Language Lessons

Our Engineer - the one on the left

Our second son, Erik, enlisted in the army corps of engineers.
For a boy from a devout Christian home, it . . . took some adjustment.
He enjoyed the brother/sisterhood that sprang up around him the moment he walked in the door.
He loved the work and the action.
And disassembling/cleaning/reassembling guns.
I know, he's weird.
But the one thing he really had to adjust to was the language and personal habits of the men and women he was now associating with.
Most particularly the language.
Although I have had my moments in the past (see here), we are not, as a whole, a cursing family.
Neither are we anxious to push our beliefs/customs on anyone else.
Erik just had to learn to deal with it.
And he did.
Without following the crowd.
Which he also did.
Let me explain . . .
Erik and several other soldiers were changing the tracks on one of their squad's tanks.
A heavy, though not necessarily complicated task.
It required brute force and patience.
Something with which my son had endless experience.
He was manipulating one of the wrenches, trying to loosen bolts which had obviously become a part of the track and/or frame.
Failing to budge them by normal means (repeated pressure and positive thinking), he resorted to harsher methods.
Body weight and periodic jumping up and down on the wrench.
The results were negligible.
He continued on, undaunted (good word).
Grasping the wrench, he threw his whole weight onto it.
The wrench slipped.
And caught his finger between it and the track. Between a hard and a harder place, so to speak.
Something had to give.

One of the culprits . . . with some buddies

Let's just say that neither tempered steel member of this trio was about to.
Give, that is.
That left his finger.
The world went purple.
Then plaid.
It does that.
Erik dropped the wrench, grabbed his sadly assaulted finger and did the dance of pain.
For several moments, he hopped and jumped, cavorting gracefully around the yard.
"DZE! DZE! DZE! DZE!"
I'm not really sure how to spell it, but that's how he describes the sound he was making.
Moving on . . .
Minutes later, with the pain at more or less manageable levels, he returned to his task.
He lifted his wrench.
Only noticing, then, that the entire yard full of soldiers has stopped what they were doing and were staring at him.
Speechlessly.
He looked at them. "What's the matter?"
One of the soldiers stepped forward. "Geeze, Tolley, even then you didn't swear!"
Erik had no idea anyone had noticed his expressions of choice.
Obviously, they had.
Even a good thing gets noticed.
Sometimes.

Bus(ted)

 . . . or something similar.

You've heard the stories from the past where kids had to walk to school through eight feet of snow.
Uphill.
Both ways.
Well, those didn't apply to me.
I rode the school bus.
Which was an adventure in itself.
Stay with me . . .
School buses in the early sixties were very similar to those driven today.
Yellow.
I'm almost sure there was an engine under the oversized and bulbous hood.
They had a driver.
Seats.
Windows.
And lots and lots of kids.
But busses in the sixties had a few 'extra' features.
Forms of entertainment that simply don't exist today.
Too bad.
Busses today have powered windshield wipers that are sturdy, dependable and have several settings.
They keep on working through rain, snow, sleet, hail.
In fact, anything that may be thrown at the all-important front windshield.
The busses that carted me to and from school had wipers, too.
Just not the kind you see today.
They had what is know as 'vacuum' wipers.
I'm not sure what made them work.
But I know what didn't.
Revving the engine.
If it was raining hard and the road was on an even grade with no challenges, all was well.
But if the bus was required to do something untoward . . .
Like move faster.
Or go up a hill.
The engine would rev.
And the wipers would quit.
The driver would have to roll down the side window and stick his (or her) head outside so they could see.
If the driver took his foot off the accelerator, the wipers would start again.
Push the pedal down? They stopped.
It was enormously entertaining.
But not nearly as much fun as when the bus was required to go up Angel's hill.
Yes. We really had an Angel's hill.
Oh, it's not what you're thinking.
It was simply the hill that led to the Angyal family's ranch.
But I digress . . .
Our rather aged vehicle had a hard time going up that hill.
Sometimes, if we had a larger than normal load (perhaps all of us kids had eaten breakfast, for example), the bus wouldn't be able to make it.
We'd have to get off and trail along behind till it reached the top.
Well, we younger kids would trail.
The older kids would push.
Whereupon (good word) we would all clamber back aboard and happily find our seats once more.
Huh. I just realized that we did have to walk uphill to get to school.
Pushing the bus.
Beat that!

My Kingdom for a Horse

Delores of The Feathered Nest has issued another challenge.

Six words, completely unrelated, that we, her obedient and willing partners-in-crime must stitch into something cohesive.

Or at least read-able.

This week's words?

Ignorant, monstrosity, grating, fiend, speckled, lavender

Make something of those, if you can!

                        *  *  *

I love art.

But I am not an artist.

For me, coloured pencils are used only for . . . colouring. Though I can, if I concentrate, stay within the lines.

Stick figures elude me.

Anything more complex is simply drifting in the realms of impossibility.

But, as I say, I love art.

Colourful creations of fantasy. Black and white impressions. Scenery and/or animals.

But the one subject I most love, and am most particular about, is horses.

Standing, running, jumping. Breathing. Everything they do is pure poetry.

But, though the possibility of me actually drawing or creating a picture of a horse is so remote as to be impossible, I am very particular about my horse pictures.

They have to be believable.

The flank has to be just so. The legs. The curve of the neck. The head.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time with them.

Maybe it’s just because I’m picky.

Maybe I just know that, if a horse had shoulders like that and that twisted back leg, riding him would be like taking the train.

Without the rails.

My parents had many pictures of horses in their home.

Most were sold or donated as their places of residence shrunk.

But two remained.

One, an original oil of a horse herd in full gallop, was beautiful.

The other, a head study of a mare and foal done on black velvet with a lovely lavender background, was not.

I mean, it was still far better than anything I could have done myself.

And the foal in the picture was quite good.

It’s the mare that I found grating.

If you put your hand over her nose, her softly-speckled eyes are warm and gentle as she gazed fondly at her offspring.

But if you lifted your hand, her twisted nose, with its nostrils wrapped around and extending into each other, made her into a monstrosity.

A fiend.

Quite simply, there was no way she could breathe.

And how did her top jaw keep from falling off?

Whenever I looked at it, I wondered how my parents, horse-loves both, could abide this picture.

Why am I telling you this?

Because my Dad told me he was bringing me my beloved horse picture.

It was time.

Happily, I cleared a spot on the wall in the front room.

A place of honour to do justice to the work of art that would shortly reside there.

Then, I waited.

His car pulled up.

He got out and quietly retrieved a large, blanket-draped bundle from the back.

Happily and proudly, he bore said bundle into the house and placed it into my arms.

Eagerly, I unwrapped and let the covering fall.

You know those movies when something startling happens to the character and there are violent bursts of violin music as the ‘whatever’ get closer and closer?

Well, I definitely needed that violin music.

Dun! Dun! Dun!!!

Because the picture he had brought was not the incredible shot of horses running.

No.

It was the quiet study of freak and foal.

I stared at it.

Then at my smiling father.

The word ‘aghast’ comes to mind.

Not wanting to be ignorant, I obligingly hung it in the prepared spot.

For all of my Dad’s visit.

Then it went to a better place.

The garage.

I have another horse picture there now.

One I chose.

Sorry, Dad.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Recipe for fun:
Eleven-plus kids.
Five mothers.
One Gramma.
Two gracious hosts.
And lots and lots of sunshine . . .
Yesterday, my daughters, daughters-in-law and grandkids spent the morning at my cousins' amazing home 'in the bush'.
Picking raspberries. Roasting hot dogs. Hiking through the bush.
Umm . . .
Would it be cliche to say that a good time was had by all?
Because it was . . .

Grandchild #1.

#5

#2

#12. Any minute now . . .

#10

#7

#3

#8

#9

#11

#6

#4

Hike!

Mmm. Food.

Back from the bush and counting noses.

I need a nap!

Dog Training

From this . . .

To this.
Note: Please disregard the human . . .

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.

A wonderful breed.

Hairy, yes, but loyal, gentle, protective and very, very smart.

Easy to train.

Dozens of puppies left our home in those years, successfully joining other families.

All with the same amazing temperament.

Well, almost all.

There is an exception to every rule.

Apparently . . .

I received a phone call from one of my puppy people. Their puppy, at the time, was about six months old.

Her: “We are moving and won’t be able to take our dog with us.”

Me: “Oh. Well, I don’t have anyone waiting for a puppy right now . . .”

Her: “That’s all right. We don’t want any money back. We just want to drop him off.”

Me: “Ummm . . .”

Her: Click.

Now I want to mention a couple of things:

1. OESs grow to be . . . large. They need to be trained early – before they outweigh you.

2. When we placed our puppies, it was only after a quick course in ‘puppy-training’. For the new owners, not for the dogs.

3. Said owners then went home with food, instructions, toys, and an informative book. Unfortunately, whether or not they read that book was totally up to them. And:

4. Follow-up phone calls after purchase don’t necessarily disclose training problems.

All of these points were brought distinctly to our attention when said puppy showed up later that day.

Oh, dear.

For the first time, I saw what could happen to a pup when he was given little-to-nothing in the way of instruction.

And weighed in at a few ounces less than a Buick.

The owner appeared at the door.

Handed me the leash.

And disappeared.

Really.

I don’t think I’ve seen anyone move that fast.

Ever.

The dog and I regarded one another.

Then I shrugged and pulled the cretin untrained dog into the kitchen.

He proceeded to jerk the leash from my hand, dart under the living room table, and make a deposit.

Large.

Whereupon (good word) I recaptured the leash and tried to drag the monster toward the back door.

And that’s when things sort of fell apart/came together.

He growled and tried to bite me.

Have I mentioned how gentle this breed is?

Smart?

Loyal?

Protective?

Well, they are.

And it was never more apparent than at that moment.

Because my three (Yes, I had three full-grown OESs in the house. But that is another story.) attacked the newcomer.

As one.

Their coordinated effort would have been admired by special forces troops worldwide.

One had him by the back of the neck. One by the flank. And the third, by the throat.

Individually, we peeled them off.

Then checked for damage.

No blood had been spilt.

Miraculously.

But the dog that got up from the bottom of the umm . . . dog pile . . . was not the same one who had gone under in the first place.

Nope.

This dog was sweet. Gentle. Eager to please.

Everything that the OES breed is noted for.  

Huh.

He went on to a new home. A better home. And a successful adoption.

But we all learned an important lesson that day.

If you’re dealing with a difficult problem . . .

Take your pack.

Splish-Splash

Front to back: George, Me, Chris, Jerry, Dad and Blair.
Look closely. Can you pick out the intrepid swimmer?

I had never taken swimming lessons.
We simply lived too far from the city for it to be a priority. Or even possible.
But I loved to swim.
And, with the river in such close proximity, did it a lot.
In the summer.
In winter, for obvious reasons, we were pretty much shut out.
Then, someone of great intelligence came up with a fantastic idea.
Why not hire a schoolbus and cart a load of kids to Lethbridge once a week?
It was genius!
Why hadn't anyone thought of it before?
Now I could take lessons and my parents would only be responsible for getting me to and from Milk River.
Okay, it still meant a twenty-mile hike into town to drop me off and another twenty miles to pick me up, but why haggle over details?
I was going!
The bus ride was a treat. I wasn't confined to my usual fourth row back.
I was suddenly riding with a different group of kids than I ever saw from said fourth row back.
And Kathy had a portable record-player, which she kept going the entire 50 miles.
I can't tell you how many times we heard 'Wipe-Out', but it was . . . umm . . . a few.
The bus deposited us safely in front of the Civic Center.
I should mention here that I've often wondered about bus drivers. What they do in their off hours, when they aren't very closely closeted with a rowdy group of young people.
Can't you just picture a group of them sitting around with shaking heads and “Let me tell you . . .!” stories?It's a wonder that more of them don't drink.
But I digress . . .
We scrambled madly for the door and the change rooms, then poured out into the main pool room.
We were ready.
The teachers began to sort us into groups, using a list of highly-specialized criteria.
How old are you? Are you afraid of the water? Have you ever taken swimming lessons before? What colour is your swimsuit?
Do you like boys?
Finally they had us, more or less, categorized.
I had never taken swimming lessons, so I was inserted into the beginners class.
“Okay, kids. See if you can put your face into the water.”
Woohoo! Compliance! I took off like a seal.
“Okay. You! Little girl in the blue swimsuit!” Sigh. “Would someone please fish her out?”
Have I mentioned that I like water?
“Are you sure you've never had lessons?”
Head shake.
“Well, I'm moving you up to the next level.”
Okay.
And so it went.
By the time we were finished our one-hour lesson, I had been . . . promoted . . . seven times.
It must have been some sort of record, to go from the beginner level to the 'Junior Lifeguard' level.
In one lesson.
Who could have known that all my flailing and thrashing around like a demented fish had actually been getting me somewhere.
Or that, in the still water of a pool, with no current to fight, I could actually make headway.
Really fast headway.
Jerry (the only member of my family who could fight the river's current and win), eat your heart out.
Because miracles do happen.
I was suddenly the soggy and triumphant queen of my little, watery world.
It didn't happen often.
But it was a very good feeling.

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.