Where the Toys are

The grandkids are over for the weekend.

This is what Connie Francis would be singing in this situation . . .

(To the tune of "Where the Boys Are')

Where the toys are, grandpa waits for me
A smilin' face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly
Where the toys are, Grandpa’s love will be
He's sittin’ in his re-clin-er and I know he's waitin' there for me

In the world of billions of people I think he looks just fine
Then I'll eat his treats and play his games and tell the world he's mine

Till we get there I wait impatiently
Where the toys are, where the toys are
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me

Till we get there I wait impatiently
Where the toys are, where the toys are
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me 

My Climbing Frame

My Daddy and me

My Dad and I had a trick.

Something that only Daddy and I could do.

It was my favourite thing in the world.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Dad was strong.

And tall.

Certainly stronger and taller than me.

He could take my hands and hold me steady while I walked up his body.

I know this sounds like something out of Cirque Du Soleil, but it’s true.

I would lift my feet and plant them on his legs, then walk up till I reached his chest.

Then - and this is the exciting part - I would flip over and start again.

It was immensely fun.

For a four-year-old, hugely entertaining.

And didn’t happen nearly enough.

Dad would come in the door and be greeted by, “Daddy! Daddy! Pick me up!”

Obligingly, he would take my hands and let me use him as an acrobatic frame for my . . . acrobatics.

Again and again.

Then smile and set me down and go on with his duties.

I would happily return to mine.

This went on for years.

Years.

Then one day, I think I must have been about nine, Dad uttered the fateful words, “Sorry, honey, you’re just too heavy for me!”

I stared at him, aghast.

How could this be?

He was still taller than me.

Stronger than me.

Broader than . . . you get the picture.

How could I possibly be too heavy for him?

But, sadly, it was true.

And, just like that, my daddy’s frame climbing days were over.

Sigh.

Last night, I was watching one of our youngest granddaughters climb up her daddy.

Giggling happily as she did so.

And suddenly, I was remembering.

Being four-years-old again.

Holding my Daddy’s hands.

Using his help and his frame to do my acrobatics.

A sweet, sweet memory.

Identification

Okay. They may look a little funny.
But we're still glad they're back!

Our youngest daughter and her family recently moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.

They had been away for far too long.

It was cause for celebration.

So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.

I should probably explain here that when all of our kids and their families gather, we number twenty-five people.

Twelve of whom are under the age of ten.

Organized confusion.

Generally, the parents and very youngest members gather in the front room upstairs to chat.

The oldest of the grandkids flee to the basement.

Where the toys are.

Now these kids are used to being together.

And treat each other like siblings.

Getting along fabulously for the most part.

With occasional bouts of tears and irritation.

It was a fairly normal evening.

Adults – visiting.

Kids downstairs – playing.

Someone started to cry.

Our six-year old came running up the stairs.

“Someone’s crying!” he announced.

Needlessly, I might point out.

I looked at him. “Who is crying?”

Now, my daughter’s family hadn't been around for some time. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, her daughter was not.

He handled the confusion well.

“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”

Ah. Identification complete.

Maybe we should put that on her birth certificate.

Planting . . . Panties

Mom, Chris and Jerry, 1951 PD (Pre-Diane)

Mom was a gardener. 

One of those . . . mmmajor gardeners. 

I’m almost certain that her garden produced enough to feed the entire country of England . . . or Russia . . . or the entire southern hemisphere . . . or . . . someone stop me! 

And because Mom was a gardener, her kids were gardeners, albeit reluctant ones. 

On any given day, you could find one bonneted head, several blonde towheads and at least one redhead bent over the various plants, being more or less productive. 

We all had our assignments.

I was four. My job was to watch.
Oh, and eat peas.
Our family produce patch covered about 2 acres, give or take. 

The rows were probably about 40 feet long, but to a four-year-old, they stretched to Argentina. (I didn't exactly know where that was, but it had a sort of far away-ish sound to it.) 

The patch was surrounded by pine trees. Tall, lush, they had been planted by my father in his youth – that is a story – and now provided perfect shade for a small body who wanted to be out with the others.

But suffered from a short attention span.
So there I sat, whiling away the hours. 

Mostly, I lay on the cool grass and made life miserable for the ants and other small, harmless creatures. 

But deep beneath the overhanging branches of the towering pines were patches of dirt. And I discovered that it was fun to dig in that dirt and – don’t tell my mother – plant stuff.
I know you're wondering what a four-year-old would have to plant. 

And that is the point of this story . . .

All pea seeds had gone into the mouth. 

Hmmm. The pods were there. That was a no-brainer. But that only took a short while. 

What else? 

Shoes? 

Those had been kicked off when I had first hit the garden and were now lying abandoned in one of the rows, waiting to be discovered by the roto-tiller. 

Taking stock, I discovered that my feet were at least partially covered by socks formerly known as white. They slipped off easily. A little furrow in the dirt and voila! A perfect place for a future ‘sock tree’. 

What else?

The gardening bug had hit. I just had to plant! I just had to plant!
My mother had tried to instill in me the need for modestly, so removing anything obvious, like blouse or skirt was not even considered. 

What else did I have that I really didn't need? 

I had it! 

Panties. And cute, blue ones, with little darker blue flowers. 

They would produce something lovely, I was sure! 

Off they came, and into the little trench dug specifically for them. 

I patted the dirt into place. Perfect. 

Job completed, I crawled out from under the tree. 

Mom was down the row of beans just in front of me, sitting back on her heels and waving her bonnet in front of a flushed face. She turned and smiled at me, obviously noticing nothing.
Feeling giddy with a sense of accomplishment, I joined her, offering to help pick the beans. She nodded gratefully and I squatted in my abbreviated skirts to begin.
I don’t remember what was said. Only a gasp and then strong hands propelling me unceremoniously back to my ‘garden’.

Once there, I was ordered to dig up every article. 

I stared up at her, aghast. 

The whole garden? 

We're talking days worth of 'gardening'! Mentally, I tallied it up. Hats, tools, shoes, George’s new toy, my new toy, several spoons.

With a decidedly aggrieved air, I began to half-heartedly push at the dirt, only to uncover . . . nothing. 

No clothes, no toys, not even one spoon. 

I dug deeper. 

Still nothing. 

Where could they be? 

I crawled out from under the tree and stared up at it. Was I in the right place? 

I looked at the tree next to it. 

Surely. How could I be mistaken? 

Back into my ‘hidden garden’ which, incidentally, was becoming more hidden by the minute. 

We never did recover the things I had buried, though my mother turned up the dirt beneath every tree surrounding the garden. 

Where could they have gone? 

We’ll never know, now, but if being a successful gardener means planting things, I am an expert. 

If it also means that something is supposed to grow, I’m not.
Hmmm. Burying things so they’ll never . . . NEVER be found. It sounds as though my mother was really training me for . . . piracy. 

Or mob work. 

Who knew?

Oh, Sleep, Where Art Thou?

I just woke up from a fair night’s sleep.

For me ‘fair’ is as good as it gets.

And I know because, once, I had a fantastic sleep.

The best sleep of my life.

It happened when I was eight.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Dad had taken my brothers . . . somewhere.

Exactly where they went is blurry.

The important point is that they were away. And that their wonderful bunkbed in the bedroom next to mine stood empty.

I should mention here that I had long coveted their beds. They were made of beautiful, solid maple and were soooo comfortable.

But I digress . . .

My older sister, Chris, and I saw an opportunity for some fun and adventure.

We’d stay the night in our brothers’ beds!

Wow!

Okay, I admit it. We didn’t have a very exciting life.

Moving on . . .

Chris took the upper bunk and I snuggled into the lower.

We talked and laughed.

Mom made a couple of visits to the doorway to threaten to separate us and finally to *shudder* make us go back to our own beds.

It was this second warning that made me finally give up and close my eyes.

My shoulder started to ache so I decided I should turn over and get more comfortable.

I opened my eyes.

Sunlight was streaming into the room.

At first, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I had never seen the world go from black to light quite so dramatically.

I thought someone had turned on the lamp.

I turned to look at the window.

Nope. I was right. It was sunlight.

Somehow, morning had instantly followed bedtime.

Instantly.

It took some time for me to realize that I had just had a night of deep, dreamless sleep.

I know it happens to other people, but it had never happened before.

Or since.

To me.

But I have that one night.

And, believe me, in the sleepless hours between midnight and four A.M., I often think of it.

Sigh.

Where’s a stolen bunkbed when you need it?

Let Them Eat . . . Bread

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.

Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.

The subject of bread came up.

And the best places to get the least-expensive.

“Oh, we never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter said. “That’s far too expensive!”

“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”

I stared at him.

Okay. I admit it.

It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.

We’re a homemade kind of family.

So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.

Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.

Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.

Moving on . . .

As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.

(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)

We were in the Red and White grocery store in Milk River.

Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.

I was perusing the candy aisle.

Also important.

Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.

“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”

I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.

Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?

 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.

There were, maybe, six aisles.

With the bakery being two aisles away.

I could do it if I scurried.

“Okay!” 

I scurried.

There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.

‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.

I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.

“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.

Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”

Sigh.

I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.

Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.

Whew.

Mom started toward the front of the store.

It was now or never.

“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”

Chocolate bars were ten cents.

Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .

“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”

Stupid bread.

My 'Almost' Pet. And My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

Free Cotton Candy!

A reprint for those who expressed concern . . .

My Very Short Life as an Entrepreneur

You think these beds look nice . . .
You should see what's underneath!

The world was a magical place!

I was rich beyond my wildest dreams!

And the treasure trove I had just discovered had been right under my bed the whole time.

Who knew?!

Maybe I should back up a bit . . .

My Mom and Dad had taken us kids to The Fair.

Mostly so we could see the cattle competitions, I admit, but eventually, to take in the sights and sounds and tastes of the midway.

First, came the sounds.

And once I got used to the fact that all of the shouting and screams I could hear were actually people having fun, I was able to relax a little.

And take in the sights.

That was a lot for my four-year-old eyes to take in.

There were rides.

Merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, Ferris wheels and tilt-a-whirls.

Adventures.

The haunted house. The pirate's den.

And sideshows.

The alligator man and the girl who turned into an ape.

And then there was food.

I had been too frightened to be coaxed onto any of the rides.

Apart from the merry-go-round.

A quirk that exists to this very day.

But I didn't have to be convinced to try the food.

A foot-long hot dog, heavy with ketchup and mustard. A cob of corn, dripping butter. Several donuts. An ice cream cone.

I was certain that I had never had so much fun in my life.

Or eaten as well.

But the best was yet to come.

Something that I never could have imagined.

A treat that was fluffy and melty and oh, so good.

Cotton candy!

The Fair had just become the most amazing experience of my entire four years.

A memory that I treasured long, long into the future.

Or at least three weeks into the future.

I was looking for one of my toys.

It wasn't in sight.

I decided to look in places that weren't in sight.

Under the bed.

There, I made the most remarkable discovery.

Cotton candy.

Just laying there!

I picked it up.

It was definitely cotton candy.

I set it on the bed and bent over, looking for more.

I don't want to suggest here, that my Mom didn't keep a clean house.

She did.

It's just that a husband, six kids, a couple of dogs, a two-acre garden and several hired men can make it difficult for one to get to the hidden surfaces in one's home.

Enough said.

I scrabbled around under all of the beds in the house and managed to come up with a small mound of the magical substance.

Wow! I could sell this to the kids in the neighbourhood.

The ones to whom, like me, The Fair was a sweet and delightful, though distant, memory.

I began counting pennies in my head.

I carried my treasure out to my Mom.

"Look what I found!" I said.

"Oh!" Mom said. She was as pleased as I was, obviously. "Where did you find that?"

"Under my bed. And Jerry's bed. And George's bed. And . . ."

"Never mind," Mom said. "Here. Let me take care of it." She reached for it.

I snatched it away. Was she crazy? Did she really think that I would just hand her my treasure?

She looked at me.

"Diane, what are you going to do with that?"

"I'm taking it outside to sell to the other kids."

"You're going to sell it."

She was crazy. Couldn't she see the windfall that I held in my two little hands?

"Diane, what do you think that is?"

"Candy floss," I told her. I frowned. What did she think it was?

"Maybe you should taste it," she said.

No problem. I selected a choice bit and pushed it into my mouth.

Okay, first off, this didn't melt like the 'fair' type.

And second . . . ick!

I spit it out.

Mom laughed. "Diane, those are dust bunnies."

I stared at her. Then at my treasure.

No way those were bunnies.

"That's what they're called," she explained. "They're just dirt that has blown into a clump under the bed."

Well, whose idea was that?

Disgusted, I handed her my treasure to dispose of.

I learned some things that day:

1. Things found under the bed are usually there for a reason.
2. And not a good one.
3. If your going to make money, salesmanship scores over taste.
4. In fact, forget taste all together.

Okay. Looks Can Deceive . . .

Diane - in trouble again.

Mmm. Candy.

The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience.

Or commands respect.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites.

Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed.

The bathrooms scrubbed.

With the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were . . .

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils.

Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out.

You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus.

We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted.

If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of cool-aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Cool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky.

I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement.

A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of cool-aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as cool-aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

How dishonest!

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the cool-aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Cool.

Then she put it away.

Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary.

That stuff really tasted awful.

Her cool-aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient?

Maybe the cool-aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

The Electronic Age

Two electronics whizzes . . . and their parents.

For the past three days, we have been travelling across the country with a one-year-old.

It has been a wonderful, educational, exhausting time.

And I have learned something about electronics.

Yes. I said electronics.

Maybe I should explain . . .

First, a little background.

Kids now seem to have an affinity for anything ‘electronic’.

If I have any problems with my computer or anything that attaches to the wall with a plug or adapter, I hit ‘control-alt-delete’. Then shout for my son or son-in-law.

They hit a couple of keys and I’m once more off and running.

And these abilities start at a very early age.

Our four-year-old grandson watched his father type in the password for his computer, then load and play a game.

Only watched, mind you.

A few days later, his mother walked into the family room and found her son playing his father’s game.

I should mention that this is a bang-bang, shoot-shoot game, but not spectacularly gory or detailed.

“Hey!” she said. “How did you get on there?!”

The son giggled and fled.

A short time later, his mother called his father at work.

“You left your computer on!” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you must have! I just caught our son on your game!”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I haven’t been on the computer for days,” he said. “The computer would have long gone to sleep.”

“Well then how . . .?”

“He had to have watched me type in the password.”

“But he’s only four!”

“It’s the only explanation.”

“Huh.”

Now, back to today . . .

Compared to our one-year-old, our four-years-old is . . . old.

And this incident, I watched.

Our one-year old grabbed her mom’s cell phone.

Flipped it over.

Switched it on.

Slid the lock.

And immediately started punching buttons, rearranging some, cancelling others.

All as fast as you could blink.

Faster, even.

Electronics.

So simple, even a child could do it . . .

This Gramma needs help.

Is there a child out there?

Laundry. Cheap Entertainment

And each of the eight brothers had a sister . . .

My Mom had eight brothers.

And each of them had a sister.

My Mom.

Most of the time, this was a good thing.

They played together.

Worked together.

And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, they 'protected' her.

It was a good balance.

Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.

Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.

Cooking, cleaning, dishes.

Laundry.

Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.

Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.

You never knew what you would find . . .

There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.

You cleaned your plate at mealtime.

Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.

Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.

If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.

Or get creative.

Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, got creative.

He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.

He just didn't want them inside of him.

What to do?

Hmmm.

No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table.

His parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.

His options were definitely limited.

But he would think of something . . .

When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.

Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.

Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.

Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes.

While he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear.

He was wearing trousers.

And they had . . . pockets.

What followed was inevitable.

Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.

Clever.

And, as I said, entertaining.

And that's just the laundry.

Imagine what he could do with such things as . . . bedrooms. Chores.

Livestock.

But that is another story.

Creating Worlds

Looks like building material to me!

The headquarters/chief residence of the Stringam ranch, like most ranch houses then and now, was centred around a large, family kitchen.

Everything important happened in that room.

Eating, visiting, business, playing. More eating.

It was, quite literally, the soul of the house.

Mom reigned supreme over its scrubbed surfaces and gleaming appliances.

All traffic came through it, stopping either briefly, or of longer duration.

I lived there.

Whenever Mom was in residence (and Mom was always in residence), I could be found.

Underfoot.

Dragging out stacks of plastic ware or pots and pans.

Or, even more exciting, the dozens of Jello packages that Mom kept in a corner cupboard.

Just for me.

It was amazing what one could construct out of those small, cardboard boxes.

Castles. Forts. Corrals. Houses. Barns. Apartment buildings. Stores.

Even schools.

Infinite possibilities.

Infinite hours of fun and creativity.

I should mention, here, that Lego hadn't reached my little world.

Yet.

But it would.

Moving on . . .

And my Mom, moving about the kitchen, had to step carefully to avoid disaster.

To both of us.

How lightly she moved, dancing and weaving around the complicated constructs that, to me, were edifices of genius and creativity.

Occasionally, we came to grief.

Something I had made would have meandered a little too far across the floor and Mom would trip over . . . whatever.

But not often.

Mom should have been a professional terpsichorean (real word – I looked it up).

Or Superman. She could certainly leap any building I made with a single bound.

Looking back, though, I have to wonder why Mom kept so many Jello packages in that cupboard.

Certainly, we ate a lot of it.

But that still didn't justify the number of boxes stored there.

Maybe, like Moms everywhere, she knew . . .

How much fun assembling castles out of sweet-smelling boxes could be.

There is a codicil . . .

My grandchildren were playing on the floor of the kitchen as their mother and I were preparing supper. They had a complicated construction of Tupperware, old yogurt containers, pots . . . and Jello packages.

I stepped over it.

“Careful, Gramma! You'll knock down the princess' castle!”

And suddenly, I was four years old again.

Creating worlds on the kitchen floor.

Building Castles in the . . . Front Room

I have a Ballista. And I know how to use it!

We have castles.

In our front room.

Two of them.

Because how can you have a proper siege or battle unless you have more than one castle?

Right?

Moving on . . .

Our grandchildren love them.

There is seldom a time when they are not crouched over the one or the other, hatching plans and enacting scenarios.

They are a joy to watch.

Our two-year-old had nabbed one of the ‘ballista’.

A siege engine that shot, not one, but six soft-tipped projectiles in quick succession.

All one had to do was rotate the main trunk to expose the next missile to the firing mechanism.

Not complicated.

Unless one is two.

She carried it to her dad.

And held it up.

Then silently gave him a handful of projectiles.

Let’s face it, it’s hard to do a lot of explaining when one has a soother in one’s mouth.

Obligingly, he loaded her little machine and handed the unit back to her.

Happily she grabbed it and scampered away.

“Does she know how to use that?” I asked.

A ‘flame’ tipped missile flew past.

“I guess she does,” he said.

It’s all in how you’re raised . . .

Castle #1 - The Good/Bad guys

Castle #2 - Ditto

Climbing? Yes. Flying? No.

Mom, George, Chris, Jerry, Dad and me.
Not picuted: The clothesline.

Climbing was my thing.
I loved it!
Ask anyone. My climbing ability was legendary. My experiences, many and varied.
Many's the time my mom would sprint up the old machinery hill to save her tiny daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Or at least from a very unpleasant fall to the bottom of the 100 foot TV tower.
And my father, too was no stranger to my favorite activity. During a visit with the manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Alberta, the new chandelier in the great room was being discussed.
"It's magnificent," Dad said, gazing up into the rafters 50 feet above them.
"Yeah, we really like it," the manager said, following his gaze. "The only thing I'm concerned about is how we're going to clean it."
"Clean it!" Dad said. "Well, I have a daughter who will climb it!"
Together, my parents plucked me off the top of horses, bulls, pigs, haystacks, combines, tractors, trees, shed roofs, barn roofs, garage roofs, car roofs - I really seemed to have a thing about roofs - water towers, windmills, and even the propane tank.
Admittedly, a fall from many of them probably wouldn't have been fatal. Just . . . uncomfortable.
But no amount of lecturing or lurid stories illustrating the dangers of such activities could discourage me.
I just had to climb.
And then that fateful day . . .
Isn't it odd that fateful days never, ever seem to start out any different from any other day? I mean, sullen, red skies would be entirely appropriate. That way, you'd know that something momentous was about to happen.
But I digress . . .
I had discovered a wonderful new activity.
It included Mom's clothesline and the picnic table.
And climbing.
What else.
For some reason, the table had been shoved close to the clothesline. Close enough that someone daring - me - could make a run along the table and launch oneself - also me - onto the clothesline.
Now I should point out here that Mom's clothesline wasn't one of those boring long stretches of wire so useless to an enterprising youngster. No.
It was a new-fangled round one.
That spun if it was pushed.
And if you leapt and caught the wires just right, you could spin all the way around and back to the table.
Which I did.
Several times. In fact, I was the neighborhood champion. Again and again I would perform for my audience to appreciative oohs and aahs.
Several of the kids tried it, but no one could go quite as far or as fast as I could.
I decided it was time to up the ante, slightly.
I was going to try for a double axel.
Two times around.
It had never been done. Never even been attempted.
But I was going to do it.
My audience was assembled.
I dusted my hands together and poised at the back edge of the picnic table.
The crowd grew hushed.
I took a deep breath and launched myself along the table.
Perfect.
I flew gracefully across the intervening space.
Even more perfect.
I reached out for the wires.
And for the first time in my life, missed.
Missed?
I reached again, frantically, then looked up at the wires, as they slowly moved further and further from me.
How could this be?
With a heavy thump, I hit the ground, driving every square millimeter of air from my lungs.
My friends stared at me, frozen. Then there was a collective scream and they all rushed forward.
"Diane! Diane! Are you all right?"
I just stared at them and tried to catch my breath.
Then a horrified, "Diane, you're bleeding!"
I looked down. They were right. Blood was spattered on my shirt and shorts. I looked at my arms. My legs.
Nothing.
Then I tried to talk.
And realized where the blood was coming from.
My mouth.
Shocked, I put a hand over it.
"Mrs. Stringam! Mrs. Stringam!" several voices began shouting.
My Mom came on the run.
She was so used to me.
"Oh, my!" She knelt beside me and put a towel to my chin. "Open your mouth, Honey."
I tried to obey, but my mouth didn't want to. It had suddenly begun to hurt. It wanted to stay shut.
I felt the tears begin.
"It's okay, Honey, just open your mouth."
Finally, I was able to open it. A little.
Mom gasped, and put the towel over my mouth.
"Come on, Dear, let's get you into the house."
"Mrs. Strin-gam? Will Diane be all right?" I vaguely recognized Laurie's voice.
"She'll be fine, Dear. I'll just take her into the house and get her cleaned up."
Mom half-led, half-carried me into the cool, quiet house and sat me down on the cupboard in the kitchen. Then she sponged the blood off my face and neck.
"Let me have another look, Honey," she said.
Obligingly, though I really didn't want to, I opened my mouth for her.
"Okay, well, you've cut your tongue, Honey. It's probably going to hurt quite a bit. But it'll be all right."
So she kept saying. Why didn't I believe her?
"Here. Hold this while I call Doctor Clemente."
I took the towel she was pressing to my face while she went to the phone.
"Yes, Doctor." I could hear her in the hallway. "Yes. Okay." She hung up the phone.
Then she was back beside me. "Here, Honey, let me take it."
She gently swabbed at my mouth again.
Mom could make anything feel better.
Almost
Later, after I had refused supper, a new thing for me, I overheard her talking to Dad.
"Yes, I think it's bitten at least half-way through. It's still attached, but barely. The doctor thinks it will heal just fine, but it'll be a while, and it'll be painful."
A while?
That is parent code for 'forever'.
Sigh.
It did heal. And quite quickly, too, in 'Parent' time.
During that time, I was the focus of all of the neighborhood kids. Everyone would come up to me and ask me to stick out my tongue.
Then ooh and ah delightedly.
I was a celebrity.
It was almost enough to get me climbing again.
Almost.