The Call of Nature

Our Steed. I'll explain . . .

Our oldest daughter believed that there was something called the 'Universal Animal Call'.
It was a simple whistle. A single note rising in pitch at the end.
Tweee-eet!
She swore it worked on all animals.
We thought the idea was hilarious.
Enough background.
My husband, for our 25th anniversary, surprised me with a trip to Greece.
And a cruise around the Mediterranean on a tall ship.
My dream of a lifetime.
And the vacation of a lifetime.
Ten days of unbelievable bliss.
I probably don't have to mention, here, that I enjoyed it.
But I will anyway.
I enjoyed it.
Immensely.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .
What? Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Greece.
Mediterranean.
During the cruise, we discovered the joy of laying in the nets beneath the spritsail at the bow of the ship, watching the Mediterranean slip past far beneath us.
It was the most relaxing experience of my life.
On the second last evening of our cruise, we introduced several new friends to this delicious experience.
Let me describe the scene . . .
The sun was setting, glowing orange and red on the clots of cloud floating far above us in the darkening sky. There was just enough breeze to fill every rosy sail and push us forward through gentle, perfect waves on impossibly blue water.
The air was a caress. Soft. Fragrant.
The only sounds were the occasional call of the sea birds as they floated on still wings alongside us.
Rocked gently, we hovered at the edges of complete peace.
Conversation lagged as, one by one, the members of our party flirted with the idea of succumbing to the call of Morpheus.
Drowsily, I turned to my husband and said, "What a perfect evening."
He laughed. "No, we need one more thing to make it truly perfect."
"What is that?"
"Dolphins."
He was right. The last perfect touch would be dolphins, chittering and giggling as they leaped and played in the water beside us.
"We could always try the Universal Animal Call."
We explained the UAC to our new friends, and joined in their laughter.
Then I sat up.
And whistled.
Tweee-eet! Tweee-eet!
And we laughed again.
Silence settled over us once more.
Silence broken, suddenly, by . . . chittering and giggling.
We looked down.
Several dolphins were leaping and playing alongside us.
I blinked and stared, open-mouthed.
Then rubbed my eyes and stared again.
Yes. There really were dolphins.
And yes, they really were playing beside the ship.
My husband and I looked at each other.
And laughed.
Happily, this time.
Maybe the UAC actually worked.
Or maybe it was just an amazing coincidence.
But it made the evening truly perfect.
And I'll never, ever forget it.

Raining Mice

Okay, he only looks cute . . .

We lived in the country.
Far out in the country.
We had many people living in our house.
But we weren't the only residents.
Maybe I should describe our other (for lack of a better term) tenants.
They were warm.
Breathing.
And regularly produced offspring.
They routinely got into our food storage.
And created their own comfortable little hideaways. 
Mostly in our walls and dressers.
And they never, ever paid rent.
Oh, and two important points:
1. They were covered with hair.
2. They had tails.
You're right.
We had mice.
Did you know that mice like to nest in clean baby clothes, rendering them un-wearable?
That they climb anywhere?
And can squeeze through really, really tiny holes?
So that it is nearly impossible to bar them from your home.
And they like everything we like.
Especially things that come in a cloth or cardboard package.
And some plastic.
Their standards are not high.In fact, they have even been known to burrow into boxes of Kraft dinner or bags of Ramen noodles, which we all know have no nutritional value whatsoever.
We learned to deal with them.
Trap them when we could.
Even poison some when we were truly desperate.
But still they kept coming.
We found 'mice tracks' in our clean bedding. On the shelves. On top of the TV. Even on the kitchen counters.
It was a nightmare.
One I think could easily be turned into a horror movie. Hmmm. Attack of the Mice? Or: The Teeth That Could Chew Through Anything? How about: The Really Annoying Things in the Walls?
Okay, I'm out. What are your suggestions?
Moving on . . .
My Husby and I were in bed, drifting at the edges of sleep.
Well, I was, he was reading a magazine.
Suddenly, he spotted movement.
I should explain here, that our temporary bedroom was in the basement and our bed was shoved into the corner formed by the meeting of two cinder-block walls.
Mice can climb cinder block walls.
And I was the person sleeping next to the wall.
Enough exposition.
My husband turned his head sharply and the mouse climbing up the corner, inches from my head, immediately dove for cover.
My husband narrowed his eyes, rolled the magazine he had been reading, and waited.
Okay I will admit that I'm only imagining the narrowed eyes.
But this is my story. I'll tell it how I want . . .
Soon, his patience was rewarded.
Our intrepid little explorer (See how refined I am? I could have called him *&^%$#@!!!) started, once more, upwards.
This time, Grant waited until the mouse was high enough on the wall that it couldn't possibly get back. Then he attacked.
SWAT! 
With the rolled-up magazine.
He got it!
The stunned mouse fell.
Right onto my chest.
The edges of sleep vanished as I gasped and sat up. Whereupon (good word) it fell with a plop into my lap.
Grant scooped it up, quickly dispatched it, and then turned the most apologetic face to me that I have ever seen.
And all I could do was laugh.
What else can you do when it starts raining mice?
Indoors.
P.S. We did solve our mouse problem. We moved.

The Mirror Finish

Gamer Extraordinaire.

I’m afraid I just don’t get it.

And probably never will . . .

Several of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Something, I’m very pleased to say, that happens often.

One grandson, Thorin, aged five was very excited.

“Gramma!” he said. “Dad was playing Zelda (I’m assuming this is a video game . . .) and he got the mirror shield!”

I stared at him.  “Ummm . . . good?” I was hazarding a guess here, based on my advanced people-reading skills.

Okay, in his enthusiasm, he was hovering a foot off the ground.

Nothing advanced needed.

Moving on . . .

“Yeah and he can get all the bad guys!”

Okay. Bad guys I do understand.

“So a mirror shield will get rid of bad guys?”

“Yeah!”

I spent a couple of moments in wrinkle-browed thought.

A mirror shield?

Apart from saving Perseus when he was fighting the Medusa, I couldn’t think of a single attribute that could make such a thing into an obviously important and much-sought-after weapon.

If it broke, would that give you seven gamer's years of bad luck?

And would one need glass cleaner to keep it pristine?

And just where would one carry and keep a bottle of glass-cleaner?

These are important details . . .

“So . . . how does it work?” I asked him finally. “Do you hold it up to the bad guys and they take one glimpse at themselves and say, ‘Man, is that what I look like? How could I have walked out the door this morning?!’ and then run home?”

It was Thorin’s turn to stare.

In disgust.

“No,” Gramma,” he said. “You use it to . . .” And he was off, describing scenarios and hair-breadth escapes.

Huh.

I still think my way is better.

Jobs That Stink

The workin' man.
P.S He hates this picture. But I'm the one with the blog!

It was my husband's first job following our marriage.
Foreman of a house-building company.
He was . . . excited.
It sounded prestigious.
And would be.
Once they got the plant built.
His new boss had a plan that would cut down on initial costs significantly. They would remodel said boss' pig barn.
It was the right size.
It was in fantastic shape.
Perfect.
It just needed a few touches.
First, and most important, the present residents.
Then, and nearly as important, the cleaning of the sewer system, still full of sewer . . . stuff.
For those who don't know, a pig barn has little ditches running through it. Ditches that are covered by grates and which catch all of the 'icky' stuff.
When the system gets too full, a truck is brought in.
A special truck, with a large tank and hose.
This hose is inserted at the proper place and all sewage is quickly and cleanly removed.
The truck drives away and discharges its load onto the nearest farmer's field, providing nutrition to growing plants.
Not a pleasant job.
But a necessary one.
And it needed to be done before the building of the house plant could continue.
Grant's boss brought in the truck.
The two of them made quick work of draining the sewers.
Then, the next step.
The discharge.
Normally, this would be the easiest part.
You would simply reverse the switch.
And stay upwind.
Things started out well.
Sewage was being discharged at a normal rate.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Oh the motor was still running strongly.
It's just that nothing was coming out.
I should probably mention here that the discharge engine is quite powerful on these trucks. It needs to push a lot of stuff a long way.
Back to my story . . .
Cautiously, the two of them removed the hose and leaned over to peek into the discharge valve.
"Ah!" Grant's boss said. "I see the problem. Look. It's plugged right there." He pointed. He straightened and began to walk around, kicking at the dirt.
Finally, he spotted a large stick and brought it back to where Grant was still waiting.
"I can fix it," he said, cheerfully. He poked the stick into the valve.
"No, wait . . ." Grant started.
He got no further.
Kaaaablooooie! Or words to that effect.
Let me put it this way . . . neither of them had time to get out of the way.
I'm sure I don't need to describe the scene.
There is an addendum . . .
It was nearly time for Grant to get home from work.
I was just checking on our evening meal when his truck pulled into the yard and ground to a halt.
Ah! Early. Good. We could have a visit before we sat down to eat.
I glanced through the window.
Just in time to see my young husband, in his underwear, leap from the truck and scamper towards the house.
I admit it. My first thought was, 'Wow! Eager!'
He whipped open the door, tossed me a brief, 'Hi!' and headed directly for the bathroom.
There was the sound of the shower, then a loud, "Ahhhh!"
Now there's something that didn't happen every day.
I walked into the bathroom. "Hard day, Honey?"
"I'll tell you about it!" he said over the sound of the water.
And he did.
I thought it was hilarious.
He didn't.
Extra note: Grant's hastily shed clothes remained in the box of the truck until weeks of weather made it possible for them to be removed to the trash.
But the memories remained.
Some things you just can't wash out.

Home-Burned Breakfast

Picture him 20 years younger.
The hair was red . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.
He had never been anywhere.
When Dad was five, his father decided he was old enough, finally, to go along when he took supplies to one of the family cow camps - about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.
The two of them started out.
Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.
As often happens in Southern Alberta.
And before they could start for home, a blizzard had blown in.
Travel quickly went from difficult to impossible.
Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales) of the camp.
Dad was beyond excited.
It was his very first time sleeping away from home.
The next morning dawned bright and clear.
Something else that often happens in Southern Alberta . . .
And Granddad decided that travel home would be attempt-able.
Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.
He made bacon and eggs and, because the old, wood-burning, camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.
At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.
They weren't too bad.
He even got through a second.
Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.
Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.
He wished he could have stayed.
His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.
It had been great, he enthused.
And he had eaten all of it!
"What did you have?" his mother asked.
"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.
No wonder people were hardier back then.

Flight or [and] Faint

I'm late, I know! 

But this is the first chance I've had to use Delores' challenge words from last Wednesday!

The first word was enough to send me into a spin. 

Oh, dear . . .

Flight, tropical, balanced, sunstroke, despair, slime

Ready for anything . . .

My Husby loves to travel,

It’s just the way he is,

North or South; East or West,

The world is truly his.

He loves to take me with him,

(It’s good I love to go)

Foreign or domestic,

Above or Down Below.

But there’s one thing problematic,

One teeny, little blight - 

To see most things he wants to see,

We have to take a flight.

To get us two from here to there

We hurtle through the air,

While all around me talk and eat,

I curl up in despair.

He says we’re safe, quotes stats galore,

The balanced dance of gear.

I see a tube with flimsy wings,

That gives me naught but fear.

Next month, our target’s tropical,

Amenities sublime,

But though my mind’ll be happy there,

In flight, it’s dark like slime.

I love to go to Mexico,

And be sunstroke aware.

I’ll treasure each small moment,

The pain is getting there!

Phone Phorce

My 'Creative Parenting 101' Professor

When Dad spoke. We listened.
Most of the time.
But one ignored my father at one's own risk.
Let me tell you about it . . .
I had a boyfriend.
It was a new and exciting experience for me.
We would say good-bye at the school bus stop, get on our respective buses and head for home.
Fifty minutes later, we would be on the phone.
Talking.
For hours.
Literally.
I should point out here that, in the 1960s, we had one phone line to the ranch.
And, because we were ultra-modern and progressive, two phones on that line.
One in the kitchen.
And one in my parents bedroom.
The epitome of modern convenience.
Back to my story . . .
I don't know what we found to talk about. But talk, we did. Until one or both of us was tagged for chores.
Or supper was announced.
Or our parents got annoyed.
My Mom was usually quite predictable, saying such things as, “Diane! Get off the phone! You've been on there for an hour!”
To which I would comply.
Eventually.
And under protest.
My Dad was a little more creative.
He would walk in the door, see me there on the phone, note the time, and leave the room.
That was my cue.
And my only warning.
I had seconds to say my good-byes.
Because Dad wanted me off the phone. And I wasn't going to like his methods.
They were . . . effective.
He would simply walk into his bedroom and turn on the radio.
Loudly.
Then take the phone receiver and lay it down beside said radio.
If I hadn't already ended my conversation, I did so then.
With a shouted good-bye and hastily cradled phone.
Mission accomplished.
Simply and elegantly, without a word being spoken.
Genius.

Battleskip

Hours of fun. Or aggravation . . .

Mom always appreciated a good joke.
Usually, she stood back and . . . appreciated.
Occasionally, she was the instigator.
Let me explain.
Our family had just been introduced to a new game.
Battleship.
Actually, an old game, originally played with paper and pencil, now in a new format.
Plastic peg boards of Mediterranean sea blue.
With cute little plastic ships.
We spent many hours playing this game, trying to outwit each other with our clever placements.
Very occasionally, we were able to convince one or the other of our parents to play.
Dad was deadly. He systematically shot at your ships.
Every third hole.
You could see his juggernaut (good word) sweeping down on your hapless little fleet and were powerless to stop him.
The game always left you feeling like a butterfly on a pin.
But Mom was a little more. . .  gentle.
She would destroy your ships using woman's intuition.
You were just as dead, but you felt better about it.
One day, she was playing with one of my younger siblings, Blair. The game had been going on for some time.
Mom: "B-8."
Blair: "Hit." .
Blair: "G-3."
Mom: "Miss."
Mom: "B-7."
Blair: "Hit."
Blair: "G-1."
Mom: "Miss."
And so it went.
Finally, Mom had cornered Blair's last ship and was closing in for the kill.
And that's when Blair got tired of the constant discouragement. "Where are your darn ships anyways?!" he demanded.
Mom gazed down at her board. "Ships?" she said.
Then she grinned.
She hadn't put them on the board.
Game. Set. Match.

Travel-Sized Whistle Blower

Watch it!

You don’t break rules in our house.

You’ve heard of that tiny, small voice that whispers correction?

Well, it’s here.

And it isn’t that small.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Our granddaughter, aged 22 months, lives with us.

She is tall for her age.

Strong.

Hazel-eyed.

Curly-haired.

And very, very excited about having things ‘just so’.

Doors left open must be shut.

In fact, if one is so foolish as to leave a cupboard door open, a small tornado will emerge from the bowels of the house to slam said door.

Even if one is still using it.

In the high heat of the summer, propping the front and back doors open for extra ventilation requires permission, in triplicate, and a signed order by the Pope.

And many, many repetitions of “No, Sweetie, Gramma wants it left open!”

Sigh.

Bodily releases of tiny bits of air (ie: burps, sneezes, coughs, farts) though they are extremely funny, are to be immediately followed by a firmly-stated excuse-all.

Or a small, insistent person will appear at your elbow. “‘Scuse me, Grampa! ‘Scuse me!”

Preparation for mealtime prayer is to be strictly followed.

Even if one isn’t technically in the room.

The business portion of our kitchen/dining room is separated from the eating portion by an island.

Easily seen past.

If one is in that area, and no matter what one is doing, one is expected to participate.

“Gramma! Prayers! Fowd arms!”

Yesterday, my daughter and I were bike-riding.

With a small person in the trailer behind us.

Something we do . . . often.

My daughter had, unthinkingly, done her hair on top of her head.

Totally unsuited to the actual wearing of a helmet.

She opted to leave her headgear at home.

Big mistake.

It was the longest ride of our lives.

Because every few seconds, a little voice from the rear would call out, “Mama! Hemit!” or “Hemit, Mama!” or “Hemit! Hemit! Hemit!”

Ad infinitum.

The point of my story?

Be careful what you teach your kids.

They may hold you to it.

Bud

Dad and some of the 'boys'.

It takes many hands to run a ranch.

Every one of my parents’ six children found . . . ummm . . . gainful employment there.

But before we kids were old enough to milk cows, heft bales and run equipment, these chores were tackled by hired men or 'boys' as they were called.

As many as six of them.

These men, mostly unmarried, lived in the bunk house.

And ate at the cook house.

If, for one reason or another, there was no cook in residence, they ate with us.

And that’s when I got to know them.

I can still see them as they filed silently to Mom’s supper table. Cowboy-hat tans that ended at the eyebrows, leaving the forehead white and gleaming. Hair slicked back and still wet. Heavy work shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and slightly damp from their recent contact with soap and water. Rough, work-worn hands, newly-scrubbed but with darkened nails.

Over the years, we had many different men take up residence for long or short periods on the Stringam ranch.

Men from the neighbourhood who were just starting out on their own.

Educated young men from as far away as Hawaii or Korea or Denmark, wanting to learn the ranching ‘ropes’ to take back home.

New emigrants still struggling with the language.

I should mention, here, that learning English from the hired men on a ranch probably isn’t the best.

At least what they learned was . . . colourful.

Ahem . . .

All of them were taught to ride and work cattle. To fence and milk and hay and drive the disparate machines that were a part of ranching.

To think on their feet and react to the countless different scenarios that could – and did – crop up at any moment.

Those who lasted, eventually left the place changed men.

And they had their impact on us kids over the years.

And my favourite was Bud.

Bud worked on the ranch off and on. Beginning when I was four.

He was a local boy.

With a bit of a temper.

He and horses didn’t get along.

And the cows really didn’t like it when it was his turn to milk.

But he was always gentle and kind to me.

Always.

And I tagged after him everywhere.

Picture this: A tiny, skinny, white-blonde girl in jeans and a snap shirt.

Dad and me

And scuffed red cowboy boots.

Hopping and dancing along beside or behind.

Chattering.

Yep. That would be me.

I’d pop up the side of the fence and watch him feeding the bulls.

Sit on a stool nearby when he milked.

And follow him through his day as he went about his assigned chores.

He would smile at me and tease me.

Bud: “Hello, Diane-With-The-Red-Hair!”

Me: “Your hair is green!”

Yeah, so quick, I wasn’t.

He even gave me my own song, ‘Oh Danny Boy’. I’m guessing he didn’t know any songs with the word ‘Diane’ in them and that was as close as he could come.

And which song, interestingly enough, I hated.

As soon as he would start in, I would scream and disappear.

Hmmm. Maybe that’s why he did it . . .

I was devastated when Bud left the ranch to marry.

A few years later, he returned for a time, with his wife to act as ranch cook.

But his worsening health due to diabetes took its toll and he passed away from complications of the disease while still a comparatively young man.

Have you ever seen those internet sites titled ‘Gone, but Not Forgotten’?

Bud is there.

Little 'Sister'

Mom, third from left, and five of her eight brothers.
Her 'baby sister' Roy, alias Rosie, is far left.

A selection from my Mom's journals

This was my Mom's favorite story . . .

Being the only sister near the middle in a family of eight brothers, I found myself competing with the boys and growing up as a 'Tom Boy'.
I was athletic and could run as fast, jump as high and throw as far as my brothers.
I milked cows, drove and rode horses as well as the boys.
As the fourth in the family, I often considered myself the fourth brother.
In spite of this, I yearned for a sister, sharing my mother's yearning for another daughter.
By the time I was five, I had three new, small brothers but still no sister.
My prayers unanswered, I seemed destined to be alone in a mob of boys.
My little brothers seemed more cooperative and trusting than my older brothers; maybe little brothers could substitute as sisters? I decided to try to make one my little brothers into a little sister. Perhaps if I dressed them up in girls' clothes, they would pass as sisters. I rummaged through Mama's trunk and found an old dress and a bonnet with lace trimming.
Armed with these frillies, I looked about for a likely prospect.
Roy, the fifth brother and three years my junior, seemed the best choice. I approached him where he was playing in the yard.
"Roy, come and see what I have here."
He came willingly after I promised him a cookie.
We went upstairs where I slipped him into the dress, tied the belt and put on the lace bonnet, all the time crooning how nice he looked - so very nice. I gave the dress a tug to cover grubby clothes and ankle-height shoes.
I called my new little sister Rosie, my favorite name at the time.
For a while we played games that I supposed girls would play. We played with dolls and improvised a tea party including the promised cookie.
We were having such a good time, just us girls.
It was wonderful having a beautiful little sister.
Finally, I thought and I and my little sister should go for a walk to see the cats and the farm animals which would be frolicking about outside.
I took Rosie by the hand and for several blissful minutes, I led her around the yard, describing all the interesting features of our farmyard and garden.
Luckily, we did not encounter any brothers with their taunting giggles and snorts.
Suddenly a car came into the yard.
 The spell was broken. Rosie, reverting to Roy, leapt into the air and shot like a rocket toward the house.
As the passengers poured out of the car, they were surprised to see what looked like a human tornado, shedding clothes as it sped to the nearest hideaway.

Miss-Taken Identity

Who wouldn't want to be HER grandma?!

I was waiting in the doctor’s office for an appointment.

I had four children.

And with cuts, bumps and ‘whatever was going around at the moment’ tended to spend a lot of time there.

My youngest wasn’t feeling well.

We had assumed our usual location in the large room.

My daughter was happily seated in her stroller, watching the other people in the room.

I was engrossed in a four-years-old copy of Time magazine.

Funny how the headlines and concerns of that day looked almost comical four years hence.

But I digress . . .

A woman entered the room and took a seat nearby.

A well-dressed, exquisitely-groomed, obviously prosperous woman in her mid-forties.

My daughter looked at her. “Grandma!” she crowed happily.
She loved her grandma.

I smiled. The woman did have the same hair-colour.

To us it was a title of honour.

Obviously, our opinion wasn’t shared by the whole audience . . .

The woman glanced over at us.

Then, realizing that the little girl was actually speaking to her, her expression of well-bred hauteur changed.

To one of absolute horror.

She got huffily to her feet and glared at me. “I AM NOT A GRANDMA!” she announced.

Loudly.

I stared back. What do you say to that?

“Umm . . . she has a really young Grandma,” I stuttered lamely.

It was all I could think of.

“Humph!” the woman said and, turning, stomped to a different part of the room and out of our sight.

But my daughter wasn’t done. “Where Grandma go?” she asked plaintively. “Grandma!”

Yikes.

I’ve waited for doctor’s appointments.

Sometimes for as long as a couple of hours.

None were as long as this one.

Bridge. Mixed

Portion of a painting by George Hughes . . .

 My parents were having a Bridge party.

Something that was very popular in the Sixties.

The house had been cleaned, top to bottom until everything sparkled like a new penny.

I should mention here that I’ve always wondered why, when company was coming over, my Mom felt it necessary to clean absolutely every surface in our home.

Was she really expecting her guests to go wandering into the storage rooms or laundry room?

Were they actually going to notice the fingerprints on the downstairs bedroom wall?

But, already, I digress . . .

Several card tables had been set up in the front room.

Each with four chairs.

A deck of cards.

Pad of paper.

Pencil.

And the all-important, easily snitched from, dish of treats.

Usually mixed nuts.

Or (cue exciting music . . .) bridge mix.

Mmmmm.

Have you ever eaten bridge mix?

The chocolate-coated voyage to tasty yummy-ness?

It’s an adventure in itself.

There are mint, orange, and Irish crème flavored pieces coated in dark chocolate; peanuts, raisins, caramels, and Turkish delight in milk chocolate.

The adventure comes in finding one that you like.

Because some of them can fool you . . .

My favourites? The orange, Irish crème, peanuts and caramels.

The others? Ick.

At first, the only way to tell was by size and shape, but that can be deceiving. The raisins, for example, can fool you into thinking they’re peanuts.

Taste was the next option.

But Mom and Dad protested, sometimes violently, when they discovered treats with little nibbles taken out of the sides.

Then returned to the dish.

I know. Parents are weird.

But there was no way I was ever going to chance my taste buds coming into contact with something as icky as Turkish delight.

Or mint.

Raisins and I also have a history. (Seehere)

Finally, I came up with a solution.

If you squeezed the candies gently, they cracked just enough for you to get a glimpse of their soft centre.

If the colour denoted icky-ness, you could, by squeezing in the opposite direction, return them to their original shape.

Genius!

Caution: May contain icky pieces

We won’t go into the fact that we kids weren’t even supposed to be in the front room.

Let alone snitching from the candy dishes.

Moving on . . .

I don’t know if people still have bridge parties.

Judging by the cries of excitement or dismay that emanated from the room, they were an immense source of fun and dismay in equal parts.

Myself, I never learned to play the game.

But I do remember the treats.

The Keys to Adventure

Okay, well, they looked like keys to me . . .

To say that my mom was a neat and tidy person would be a vast understatement.

She was also careful.

Frugal, thrifty, economical.

She made do.

And stored anything that might come in handy . . . later.

There were times that her tidy habits provided me with hours of pleasurable fun.

Well . . . one habit.

Mom always had a great supply of pins of all types and styles, many gleaned from clothing purchases.

Any pin found was carefully saved.

If her handy-dandy pincushion wasn’t in the vicinity, she would poke them into the crack of a window or door frame for later pick-up.

She was also careful with keeping her safety pins.

Those were strung onto a larger pin.

For easy storage and easier access.

Because safety pins could be used for anything!

Any quick repair job was a snap with a safety pin.

So to speak.

But this is where her habit of saving and storing was of vital importance to me.

Because those little bunches of pins were magical.

Did you know that I’ve flown planes?

Well, I have.

And driven busses and tractors.

Captained boats.

Took the wheel in giant earth-movers.

Piloted spaceships.

Driven trains.

All without ever having to leave my house.

And all due to one of Mom’s collections of safety pins.

Because those bunches of pins looked, to me, like sets of keys.

And they could start anything my imagination could come up with.

I would insert the largest one into the imaginary keylock, turn it with the impressive sound of “taw-aw-aw-aw-vroom!”

And I was away.

Hours of fun.

I could be driving a moon-buggy in the morning.

And be digging into the depths of the earth in a giant corkscrew machine in the afternoon.

And all because of Mom’s habit of saving old pins.

Thanks, Mom.

What do you see?

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.