Our Un-Vacation

This week's words filter, squash, sour, dancing, muscle, breakthrough, from Delores of The Feathered Nest actually fit in with my frame of mind. Genius!

Why is it whenever you go on holiday, everything back home disintegrates?

It’s true.

The world waits for your vehicle to clear the driveway.

Then it falls apart.

Case in point . . .

My Husby and I were recently on our much-anticipated annual pilgrimage to the Great Canadian North Woods with our good friends.

All was well for the first 24 hours.

Then my phone buzzed.

I know, I know. Why did I take my phone with me on holiday?!

First mistake.

Moving on . . .

It started out innocently enough:

Tiana: Is it pouring out there? It sure is here!

Me: It is!!!

Then . . .

Tiana: My floor is all wet. Something tells me the wall shouldn’t look like this…

Tiana spent the next day keeping us apprised of her dance around puddles, cutting out drywall, arranging fans, breathing sour air, moving upstairs.

I spent the day worrying.

Then . . .

Tiana: Unrelatedly: the pool is almost 2 feet lower than it was yesterday…?

Somehow, we had lost 100 gallons of water. Our new vinyl pool was suddenly looking like a squashed tomato.

Me: Did it split somewhere? Is it lower than the filter? Maybe you should unplug it.

She could find nothing wrong, but again, I spent the day worrying.

Sigh.

Then, from our daughter-in-law:

Barb: Our van overheated. We had it towed in to Canadian Tire. It’s going to cost $3300.00 to fix.

This on a van that not even worth $2000.00.

Oh, no! How will they be able to afford a new van? They just bought a house . . . Okay, yes, it was their problem, but I worry.

Then . . .

Barb: I passed out yesterday. Caitlin is over, looking after the kids. I’m really sick.

You know the saying, ‘It never rains but it pours’?

Well, it was definitely raining. And pouring.

More worrying.

Somehow, our kids managed to muscle through.

And Husby’s and my seven little days of ‘vacation’ ended.

Since we got home, all has been quiet.

The kids bought a new (to them) van for a very good deal and our daughter-in-law is once more healthy and happy.

The bedroom (minus a large chunk of drywall) is dried out and our daughter happily re-entrenched.

And the pool has been refilled following a lengthy inspection which turned up nothing.

So what happened?

For our daughter in law? Broken vans, kids and heat and worry.

The soaked bedroom and the leaky pool? I had a breakthrough. I realized that the pool cover had become so full during that rainstorm that it had forced one side of the pool down and flushed out a great wave of water.

That had inundated our daughter’s room.

Both problems were actually the same problem.

The solution?

We do have one! We’ll never go on vacation again.

It’s too exhausting. J

Untrained Help

It's trickier than it looks.

I had gone to town with Dad.

It was always an exciting time for us kids.

The teaming metropolis, crowded with cars, alive with people.

Intent of their errands.

All hurrying to get somewhere.

Okay, it was Milk River. Population 499.

No one hurried.

Ever.

And, the only time in the town’s history there had been a traffic jam was the year someone’s grampa’s car stalled in one of the intersections on parade day.

But still, we loved going there to run errands with dad.

Stopping at the hardware store.

The grocery.

The variety/clothing store.

The farm machinery shop.

Occasionally, he would buy us something.

But mostly, it was to listen to him visiting with the proprietor, getting caught up on the local news.

And to have a pop and a chocolate bar at the service station just before we headed home.

The local gas station had a large chest full of all kinds of soda.

The bottom part was filled with intricate wiring and tubing necessary to keeping the product cold.

The upper part, the part that was visible when one lifted the lid, was a series of long slots, with the bottle tops just visible in each.

All one had to do was carefully maneuver one’s chosen flavour to the end of its row and into the lifter.

Deposit a dime (yes, a dime) into the appropriate space.

And lift.

Ta-daa!

Take off the lid in the handy, dandy opener provided.

And deliciousness was yours.

Dad was doing the dime depositing and the choosing.

I was pulling up on the lifter.

It had worked for several bottles.

The two of us together had an impressive array of pop to take home.

Three or four at least . . .

Dad deposited another dime and reached for a bottle.

I happily pulled up on the lifter.

He looked at me, his hand still hovering between ‘orange’ and ‘grape’.

Oops.

I don’t remember if he went to the proprietor and got his money back.

I only remember ‘that’ look.

And being relieved of my duties.

Sigh.

The pop still tasted good.

Putting the 'Ghost' in Ghost Town

See? No horses.

Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And Virginia City.
It sounded . . . Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
But I do remember stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.Then being carried by said Mom.
That's when it got exciting.
We were in an old fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts.
There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heart-felt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
And, because my husband is an historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia.
But what I most took note of was anything that suggested 'horse'.
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens.
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended.
All too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building.
A drug store.
Or at least that's what Mom called it.
It didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
I was bored.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again.
Things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
Okay, I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Ahem . . .
Mom stopped beside the cabinet.
With the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door.
What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath.
What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
How could they top that?

Get the Gate

Approach carefully. It's tricky

On a ranch, there are gates.
Many gates.
In the corrals, big gates made of long, wooden boards.
That are fun to swing on.
As long as your Dad doesn't catch you.
Moving on . . .
Along the hundreds of miles of barbed-wire fences in the pastures, the gates are made of . . . barbed wire.
Go figure.
Barbed wire gates are fashioned by four or five long pieces of wire stretched between two end posts. Then three or four lighter 'dancers' (smaller poles) are nailed to these wires to keep them from tangling when the gate is being opened or closed.
Barbed wire gates are a bit tricky, but easily used, once you get the knack.
With practice, and a cooperative horse, one can even open and close these gates without ever having to get out of the saddle.
If one has an uncooperative horse, the mere thought of dragging a fence post and wires a few feet leads to Entertainment!
Notice the capital 'E'.
Okay, one doesn't have to look for excitement on a ranch.
Soooo . . . gates.
And using them.
My Mom, raised on a ranch and married to a rancher, never quite got the knack of the barbed wire gates.
I should point out here that, when we were riding, we took turns opening and closing.
When we were driving, the person riding 'shotgun' was the designated gateman.
Because Mom was so entertaining, she was always stuck in that seat.
So the rest of us could watch.
Oh, Mom could open the gates, a trick in itself.
And close them.
An even better trick.
But that is where her difficulty started.
Because somehow, she always closed them with herself on the wrong side.
Whereupon (good word) she would have to either perform the entire operation again, or crawl through.
She always chose the latter.
And the rest of us had a good chuckle while she did so.
Okay, you're right, we did have to look for our entertainment.
But at least we didn't have to look far . . .

Mis-Matched Memories

College.

A time of growth.

Learning.

Discovery.

And how to make our own meals.

And do our own laundry.

Sigh.

Laundry day was nearing.

I could tell because, suddenly, there was room for everything in my dresser.

And I was down to my last two socks.

One red.

One brown.

I stared at them.

Then, shrugging, pulled them on. The weather was chilly and they were necessities.

And in the rush to get out the door for my 8:00 class, I forgot them.

Sometime later, I had removed my shoes (I don’t remember why) and was sitting on the floor in the hallway outside the Journalism room with a couple of friends.

Chatting.

People were walking past us.

An astonishing number remarked on my mis-matched socks.

It was more attention than I had ever gotten.

Hmmm.

From that day on, I never wore matching socks.

I even shopped deliberately for socks of the same make, but different colours, so they could be selectively mixed.

Sometimes, I even wore mis-matched shoes.

Call it a fashion statement.

It was . . . fun.

Move ahead forty years.

My Husby and I were shopping at one of the big box stores in Lethbridge.

We were down for a visit and enjoying the old familiar sights.

“Diane, is that you?”

I turned. One of my Journalism instructors, with her Husby, was standing behind me in the line.

There was the usual frantic ‘catching up’.

As the line slowly moved forward.

Then her Husby said, “Show me your socks!”

Some people are remembered for their great contributions to world peace.

For art.

Music.

Science.

Me?

I’m remembered for socks.

Getting Dirty

Old Garage. Magical play area around the end to the right . . .

New garage. Boring.

Just in front of the Old Garage was a magical place.

Okay, yes, it was technically part of the driveway.

Probably, in a normal world, not the best place to play.

But the Old Garage was really just a work room.

And seldom, if ever, used for actual . . . vehicles.

That was what the New Garage was for.

So the driveway in front was probably the safest place on the ranch.

Moving on . . .

The garage formed a wall along one side of our little play area.

With trees and/or bushes on two other sides.

And the winding driveway leading in.

Nestled among the bushes was the great propane tank, which supplied much-needed gas to the ranch houses.

And ensured that the immediate air would always have that little ‘tang’.

And sometimes substituted as a ‘horse’ when the need arose.

The dust/sand was deep in that particular spot.

And warmed by the sun.

Perfect for creating roads and castles and towns.

And just generally whiling away the hours in sunlit bliss.

Okay, yes, our ‘whiling’ was usually followed by, “Diane! What were you doing? Rolling in the dirt?!”

But it was worth it.

Moving ahead 50-plus years . . .

We have a sand box in our back yard.

I was watching some of the grandkids . . . playing.

They were digging and creating and generally having a great time.

One of them lay down on her tummy and proceeded to make a close inspection of the ditch she was digging.

Her mother looked over at her. “Bronwyn! Stop rolling in the dirt!”

And suddenly, I was four years old again.

Digging in the dirt with my brothers.

The occasional whiff of propane in the air.

And the sun warm on my back.

Full circle.

 

Three little girls - full circle.

That's Progress

One and one-half hours from the Stringam ranch is the city of Lethbridge, Alberta.

When the Stringams really needed to shop, that was the place to go.

There were tons of great stores . . .

Eaton’s.

Woolworth’s.

Kresge’s.

Hoyt’s.

Woolco.

But, if one wanted a bit of adventure, the best was Progress Clothing.

Progress was our favourite place to shop.

It wasn’t what you would call a ‘high-end’ store.

It catered more to the farmers and ranchers in the area.

The people needing sturdy, serviceable, work apparel.

Tough boots.

Heavy leather gloves.

Progress consisted of a long, open room with thick windows facing the street.

Dangling fluorescent light fixtures.

And huge tables set evenly about the old-wood flooring.

Great piles of clothing were stacked on every available surface.

More or less grouped together according to type and size.

Colours were limited. Most articles were blue, green, black or tan.

But choosing pants, shirts or one of the myriad other items that went with working on a ranch was only the first (and less exciting) part.

The true fun of Progress Clothing began when one was holding one’s prospective purchase.

And a salesman approached.

Because the ‘suggested retail price’ on the tag was just that.

A suggestion.

From there, the haggling commenced.

“How much for these pants?”

“The tag says $7.00.”

“But I’m buying four pairs.”

“Hmm . . . okay $6.00.”

“Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“Hey, I’m trying to feed my family!”

“And I’m trying to feed mine!”

“Okay. Okay. $5.00. But that’s my last offer.”

“$4.50?”

And so it went. It was . . . fun.

If you were lucky, you would pay half of what the original sticker stated . . .

I hadn’t been to Progress in quite a while.

I had discovered some of the specialty ‘Western’ shops.

With their high-priced ‘stylish’ western clothes.

And I had my own money.

And no encumbrances.

Then, shortly after I was married, my Husby (a newly acquired encumbrance) and I, feeling both the need to be economical and the desire for some adventure, stopped at the great old store.

I found a pair of warm, winter boots.

Practical boots.

My Husby held them up to the salesman. “How much?” he asked.

The salesman stared at him.

“How much?” he repeated.

The salesman leaned forward and touched the tag. “$8.00,” he said.

“Will you take six?” my Husby asked.

The salesman frowned. “The tag says $8.00,” he repeated.

“Oh. So . . . $8.00?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

The store and the clothes were the same.

And the prices.

But the important stuff was different.

Ode To Delores

Once more, Delores, of The Feathered Nest as issued her challenge.

Once more, I harness the old brain and shove it into overdrive . . .

This weeks Wednesday's Words?

Gregarious, munchkin, tipple, faint, carousing, bed pan

What am I gonna do with that . . .?

What else . . . a poem!

Delores, evil genius, you,

“Write,” you say. And write we do.

And from the words that you present,

We must weave something opulent.

But tell me how, with words I paint,

I’ll match gregarious with faint?

And Munchkin, I don't have a clue . . .

Do Munchkins tipple? Tell me. Do.

I’ve left carousing to the end,

For what to do with that, my friend?

I don’t carouse, and never will,

But nothing else will fit the bill.

I’m giving up, my brain is numb,

And feeling just a little dumb.

There is no way, it’s just too queer,

To fit a bed pan somewhere here.

And so I’ll stop, I’ve ‘uncle’ said.

My brain has gone from numb . . . to dead.

P.S. I love this! Keep them coming, my friend!

P.P.S. Drop over to Delores' blog and check out what the others came up with!

Tarp Wars

It’s raining on us.

And we’re sitting in the middle of the northern Alberta woods.

Not a good combination.

Usually.

But many, many years ago, my Husby and his good friend, Gord, instituted a tradition which has saved more than one camping trip.

Tarp wars.

The rules are simple.

Whoever can put up the tightest, smoothest, most rain-defying/re-directing tarp, wins.

And garners the most support. (ie: huddlers.)

Let’s face it. When the elements have decided to make life miserable, the place you want to be is under the tightest, smoothest, most rain-defying . . .  you get the picture.

The two men started out small. Eight feet by ten feet.

But that wasn’t big enough; didn’t accommodate the mass of humanity that required shelter.

So they went bigger.

Ten by twelve.

Then fifteen by twenty.

Twenty by twenty.

And finally, twenty by thirty.

And that’s where they stopped.

Because finding a space between trees in the Canadian North Woods that is larger than thirty feet, is very nearly impossible.

This year’s winner?

My Husby.

Mainly because our friends haven’t shown up yet.

But we declaring it a victory.

It’s not raining at this exact moment, but it will and when it does, we will all thank him.

P.S. I have pictures, but my current circumstances (ie. a slow trickle of wireless power here in the middle of nowhere) prevent me using them. Sigh.

Happy Campers

We love to camp.

We do it every year, rain or shine.

Usually rain.

Sigh.

We have used the same little tent trailer forever.

It was built in 1974.

We bought it in 1981.

It has kept the rain off of us.

Our six children.

Numerous foster children.

And now a new generation of grandchildren.

It has been almost completely re-built in that time.

We had a mouse infestation due to a forgotten bag of oatmeal, left through the winter.

We once lost the entire undercarriage out on Vancouver Island.

Had a bear come in through the back door in Slave Lake, Alberta.

Without knocking, I might add.

Replaced numerous tires. (Due, mainly to the fact that the tires they kept selling us were made out of that forgotten bag of oatmeal…)

And we lent it to our eldest son. (Who did more damage than everything else, combined.)

Still it keeps on going.

Okay, sure, it really doesn’t look like much anymore.

The canvas has faded somewhat from its glory days.

It leans a little in whichever direction the wind is blowing.

And the cushions are fast getting to the point of no return.

But it has never leaked.

And that’s something to be said in the places where we camp.

We love our old trailer.

Like us, it has aged.

More or less gracefully.

And it is comfortable.

But the other evening, a sleek new fifth-wheel trailer, pulled by an equally new and pristine pickup truck, pulled into the site next to ours.

Parents and teenagers piled out and started to set up camp.

It took seconds.

Then they gathered at the front of their site and glanced over the neighbourhood.

We smiled.

Until one of the teenagers was overheard saying, “Oh great. We’re right next to the hillbillies.”

Hillbillies? Us?

I looked at our venerable old trailer. At our open-air camp kitchen. Our perfectly-strung (though rather ratty) tarp and our ‘can-we-get-one-more-camp-out-of-them’ camping chairs. Our bird’s nest lamp that kept shedding its duct-tape shade until I finally gave up and tossed said shade into the garbage at the end of last year’s camp.

And then I realized that we are hillbillies.

But, despite what they see, comfortable.

And happy.

And Hair We Are

Mom had short hair.

In fact, most of the women I knew had short hair.

I was four. I didn’t know that many women.

But those I did . . .

Even Gramma Berg had short hair. Short, white hair.

But that just shows you what I knew . . .

We were staying with Gramma for a few days.

It was magic.

The great staircase to climb.

Table to scurry under.

Heater grate in the floor to sit on.

Stuffed moose head to run from.

Feather ticks to cuddle under.

Hidden, secret places to . . . hide in.

Exciting attics to get barred from. (Stupid brothers.)

And a whole world of farm and gardens to explore.

And, best of all, Gramma.

She of the marvelous old-world cooking. The loving cuddly arms.

And the Swedish pronunciation of ‘Di-ane’.

It was like a week in Heaven.

I’m sure you’re wondering what this has to do with short hair.

That part’s coming now . . .

I was playing with my cousins.

Some game involving daring each other to go all the way to the bottom of the scary basement stairs.

I lost.

I wandered into the kitchen.

Because.

And there was my Gramma, sitting on a chair, with my Mom standing behind her.

And mom was . . . brushing Gramma’s hair.

Hair that streamed in a silver wave over Gramma’s shoulders and down Gramma’s back.

I stared at it.

Wait a minute. Where did that come from?

It wasn't there before.

My four-year-old brain was working frantically.

Is this a trick?!

I walked over and touched it. Huh. It seemed pretty real to me.

I stroked my hand down. Mmm. Smooth and pretty.

Where had she gotten it? And even more important, where had she been keeping it?

I watched as my Mom began to braid it.

A long braid.

Which she then wrapped around the crown of Gramma’s head.

Oh. How had I missed that?

You know what?

Adults are tricky.

You gotta watch them at every step.

Today, the hair.

Tomorrow, the world.

Hillbilly Camping

We’re camping again.

With our friends.

This is our 25^th year together.

I think we could be considered family by this time.

Our kids were raised together.

We’ve celebrated birthdays, weddings, births and job promotions together.

We’ve cried together over each-other’s tragedies.

And for one week each and every year, we sit in the woods and talk and laugh and relax.

And remember all of the other times.

Particularly ‘that’ time.

The week it poured.

And I mean poured.

For five days straight.

We had twelve kids with us, ranging in age from three to fifteen.

All of their usual activities had been rained out.

And the all-important ‘swimming in the lake’ was not even an option.

Electronic entertainment was in its infancy.

What could we do?

There were board games. Several of the kids got really, really good at Rack-o and Chess.

And Old Maid.

But even those got old after a couple of days.

Remember when I said that electronic entertainment was in its infancy? Well, young as it was, it came to our rescue.

My husby had installed, by means of a couple of bungee cords, a small VCR/TV combination in our large van.

With eight kids to haul on long trips, it had been invaluable.

On the morning of third day of deluge, he emerged from the van with a huge grin.

And a whole box of VCR tapes. The entire Beverly Hillbillies series.

We grabbed it as if it were a life line.

Which it probably was.

“Kids!”  I said, “Wanna watch some TV?”

Amidst loud cheers, all of them piled into the van and The Beverly Hillbillies filled the small screen.

For the next three days, after a quick scan of the still-spongy sky, they dove into the van and, with rain drumming on the roof, they happily stayed glued to the antics of Jed, Jethro, Ellie-May and Granny.

Episode after episode.

First in black and white, then in colour.

We parents would watch, in indulgent and relieved amusement, as the van bobbed up and down when the theme song came on.

‘Come and listen to my story ‘bout a man named, Jed.’

Ahhhh . . . memories.

Now, when we camp, it is usually just the four of us.

With a bonus grandchild or two.

Oh, occasionally, one or more of the next generation will stop in with their kids.

But mainly, it’s just us.

And, as we talk and laugh, we remember.

When the whole tribe was there.

The rain drumming down.

And The Beverly Hillbillies staving off cabin fever.

Don't Even Blink

Blair. And a friend . . .

My Dad was in the blacksmith shop.
And wherever Dad went, we kids trailed after.
Because.
Why is it that everything Dad does is interesting?
For the first couple of minutes.
After that, one's short attention span rather gets in the way.
But I'm getting ahead of myself . . .
Two-year-old Blair had followed Dad to the shop.Mom was in hospital with newborn sister, Anita, and Dad was babysitting.
But that was okay because Dad did such interesting things . . .
For a short time, Blair had been fascinated with simply watching as Dad puttered.
Then, other interesting sights caught his attention.
Tools.
Horseshoes.
Old paint cans filled with stuff.
He began to explore.
Dad kept an eye on him as he toddled about.
Then, Dad turned on the air compressor.
Its roar filled the old, log-built room and drew every kid in the vicinity.
Blair.
He watched, fascinated as the wheel spun.
"Now you stay back, son," Dad told him firmly.
And he did.
For a very, very long time.
He was two.
Thirty seconds is a very, very long time when you're two.
Dad turned his back for a moment.
Blair saw his chance. He moved forward and reached out to touch the spinning wheel.
For a moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened.
Then the pain started.
He screamed.
Dad spun around to see Blair shaking his hand and spraying blood everywhere.
He grabbed him, pulled out his every-ready handkerchief to wrap around the wounded hand and headed for the house.
With his little boy screaming the whole way.
Dad made the trip to the hospital in record time.
And that is something when you are travelling on uncertain dirt roads.
Soon, Blair was home again, with a neat glove bandage around his pointer finger.
Which now was missing part of the first joint.
Dad figures that the spinning belt caught it and nipped it off against the flywheel.
A terrible wound.
Leaving a scar.
And a story to impress girls with twenty years later.
Ahem . . .
But a fixable wound.
And a solemn reminder that turning your back for a second is all it takes.
Ranches can be dangerous.

Prairie Sneaking

My good friend Delores of The Feathered Nest has issued this week's challenge.

effervescent, sanity, umbrella, tang, hustle and gumdrops.

Challenge accepted . . . 

I was at my first Prairie Party with my friend/roommate/almost-sister, Debbie (she of the effervescent eyes and sparkly personality), and my new boyfriend.

It was . . . rather exciting.

Even though the weather had been uncharacteristically iffy.

And was continuing in the same vein throughout the evening.

There was a crowd of farm/ranch kids all talking and laughing around a huge campfire, periodically opening umbrellas when the heavy overhead clouds shook out a few drops or hustling into the nearby camp kitchen if the rain increased.

Many remained sitting in the shelter, pouring drinks, eating chips, popcorn, nuts and the inevitable and still popular, gumdrops.

Which, as the liquor flowed and sanity decreased, seemed to be used mostly for target practice.

My new boyfriend and I, both non-drinkers, were sitting in his truck, one of several parked in a semi-circle around the kitchen providing light on the obviously moonless night.

Talking.

No, really. We were talking.

He was showing me his new knife and my mind was a confused whirl of blade belly, AUS 8 Steel, bevel, edge, tang, bolster and anodization.

I was discovering that he was a lot of fun and very clever.

He was discovering that I laughed a lot.

Suddenly, his head snapped around toward the kitchen. “Look,” he said, nodding.

I turned.

A shadow was making its way toward us.

Sliding between cars and generally giving the impression of cautious-ness.

It slid quickly through a beam of light and dove once more into the shadows.

Debbie.

The two of us watched as she continued in our direction.

Finally, she left the shelter of the car just to our left and, crouching, made her way directly in front of the truck we were sitting in.

My boyfriend waited for just a moment . . .

Then, grinning widely, honked the horn.

Clean Enough

The day I realized just how good I had it . . .

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.
I admit it.
Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.
And I cleaned my room/living quarters.
Again when my Mom told me.
Mom was a clean nut.
But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.
And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.
Really clean.
Let me explain . . .
We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.
It was exciting.
Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.
For purely logistical reasons.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Moving on . . .
We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.
We stepped into the entryway.
And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.
The house was filthy.
I mean filthy.
You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.
We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.
I stopped in the doorway.
Frozen.
Or stuck.
It was hard to tell the difference.
Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.
The stove was unrecognizable.
Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.
Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.
Perhaps that was a blessing.
One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.
And under the table.
My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.
"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.
Or garden.
Or feed lot.
Huh. Feed lots. And cleanliness . . .
But I digress . . .
"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.
Well in hand?!
I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.
"Diane, come and help us."
Mom had noticed my hesitation.
But had somehow missed the rising green colour.
"Sorry, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."
I remember her look.
Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm really not feeling very well."
She came over to me.
I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.
She put a hand on my forehead.
"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."
The mess went on?
I couldn't bear to venture further.
"No, I really think I'd better go outside."
I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.
"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.
My eyes widened. I could only imagine.
"Um, no. Just some fresh air."
I bolted towards the door.
And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.
Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.
Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.
With the family dog.
He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Motive for Murder

Looking for a great summer murder mystery?

            “As she drove back to Wendy’s house, the headlights cleaved the darkness and the rain, which was falling harder now. Erica had to park across the street and was nearly to Wendy’s door when she stopped suddenly, catching herself as she nearly fell over something.

It was the still figure of a man lying face down on the driveway. He was strangely unmoving. The light from the porch illuminated a puddle alongside him, which was growing bigger by the second. A chill shivered down Erica’s spine as she noticed that the puddle was streaked by dark red threads that ran and merged with rivulets of rain.”

*  *  *

Meet Erica Coleman—a gifted and quirky private investigator with an OCD-like passion for neatness and symmetry, a penchant for cooking, (ten terrific recipes are included), and a weakness for chocolate.

Erica imagined that her trip to Florida would be a slice of heaven—a chance to get away from it all and catch up with her best friend, Wendy. But one day into her vacation, all hope of fun in the sun is dashed when she stumbles, literally, over a dead man on Wendy’s driveway. With police closing in on her friend as their main suspect, Erica must find the real killer before Wendy ends up behind bars.

With Erica’s skill, solving the mystery should be a piece of cake but then a second homicide-attempt hits close to home and generates a whole new list of suspects. There’s no way to sugarcoat it, a murderer is on the prowl, and no one is above suspicion.

As the plot thickens, it appears Erica may have bitten off more than she can chew, but she forges on, sifting through mounting evidence until she hones in on the killer who has a surprising motive for murder. With a dash of romance and some surprising twists, this thrilling mystery will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

Praise from Traci Abramson and Betsy Brannon Green: 

Motive for Murder is fresh, captivating, and cleverly written. The colorful cast of characters will enthrall readers as they try to navigate the clever twists and turns of this captivating mystery. Intriguing, memorable characters, and a skillfully written mystery make Motive for Murder Marlene Bateman's finest work yet—a must read!  Traci Abramson

With a fresh, crisp writing style, Marlene Bateman introduces readers to a fascinating cast of characters and skillfully unravels an intricate plot full of twists and surprises!  I loved Motive for Murder and you will too!  Betsy Brannon Green

Purchase Info:

Seagull Book: http://www.seagullbook.com/lds-products-791144.html

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Motive-Murder-Marlene-Bateman-Sullivan/dp/1608612414/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1372179431&sr=8-1&keywords=motive+for+murder

Deseret Book:  http://deseretbook.com/Motive-Murder-Marlene-Bateman-Sullivan/i/5110664

Author Website: www.marlenebateman.info