularity.

Gardens stretching, lush and weed-free for miles.

Lawns being mowed.

Pets fed and cared for.

Kids travelling to and from school.

Deadlines met.

Bills paid on time.

New, hand-made outfits appearing.

Hired men cared for.

Doctor's appointments kept.

Sewing and other women's clubs attended.

Bedtime routines honoured.

Sicknesses nursed.

Arguments refereed.

Church attended.

In fact, she was the driving force behind every facet of our daily life.

Always there.

To me . . . just Mom.

When I was four, she bought me a pair of skates.

Sat me on our front step and strapped them on my feet.

Then took me across the yard to the ice-covered street and taught me how to skate.

Once I got my balance, she skated along behind me for a while.

Encouraging, instructing and safe-guarding.

Finally, when she was sure of me, she struck out on her own.

Swooping and spinning across the ice like a bird.

I stopped and watched.

Mom?

This was the woman who spent her days 'looking after'.

Tending.

Feeding.

Supplying.

For the first time in my four years, I realized that there was more to my Mom than what I had always seen.

Here was a woman who had been talented enough to skate competitively.

I later discovered that she had also been invited to play ball professionally.

Offered a scholarship to university.

And many other opportunities.

All of which she set aside for my Dad.

My siblings.

And me.

I watched her as she spun in a tight circle.

Going faster and faster.

Coming to a final, breathless halt.

And skating smoothly away.

Backwards.

Wow.

My Mom.

She skated past me.

“Mom?”

She spun and looked at me.

“I'm hungry.”

She smiled. “Time to go in, dear?”

I nodded.

Immediately, she stopped and reached for my hand, helping me carefully back across the yard to our front step.

Mom was just 'Mom' again.

But just for an instant, I had caught sight of something else.

Someone else.

The woman inside.

Do You Want Fries With That?

A thing of beauty . . .
in a totally  non-food way

Been listening to Christmas music all day.

Let the Christmas memories begin!!!

For our first Christmas as newly-weds, I dutifully asked my new Husby what he would like.

I did it sneakily.

I thought.

In July.

His answer?

A router.

Okay, first, I had to surreptitiously find out just what a 'router' was.

I discovered that it had everything to do with home woodworking.

And nothing to do with computers (which at that time in history, really only existed on Star Trek).

The men at the hardware store knew exactly what Husby had been talking about.

And placed before me a perfect example of router-ness.

On sale.

The day was mine!

And soon, so was the router.

Gleefully (real word/emotion) I carried said router triumphantly to the car.

And duly hid it at Husby's parent's place.

Then I waited.

Closer to Christmas, Husby forgot all about the router he had asked for and announced that what he would really like was a deep fryer.

For a few frantic moments, I considered taking the router back and replacing it.

But, reading the receipt, I could see that that possibility had expired.

Rats.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, with a heavy heart, I wrapped his present and placed it under the tree.

Some time later, he picked it up and shook it.

It rattled.

He smiled.

What he had taken for a 'deep fryer' rattle was, indeed a 'router' rattle, but I said nothing.

And he was happy.

We both waited for Christmas.

Christmas morning, the first gift he went for was his 'deep fryer'.

He was already talking about the fries he would make.

The corn dogs.

Doughnuts.

I held my breath as he tore off the paper.

His mouth dropped open and his face was a perfect picture of surprise as he stared at the router box beneath.

“I totally forgot I asked for this!” he said finally. He opened the box and began removing parts. “I've wanted one of these forever!” He was growing more and more excited.

No more mention was made of a deep fryer.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

That particular gift went on to make tables, cabinets, houses, toys, more tables, and at least one picture frame.

Of far more use than a piece of kitchen equipment.

No matter how many fries it could have made.

I chose . . . well.

I should mention, also, that this was also the only Christmas when I managed to surprise my Husby.

Oh, he tries to 'act' surprised when he unwraps something.

But I know that he knows.

Sigh.

The Bumper Prize

Today, I lost my crown.

There was no ceremony.

Few tears.

And an audible sigh of relief.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the main drive of the ranch, there was a light/electricity pole.

A large one.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to place it thus, but there it stood.

In the centre of the circular drive.

Any drivers had, of necessity, to be vigilant when negotiating our driveway.

Even though said pole had stood there, unmoving and in the exact same place, for years.

Years.

As a permanent resident of the ranch, I had always known of its existence.

I knew the exact place where one had to turn the wheel in order to miss it.

And just when to swing around when parking.

But this one day, I was . . . distracted.

Have you heard the ads on TV where they caution you not to drive while distracted?

Listen to them.

Ahem . . .

Without thinking, I shoved the gear shift of our large red and white Chevy Beauville 12-passenger van into reverse.

And started backing up.

After a few feet, I felt a rather large thump.

And the van made a sudden stop.

Frowning, I turned to look behind me.

Oh, right.

Pole.

Sheepishly, I pulled ahead.

Then got out to inspect the damage.

The bright silver bumper had been neatly creased just to one side of the center.

A deep enough crease to force both the top and the bottom of said bumper . . . umm . . . out.

Quite effectively preventing the back door from opening.

Sigh.

I must admit that when my Husby saw it, all he could do was laugh.

Then saw the top point off the crease so the back door would open.

And laugh some more.

That was twenty years ago.

He has been laughing since.

But today, I heard another bumper story.

A better bumper story.

Told by my good friend, Jen.

Jen was backing out of her garage.

It has been sleeting and freezing and her drive way was a sheet of ice.

She backed out cautiously.

After a few feet, the vehicle stopped moving.

Stupid ice.

She pressed harder on the accelerator.

Still no progress.

Harder.

Nothing.

Just a bit more.

Suddenly, the bumper of her vehicle popped off.

The whole thing.

Right off.

And it was at that precise moment that she realized she hadn't, as she had thought, been slipping on the ice.

No.

Her bumper had snagged on the garage door.

The door had won.

She stopped the car and got out to survey.

Then, abandoning her travel plans for the afternoon, she went back into the house and stayed there.

Some time later, her Husby and his dad came to inspect.

Jen watched them as they shook their heads and muttered to each other.

Finally, they picked up the bumper and refastened it.

With cable ties.

It has been 10 years.

They are still driving that car.

And that bumper is still attached.

I happily pass the crown to her.

She’s earned it.

Fifty Cents

Fifty cents used to be a lot of money.

And gave you the ability to do amazing things.

Let me explain . . .

Saturday.

That wonderful day of the week when one didn't have to dive frantically from their beds, feverishly dash through a morning routine, and drive frantically to catch the school bus.

No.

On Saturday, one could leisurely climb out of bed.

Enjoy a healthy breakfast.

And spend the morning . . . diverting.

Okay, well I don't know about the rest of the family (ie. Mom), but I could.

And the best part of Saturday?

Talking Dad into taking me and my siblings into town for the movies.

Remember, we lived twenty miles away.

On sketchy 'gravelled' roads.

Sometimes, it took a great deal of talking.

When we were successful, he would pull up to the theatre, hand each of us fifty cents, and wave as we scrambled for the door.

The smell of freshly popped and popping corn would wash over me the instant I stepped inside. Clutching my money, I made a dash for the admissions counter and handed over half of my precious coins.

Then I took up a post in front of the all-important concession and eyed the limitless possibilities.

After several moments of tempting myself with mouth-watering indecision, I made my choice.

Inevitably, Grape Crush and a bag of popcorn.

With a nickle for a package of red licorice.

Then, clutching my booty and my ticket, I would approach that magical doorway to infinite worlds and possibilities.

The door-keeper would tear my precious ticket in half with a grin and an, “Enjoy the show!” and I was inside.

The curtains, deep green velvet, would be tightly closed.

Hiding the magic behind them.

Reverently, eyes glued to them, I would slowly make my way down the sloping, creaking wooden floor to my chosen seat.

Somewhere near the front.

Preferably in the first two rows.

Then, one hand stuffing popcorn into my mouth, and the other clutching my precious bottle of pop, I would settle back.

Waiting for the magic.

Waiting to be transported to another place and time.

Suddenly, the house lights would dim and a bright beam would shoot through the air and snare the green curtains in a noose of light.

They would slowly begin to part.

I should mention here that, for years, I thought that the thick, heavy curtains actually became opaque.

And that the beam of light was shining through them from the back.

Yeah. So, an Einstein, I wasn't.

Moving on . . .

For the next two hours, I was somewhere else.

Watching the lives and/or exploits of someone else.

It was magic.

Occasionally, reality would intrude for precious seconds.

Especially if the projectionist was a bit slow in starting the second and/or third reels.

But mostly, my immersion was happy and complete.

Another world.

Another time.

Another life.

Complete with yummy snacks.

All opened to me for the paltry sum of fifty cents.

My Blinking Family

Don't blink!

Way, way too scary . . .

For the past few days, we have been visiting with our daughter and son-in-law.

We've had a wonderful time.

Talking.

Walking.

Making puzzles.

Playing games.

Eating.

And they have introduced us to the TV show, Dr. Who.

Yes I know that most of you will have seen this program.

I know I had certainly heard of it.

But I had never actually sat down and watched it.

Our daughter chose, for our first experience, an episode called, “Blink”.

A story of statues that come to life when you aren't looking at them.

And do terrible things to you.

It was, in a word, scary.

Truly frightening.

Chilling enough that I watched the entire thing snuggled close to my Husby.

And holding his hand.

Okay, so . . . brave, I'm not.

Through the last half of the episode, I had to visit the 'little girl's room'.

But was watching the screen so attentively that I . . . didn't.

Once the show had finished, I shivered, then turned on every light as I made my hasty way down the hall.

A few seconds later, much refreshed, I opened the door.

And this is what was sitting on the floor directly in my path.

I screamed.

And heard loud answering laughter from the family room.

I hate my family.

My Best Friend

I have a friend.

A best friend.

Or BFF, if you prefer.

She is fiercely loyal.

Supportive.

Encouraging.

Kind.

Fun.

Believes in me.

And I nearly missed out on gaining that friendship.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Many, many years ago, our family had just come through a very difficult experience.

Very difficult.

We were wounded and aching.

This woman, a single mom, called me to see if I was interested in babysitting for her.

She had two adorable little tow-headed girls.

I turned her down, with the excuse that I needed some time to heal.

I asked her to give me a year.

She was disappointed.

But understanding.

She gave me my time.

One year later, to the day, she called again.

This time, though still feeling less-than-whole, I accepted.

Reluctantly.

And her two happy little girls arrived.

Immediately, they mixed seamlessly in with my own kids.

Played the same games.

Ate the same food.

Watched the same programs.

Fought over the same toys.

Became two more members of the family.

Meanwhile, their hardworking and dependable mom gave me an insight into the life of a single parent.

Work.

Joy in her children.

And loneliness.

More and more, we invited her and her girls to spend time with our family.

We became friends.

Best friends.

That was over twenty-five years ago.

We were with her when she began to date her future husband.

Who became my Husby's best friend.

We were with them when they married.

And had two more little girls.

We are best friends still.

I often think about her request to babysit.

Given when I was feeling selfish and sorry for myself.

And how nearly I turned her down.

I might have missed this.

The Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Trip

Still on holidays.

Remembering the first one we took here to the Island . . .

A repost:

Ahh, Holidays. some are good. Some are . . .

Everyone has one.

At least once.

The trip from hell . . . umm . . . the terrible trip.

Ours began innocently enough. Organized, even.

We were going to repeat last year's dream trip to the west coast to visit my parents in Abbotsford, BC. But this year, we would continue out to Vancouver Island to go deep sea fishing with Uncle Bub.

We were . . . excited.

I had bought special toys and games for the kids to play on the way to keep them entertained.

Because the view of the Rocky Mountains out the window wouldn't be enough . . .

The car was packed with food and yummy things.

Our valiant little trailer was hooked on behind.

We were ready.

The trouble started about five hours in.

With a leaky hose.

Cars don't run well if they have a leaky hose.

We stopped in Prince George, BC, to try to get it fixed.

And found out that it was a strange-sized hose.

Of course.

A little duct tape later, we were back on the road. Sort of.

Grant kept having to stop to add water.

Oh, and let out whichever child was next in line in the 'upchuck olympics'.

I should point out here that my Mom was right. Looking out the window during a trip was infinately better than playing toys or games.

Little stomachs obviously don't like toys and games.

An important point.

Moving on . . .

We were able to make it another four hours.

More car trouble.

We decided to take a break in Hope, BC.

A beautiful spot. Actually where the movie 'Rambo – First Blood' was filmed.

We pulled into the campground and looked at the map, choosing a little spot back in the trees.

Isolated and quiet.

Until the trains started coming through.

The first blew its whistle at midnight.

For a few unforgettable moments, we thought we had somehow, inadvertantly, set up our tent trailer right on the tracks.

We hadn't.

We had missed them by about six feet.

Trains in Canada are amazingly regular.

One sleepless night later, we were back on the road.

We limped into Abbotsford. And enjoyed a couple of days of much-needed bliss with my parents.

Then . . . that road again.

The ferry-ride was a little more expensive than we had anticipated.

But then, so was everything else.

We made it to the island.

Paradise.

For about half an hour.

Halfway to Uncle Bub's, the entire undercarriage of our faithful tent trailer gave way, skidding our little marvel along on its belly.

Grant pulled over and we surveyed the damage.

We had two choices.

Abandonment and despair and certain death.

My choice.

Or unhooking the trailer, driving to the nearest town and securing repairs.

My husband's.

Fortunately, we went with his.

One of the kids stayed with me guarding the trailer (because, someone might steal it . . . with no wheels . . . okay, it seemed to make sense at the time . . .) while Grant drove off.

We managed to get our trailer fixed, but we were stuck there for two days while the shop made the needed parts to repair it.

And used up every dime of our vacation savings to do it.

Sigh.

Finally, two days late and several dollars short, we limped (remember the car) into Uncle Bub's.

Only to find that the ocean was too rough to go out.

We waited a further two days, scanning the water eagerly each morning.

But the ocean had plans of it's own.

And they didn't include us.

Finally, defeated, we headed home.

The trip back was more of the same. Balky car. Sick kids.

The weather was good.

I have never been so glad to see the lights of home in my life.

We were taught several things on that ill-fated trip.

One. Don't buy toys and games for your kids to play on a trip if everyone is prone to car-sickness.

Two. Beautiful scenery doesn't make a cranky car driver better.

Three. Always check the campground map carefully and ask the attendant if there are any 'un-noted' features one should be aware of.

Four. Your trip will always cost at least 2.74 times what you have saved for it.

Five. Stay home.

Fortunately, we learned none of them.

Cured!

The beautiful Maritime Heritage Centre in Campbell River, BC

Normally, I get sick on boats.

Smaller boats:

We went whale watching off the coast of Oregon.

It was a beautiful, sunny, calm day.

The sea was 'running smooth', as our captain informed us.

We scurried awkwardly aboard.

And took up places of advantage to watch for the great denizens of the deep.

The boat put out.

And I immediately turned green.

And stayed that way until we returned to the dock and I once more stood upon terra firma.

We tried once again at Cape Cod.

You can read that story here.

My Husby took me on a cruise on a beautiful ship:

We had every every luxury.

Gourmet meals.

Exceptional service.

Deluxe accommodation of every sort.

And I spent the entire week battling nausea.

Until I was standing once more on solid ground.

Sigh.

Yesterday, we toured the Maritime Heritage Centre in Campbell River, BC.

Took the excellent and informative tour with our guide, Fred.

Poked about through displays of things nautical.

Tried out Captain's wheels.

Tested the rope-tying.

Exclaimed over the ingenuity, creativity and artistic talents of Canada's seafaring people.

And finally clambered all over the only known example of a wooden seiner in its original configuration still in existence, the BCP45.

And I do mean all over.

We wandered about the deck.

Peered into the now remarkably fish-free hold.

Took a turn at the helm.

Sat in the minute kitchen and heard 'fishing' stories.

Climbed down into the engine room and studied the behemoth that gave this tidy little ship power and electricity.

Stared askance (Ooh! Good word!) at the tiny bunking facilities that once were home to a crew of six.

And generally spent a wonderful hour, exploring.

And I realized, as I crossed the walkway back that I had just spent time on an ocean-going vessel and not once did I feel the least bit queasy.

It was a breakthrough!

And as long as every boat I get on is standing perfectly still on supports in the middle of a giant display room, my seasickness and I can permanently part ways.

Yep. Cured!

My new best friend

As you may remember it

Don't You Wish You Were Here?

My Husby and I are on Holiday.

In beautiful BC. (British Columbia)

We are having a marvellous time.

Did you know that holidays make you younger?

Let me explain.

My Husby and I were married early.

I was 20. He was 21.

We had our first baby just before our first anniversary.

Our second followed eighteen months later.

And our third two years after our second.

We were . . . busy.

It wasn't until our third son was eleven months old that we were able to take our first vacation.

Okay, it wasn't a real vacation.

It was a conference.

But it was in beautiful Halifax. The jewel of Canada's East coast.

And my Husby's ticket was paid for.

All we had to cover were my expenses.

That was as close to a vacation as we were going to get.

For three days, while Husby was at his various meetings, my baby and I spent our time in the comfortable hotel room.

Exploring the many sites of old Halifax.

Or eating.

On the final day of the conference, a gala banquet and ball had been planned.

The hotel supplied us with a baby-sitter.

And I was free to join my Husby for wonderful food and a table full of scintillating (Oooh! Good word!) company.

We ate and talked and laughed.

Partway through the evening, my Husby leaned close and said something to me.

I giggled and kissed his nose.

Then one of the women at the table sighed and said, “I just love newlyweds!”

I smiled at her.

And thought of my almost-one-year-old upstairs with the babysitter.

And my four-year-old and three-year-old at home with gramma.

I had been married five years.

And spent much of that time either pregnant or nursing.

I felt ancient.

And this woman thought I was a newly-wed.

I could draw only one conclusion.

It was because I was on holiday.

It must have been.

Who needs creams and surgery to erase the the years?

I know of something cheaper.

And infinitely more fun.

Here's to holidays.

Definitely Unforgettable

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw.

He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

'Studying' Biology

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teachers notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lots of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not.

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

Jerry

Today is my big brother's birthday!

This post is for him . . .

Jerry. My Hero. Age two.

I have two elder brothers, Jerry and George. 

The banes of my existence when I was four. 

This story is about Jerry. George gets his own.
-------------------------------------------------------
Jerry is my oldest brother. The one, chosen by the rest of us, most likely to be just like Dad. In my earliest memories of him, he is working. Hoeing the garden, mending fence, riding, milking cows. Always busy. Always cheerful.
Always teasing. 
He could put just the right inflection on the most innocent of phrases and it was enough to send his middle sister into paroxysms of anger. 

His favourite? “Oh, Diane!” Pronounced more like, “Oh, Di-Ane!” 

With the buffer of many years, it doesn’t seem so bad. Rather cute, really. But at the time, it was enough to set me off like a miniature Mount Vesuvius. 
Okay, so that particular volcano runs in our family. 

You should have seen George when Jerry used his favourite phrase on him! ‘Pimple pants’. 
Pimple pants? 
Now where would that have come from? And, more importantly, how does one get . . . never mind.
But the old phrase, “If we hated you, we’d ignore you,” certainly applied to Jerry. He must have truly loved us. He’d take us everywhere. Riding. Sledding. Swimming. Exploring. You’d just have to be prepared to put up with the teasing.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry was the most amazing swimmer. He was the only one of us kids who could make headway against the current of the river. The rest of us were pretty proud when we could hold our own. That wasn’t good enough for Jerry. He would dive in and battle the current. And win. Races against him were moot. How could you even contemplate winning against the only ‘current defeater’ in the family?

The one good thing about the constant competition, however, was that when we were given swimming lessons, we could out swim all of the other kids. We weren’t weak swimmers.
Just weak against Jerry.
---------------------------------------------------
Dad had purchased a small ranch in the Coaldale area. Over an hour from the Milk River spread. A logistical nightmare for one man to run. But an adventure if said man put his four eldest kids on one of the ranches for the summer.
Which he did.
Soon after we took possession, however, we discovered an entirely unexpected crop which our new ranch produced in abundance.

Rattlesnakes. 

Big ones.

Jerry and George were hauling in the hay. Jerry on top of the stack . . . ummm . . . stacking. George tossing bales up to him. Jerry sat down on a bale, waiting for George to bring in the next stook. Just as his butt touched the bale, he heard the unmistakable, ‘tell-tail’ sound of a rattler. 

Sure enough, curled there at his feet was a small rattler, poised to strike.

Without conscious thought, Jerry pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then, boys being boys, the two of them closed in for the kill.
Sometime later, I was interrupted from my morning chore of . . . doing nothing . . . by the ring of the doorbell. Excited at the prospect of company, I raced for the door, only to discover – no one. 

I opened the door for a better view. Maybe someone was . . . you know . . . pressed up tightly against the wall so they couldn’t be seen from the doorway.
There, coiled neatly on the front step was a rattler. I never really noticed that it was rather . . . lifeless. 

Panic first, think after. That’s my motto. 

I screamed, and almost pitched backwards down the stairs. 
Then I heard laughter. And saw two brothers’ sunburned faces peeking around the door. “Did it scare you?”
No, this is my usual slap-dash method of pitching down stairs, but thanks for thinking of me. 
---------------------------------------------------------------
My friends wanted to walk into town and visit Charley’s. 

The soda shop hang-out. 

But I needed money. And neither of my parents were anywhere around. In disgust, I kicked at the dusty road and resigned myself to sitting and watching everyone else consume floats or shakes. Maybe, out of pity, offer me a sip.
Sigh.
Suddenly, Jerry emerged from the feed lot. The answer to my prayers. Maybe he would lend me a dime, or if I was really lucky, a quarter.
Okay, so my expectations weren’t very high.
I asked him. He grinned. One of two things was going to happen. Either he’d lend me money. 

Or tease me. 

And then lend me money. 
The day was mine.
“You can have all the money that’s in my pocket,” he said.
Uh-oh. A trick. He must be a broke as I. 
He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . . a handful of change. 

Pennines, dimes, nickels, quarters. I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. 

And he poured the glittering contents – all of it – into my waiting hands. I had enough for . . . anything . . . everything. 

He just smiled. And went to start chores.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry was out in the feedlot, feeding the yearling bulls.
Now let me point out here that yearling bulls are just like puppies. They love to play. And chase each other. And play. The major difference is that they weigh in the neighbourhood of 1600 pounds. A bit larger than your average pooch.
I had decided that I wanted to be where Jerry was. Maybe I could help. 

Or get in the way. 

I was equally good at both. 
I climbed the heavy board fence and sat on the top rail, watching. Jerry was pouring buckets of feed into the troughs and the bulls were delicately picking at it. Politely allowing everyone his own space. 
Not.
When feeding cattle, pushing and shoving is the norm. Reaching over or under your neighbour to get that tasty morsel directly in front of him - equally common. Manners flee when a bucket of grain comes into sight. 
For some time, this supper brawl fascinated me. I watched as these overly-muscled and underly-intelligent ‘adolescents’ bickered and fought over their evening meal. But as with anything, watching soon became boredom and I wanted to be in there. Ummm . . . helping. I scrambled down off the fence and started towards my brother. 
One young ‘Four-Footed Apollo’ spotted me. Someone to play with! He bounced towards me in his finest ‘let’s play!’ mode. 
The invitation on his part was misunderstood on mine.
All I saw was a mass of solid muscle, encased in a red hide, coming at me, death in his soft brown eyes. 

I screamed. 

And ran. 

Which was exactly what the bull was looking for. He followed. Still bouncing. This was fun!
I reached the fence just as my brother entered the fray. 

With a 5-gallon pail in one hand and an aluminum grain shovel in the other, he went for my attacker.
He swung the empty bucket at one side of the bull’s rump. That got his attention. Then, with the same accuracy and effectiveness, he bounced the shovel off the other side. The bull immediately forgot his erstwhile game with me and started back across the corral with Jerry in hot pursuit. Swinging the bucket, then the shovel, my brother chased the thoroughly frightened young bull, shouting with each blow, “Leave. My. Sister. Alone!”
My hero.

Another Winner!

We have a winner in the Thankful for Books Giveaway hop sponsored by I'm a Reader Not a Writer and Tristi Pinkston!

Lolawid from Books are my Friends and My Top Three has won!

Congratulations!

A set of Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels will be heading to the United States this time!

Thank you to everyone who entered.
I so wish I could give a set of my books to each of you!
Thank you for your support!
Diane