More Toddler Travels

Mark was outside, riding his tricycle.
His favourite pastime.
He would navigate over the rough terrain surrounding our farmhouse with ease, little legs pumping happily.
I frequently went to the window to check on him.
But he was a safe driver.
He never went near the road, and would happily drive back and forth between the house and the root cellar/pumphouse.
Doing laps.
Totally safe.
Okay, so adventurous, he wasn't.
Or so I thought.
One afternoon, his grandfather drove in.
With the family travel trailer hitched to his truck.
I watched him wave at Mark.
Mark waved enthusiastically back.
Not only did Mark love his grandfather, but he loved that trailer.
It had the one door in the world he could open.
Whenever he was at Grandma's, it was his playground.
His grandfather parked beside the pumphouse and got out to do something.
I watched my son ride his tricycle towards the pumphouse.
And really didn't consider the trailer.
I went back to my laundry.
A short time later, the truck and trailer pulled out and disappeared towards town.
I went to the window to look for my boy.
And couldn't see him.
A feathering of alarm.
I quickly dashed out of the house.
He wasn't on his normal tricycle route.
I ran towards the pumphouse.
And found his trusty tricycle, laying on its side.
But no Mark.
I looked towards the settling cloud of dust that indicated the path of Grandpa's truck and trailer.
I knew where Mark had gone.
He had gotten into the trailer.
Would he stay there?
Or would he get scared and try to get out when the trailer was moving?
Okay, full blown panic.
Praying frantically, I ran for the phone.
“Mom! Has Dad come in with the trailer yet?”
“Not yet, Diane. Oh, wait, yes, here he is.”
“Could you please see if Mark is in the trailer?”
“What?!”
“Could you just look please?” I was crying by this time.
My little boy.
My little boy.
In a moment, she was back on the phone.
“Diane? He's safe! He's here! He was hiding under the table!”
Some prayers are well and truly answered.

Music Magic

Our Engineer - far right.

Our son, an army engineer, was on his Combat Leadership course.It was gruelling.Months of training.An adrenaline rush of enacting scenarios.Strategizing.Analyzing situations.Digging in and getting dirty.Yep. Gruelling pretty much describes it.And added to the daily duty roster, morning inspections.Not only must they learn how to survive, even thrive in battle situations, they had to look good while they did it.Each evening was spent in cleaning oneself and one's gear in preparation for inspection directly after breakfast the next morning.For the most part, the soldiers enjoyed this relaxing time after dinner.It was a chance to unwind.Kibitz around a bit.Laugh and joke.And keep their adrenalin up with pounding, exhilarating music.
Loud. Fast. Heavy.Followed immediately by bed.Needless to say, it took some time to wind down.Except for our son.Whose choice of music was a little more . . . conservative.He would drift away almost immediately to the soft, soothing strains of Loreena McKennitt.Or Enya.One evening some time after lights out, the men were restless.Knowing that their morning would come fast, not to mention early, they were anxious to get some needed sleep.And it was proving elusive.Again, except for our son, who had his stereo by his ear and had already drifted away.To Enya.One of the soldiers noticed.It gave him an idea.The next evening, the group completed their usual day-end tasks.To their usual music.Then crawled into their bunks.Lights were doused.Then, out of the darkness, a voice.“Hey, Tolley. Play us some of your music.”Our son turned up the song he was currently listening to.Only Time.Enya.Within seconds the sounds of snoring filled the dorm.After that, immediately following lights-out, the strains of choice were something soft.Soothing.And sleepy.
Nighty-night.

Shopping Conundrum

Dear Delores delivers daring, darling, demonic diadems to direct and dumbfound.

That's all the 'D' words I can think of right now . . .

And she does this every Wednesday.

Visit her at The Feathered Nest to see what her other victims participants have created!

This week's words? Contrived, basic, needles, downtown, spinning, seething

                                                          *  *  *

In Edmonton, there is a place

That used to be a field.

Where once stood crops, now people race

And stores have been revealed.

It saves us from the ‘Downtown’ crowd;

            The spinning, seething mob.

The commute long, the sirens loud,

            Where people weave and bob.

‘South Edmonton Common’ is its name,

            And it can cure your ills,

‘S for buying things of every fame,

            From basic through to ‘frills’.

But though it has a lot of stores

            In its quarter-section size,

It’s also known for something more -

            Its streets. I will apprise:

Straight streets? A few, I will admit,

            But mostly curved, you’ll find.

The unfamiliar driver sits,

            Or drives like one is blind.

With curves and twists to stupefy,

            And blocks and blocks contrived,

You’ll wish you were a bird, that flies,

            So you can sight. Then dive.

Though there’s beauty - bright, serene,

            With tons of treasures hid,

What truly needles me is this:

What’s wrong with a grid?!

Travelling Man

Mark the Independent

Mark was angry.
And no one could get angry like our little two-year-old.
Anyplace would be better than this one.
Grandma's was infinitely superior.
She never made him clean up his toys or eat his meals.
He was leaving.
He had his pajamas and Kermit the Frog.
He was packed.
And out of here.
I sat, nursing the baby, and watched him walk down the hallway, one leg of his sleeper hanging out through the improperly closed zipper of his backpack.
My little independent man.
“I'm going, Mom!” he said loudly, without looking back.
His 'declaration of independence' continued as he moved along the hall . . .
“I'm going!”
“Here I go!”
“Yup. I'm going!”
“Going to Gramma's”
“You won't see me!”
Yup. Living with Gramma now!”
“Bye!”
By this point he had made it the entire length of the hall and was out of my sight.
There was a short pause and I could hear the sounds of movement and a tiny grunt.
Then, “Mom! Can you open the door?”
Yup. My independent little man.
Walking to his Grandmother's ten miles away.
If he could make it out of the house.

The Truth About Onions

Eat your onions!

I know that this statement seems to have nothing to do with what follows, but bear with me . . .

The 1918 flu pandemic (the Spanish Flu) was an influenza pandemic that spread widely across the world. Most victims were healthy young adults, in contrast to most influenza outbreaks which predominantly affect juvenile, elderly, or weakened patients. The pandemic lasted from March 1918 to June 1920, spreading even to the Arctic and remote Pacific islands. Between 50 and 100 million died, making it one of the deadliest natural disasters in human history. An estimated 50 million people, about 3% of the world's population (1.6 billion at the time), died of the disease. 500 million, or 1/3 were infected.

-                                                                                                                                   - World History Project

My Husby’s grandparents, Artie J. and Ovedia Seely, weren’t affected by the disease.

One of few people that managed to avoid it . . .

Even though every other family in the sleepy town of Stirling, Alberta, like the rest of the world, had one or more (or all) members sick with the deadly disease.

For months during the worst of the outbreak in their small community, Artie and one other unaffected man tended the farms and fed the animals for all of the other farmers.

Before daybreak every day, the two men were feeding animals, milking cows, cleaning, tending . . . performing all of the myriad tasks that constituted farming.

At every farm.

Every day.

It took the whole day.

Artie would return to his home and gulp down a hasty lunch, then head out once more.

Grandma Ovedia Fawns Seely
Onion cooker extraordinaire!

Returning only after sunset to snatch a few hours of sleep before he headed out once more.

And still, with all of the work and worry, he and his wife remained unaffected.

The reason?

Earlier that year, the two of them, Artie and Ovedia, had harvested a bumper crop of onions.

Every meal featured some incarnation of the remarkable vegetable.

Both of them believe that that fact alone kept them from succumbing.

I will give them the benefit of any doubt.

They . . . lived . . . through it.

P.S. My Husby has spoken with two other ‘old-timers’ who also lived through the great and terrible influenza pandemic. They, too, maintain that their families survived due largely to the fact that they ate onions with every meal.

You heard it here first.

Oh, and see that onion on your plate? Eat it.

Stealing Potatoes

I received my first set when I was four.

And it entertained me and my siblings for many, many years.

But one ingredient for fun was missing.

And had to be supplied by the owner.

Stay with me . . .

It was a yellow box.

With writing that I couldn’t read yet.

The picture on the front showed round-faced, rather lumpy people.

Intriguing.

I wasted no time in opening it. Hmmm. Body parts.

I looked at my Dad. What on earth . . .?

“You make people with it!” he said, helpfully.

Okay, I hadn’t heard of ‘Frankenstein’ yet, so I didn’t suddenly picture laughing, exultant, mad scientists.

But still I looked at my Dad doubtfully.

Make people?

I tipped the box and poured out eyes, noses, mouths, ears, hands, feet and even ‘hair’.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up an eye. “Mother! We need a potato!”

Obligingly, Mom brought us one and Dad proceeded to poke eyes, nose, mouth, etc. into it.

And I got my first glimpse of Mr. Potato Head.

Oh.

Neat!

“Let me try!” I grabbed the potato and jammed it full of everything on the table.

Okay, so my first attempt looked like something out of a heretofore (ooo, good word) unknown horror movie, and my technique and strategy were nothing more than simply finding a space to put things (FYI: Potatoes aren’t very big).

But it was fun.

I played with that little set for hours, creating people. People who were easily dismantled and re-formed.

Hmm. Maybe we’re onto something here. Dismantling and re-forming. I wonder if that can be done with hips.

But I digress . . .

That set was around for many, many years. And grew. And expanded.

Little bits that had to be painstakingly picked up after each session. (Because Heaven help the person who left it out if Dad stepped on something during a barefoot foray through the house.)

And many, many potatoes, carrots, turnips and at least one pickle were snitched and sacrificed in the quest for fun.

Moving ahead . . .

My daughter recently gave her daughter a Mr. Potato Head.

A slick, complete set.

Including a head with pre-punched holes.

It is bigger.

Safer.

Gramma still isn’t sure if it’s better.

Rural Sports

Seated: Grandma and Grandpa Berg and 'She Who Holds the Horses'
Surrounding them: The Instigators

Halloween.
Ghosts and goblins.
Witches, black cats and scary pumpkins.
Pirates, vampires and mummies.
An evening of treats, tricks and mischief.
For many, many years.
My Mom often talked of mischief perpetrated by her and her eight (yes, eight) brothers.
They were in a rural community, with all of the families around them involved in some sort of agriculture, so the opportunities for tricks were almost as endless as the imaginations that enacted them.
Pigs in the hen house.
Harnesses on the cows.
Wagons hauled to the roofs of the barns.
Tires and assorted junk piled in the roadways.
But the favourite, the real king of the pranks was outhouse tipping.
Though indoor plumbing was quite common in the cities and larger communities in the mid-1930s, on the farms and ranches surrounding Millicent, Alberta, most families still made use of the outdoor privy.
Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but necessary the whole year through, the outhouse was an accepted and integral part of family life.
And very few of them were fastened down.
All it took was a concerted effort by two or more strong lads and . . . over it would go.
Followed by much laughter and hilarity as the perpetrators fled.
To the next farm.
Where their adventure would start all over.
Mom held the horses. Or so she contends.
But I digress . . .
One Halloween, she and her eight brothers were making the rounds.
One farm, in particular was their destination.
The husband and wife who ran it were 'feisty'.
And protective.
And fun to pit wits with.
The Berg kids crept along in the darkness, trying desperately to be silent.
Finally, they left my Mom holding the horse's reins and crept closer.
All was quiet.
Light was pouring from the farm house.
The couple was likely eating dinner.
The boys picked their target out of the gloom.
It stood in lonely glory (can one use the word 'glory' in describing an outhouse?) to one side of the yard.
Closer.
Finally, they reached the little structure.
Ahh. Now just a little push to set things going . . .
Now, unbeknownst (good word) to them, the farmer had decided, this year, to outwit his antagonists.
By hiding inside the outhouse.
At the climactic moment, he would burst from the building and give his shotgun a blast into the air.
That would scare those little scamps into next week!
His plan was brilliant.
Genius.
Right up to the point where the boys tipped the outhouse over . . . on its door.
Trapping their would-be assailant inside.
Hampered but unbowed, he stuck his head through one of the holes and shouted, "Ye blimey little rats! I'll get ye!"
Then followed with the planned shotgun blast at the sky.
Admittedly, completed as it was through the hole of an outhouse, the action lost some of its 'punch'.
And the boys, by this time were already over the hill, laughing at their cleverness.
But the farmer's actions did achieve one thing.
Made doubly sure that his farm was on the 'trick' list for a long as the boys lived at home.
Or until he got indoor plumbing.
Whichever came first.

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.