A Good Thing

Family games - mischief made legal

On the ranch in the evenings, particularly the long, winter evenings, opportunities for entertainment were few.
If there wasn't anything on your one TV channel, you pretty much had to come up with your own.
Entertainment, I mean.
This meant music (the make-your-own variety), which we practised with more or less success.
Mostly less.
Reading.
My own personal favourite.
Having a drink with the hired men in the bunkhouse.
Probably the least recommended for us kids.
Or games and/or puzzles.
Usually we went with games and/or puzzles.
One didn't get a lecture from one's parents when one played games and/or puzzles . . .
We had several favourites.
Scrabble.
A word game which aimed for word construction creativity.
But only good for four of us six players.
Probe.
Another word game. This one, disclosure being the goal.
Boggle. (Or if we were feeling daring, Big Boggle.)
Another word game.
Huh. I just realized that we played a lot of word games.
And three of us ended up being writers.
Go figure . . .
Bridge.
A card game played by four players.
Unless you're from Southern Alberta.
Where it is played by forty tables of four players.
But that is another story . . .
Rook.
A card game resembling bridge and also played extensively in Southern Alberta. (Also known as 'Apostate Rook' if you played 'One High'. At least according to my husband.)
Rummoli.
Poker and sequence, all rolled into one happy package.
And finally, Monopoly.
The apex of games.
The ultimate in Stringam family fun.
And won, inevitably, by Jerry.
Not that he tried.
Or even appeared to try.
He hummed, sang, bounced his knee rhythmically, talked, told jokes and CLEANED OUR CLOCKS.
Almost every time.
Why did we keep on playing?
Good question.
Inevitably, I would end Monopoly with a tiny little hoard of cash, very tiny, clutched in one hand as I stared with dismay at my little shoe, parked firmly on Park Place or Boardwalk.
Each with their large, expensive hotel.
And each with Jerry's smiling face behind them.
I would hand over my little pile, along with the last of my properties, and quietly fade into the sunset.
And immediately challenge him to a rematch.
To which he happily complied.
Okay, I get it now.
It's just another example of the 'I'll get him next time!' mentality.
I never did.
Get him, I mean.
Moving on . . .
Puzzles posed a bit less competition.
A more relaxing way to spend time together.
Visiting was permitted. Even encouraged.
But minutes could go by with soft music playing in the background and not one word said.
Yep.
Relaxing.

Our family's evenings now consist of visiting or playing cards.
Or watching movies.
Not too different from those I experienced growing up.
Family time.
It's a good thing.

Writing More Betterly

A guest post by Diane’s chief proof-reader and editor:

Anonymous Husby-Figure

As all of you out there in blog-land know by now, my Beloved Diane likes to write. I for one think that she does it very well.  But – horrors! – sometimes she makes a mistake.

Some time ago, she appointed me to be her proof-reader/editor/fixer-upper by insisting that, although she really does proof-read her columns before she posts them, sometimes typos and grammos just slip in there and hide.

“Grammo” is the pet word I concocted for her very infrequent “grammatical” errors.

 Over the months, the most frequent of her infrequent grammos was the use of the wrong form of “its” or “it’s” as in: “Its simply not acceptable if it’s apostrophe is missing when its really needed  or present when its not.” 

So to speak.

So I do try to catch Diane’s  typos and grammos, because I do believe it makes for a better read not to have them in there, and I believe that it shows respect to you, her readers.

I do not claim to be a perfect writer, but I did learn early while chasing an elusive education the importance of being word-perfect.  So if you will indulge me, I will do as my Beloved does so well and regale you with the story of where my typo-grammo mania came from.

It was the early 1980s and I was in a graduate school senior seminar, learning French Revolution history and cultural anthropology from Dr. de Luna.  (His name of course is of French extraction, and we often heard about his relationship to the moon – “lune” in French.  Some of my classmates preferred to suggest that it was “loon”, others wondered whether there was a vampire connection, but most of us ended by irreverently, although affectionately,  referring to him as Professor De Lunatic.)  Now besides endless etymological meanderings about his name, Dr. De Luna liked to tell us, almost daily, about how any written work, as in papers and articles, that we gave him HAD TO BE WORD AND LETTER PERFECT.  A summary of his reasonings: “It is disrespectful of your reader if said reader stumbles over typos and grammos  WHICH ARE ENTIRELY AVOIDABLE because you MISGUIDED doctoral candidates were TOO LAZY to proof-read it.  Your work is therefore sub-standard because your miserably lame analysis and argument that you think is intelligent discourse is unreadable because your reader is distracted when  having to stop to figure out what it is that you MEANT to say when you made your typo  . . . . . “ 

I think you get the point.  We got the message, many many times over.

Not so lunatic, when you stop to think about it.

So, time came for us to present to the dear Professor our first major research papers; and, a few days later, time to hand the graded papers back and discuss them in seminar.

Dr. De Luna went around the room, handing each paper back to its (notice this is the right one!) author, each with some mostly encouraging commentary and all with some very vociferous praise for being letter-perfect in the typo and grammo department.

All but one paper – the one belonging to a good friend, Ostap.

Now you should know that Ostap had a great sense of humour, was actually a very good scholar, but he had not internalized the message about being word-perfect.  He just didn’t think it was all that important.  At least not yet.

We came to discover, by the Professor’s 10-minute+ recapitulation of the obviously degenerate if not criminal intent and nature of anyone who dared to hand in a paper IN THIS SEMINAR that was anything LESS than word perfect, once again how important this whole typo-grammo business was.

At the end of his lecture (not the one about the French Revolution), Dr. de Luna passed this last paper to Ostap, with a scowl and a stare, and asked: “So, Mr. Ostap, what do you think I should do about this sort of thing?  Hmmmmm!???”

Ostap quipped back without the blink of an eye:  “I think you should stop worrying about it so much!  You’ll enjoy life a lot more and live a lot longer!”

We weren’t sure how long Ostap was going to survive.

But he did, and went on to a bright future. 

But not as a writer.

Dr. De Luna retired shortly after.  We think it was because of a brain aneurysm.  Caused by the lodging of typos and grammos in the blood vessels of the brain . . . .

And so, my friends, I pledge to continue doing my best to save you from typos and grammos in my Beloved’s columns.

Its the least I can do.  (Oops!)

Mrs. Amazing

The important First-Day-Of-School (FDOS) has passed.

With its first-day outfits, hair dos, school supplies, shoes, and angst.

And pictures of the same.

And now we take stock.

To store away for the next FDOS . . .

My good friend, Betty (I do hope she doesn’t mind me calling her Betty!) has three kids of her own.

And she fosters babies.

Tiny ones.

I know. She’s my hero, too.

Her kids attend two different schools.

Neither within walking distance of their home.

Her FDOS takes planning: 

            1. Stay up till midnight, getting FDOS supplies sorted, labelled and stowed.

            2.Up at 6:00 AM.

            3. Shower and makeup.

            4. Babies (she has two) up and bathed and changed and fed.

            5. Kids up and dressed.

            6. Kids kitted out for FDOS.

            7. Kids in the car.

            8. Drop off kid #1.

            9. Drop off kid #2.

           10. Home again by 8:30.

           11. Have baby #2 ready for pick up by care worker at 8:32.

           12. And breathe.

See? Planning.

And she did it. All of it.

She’s supermom. Or the close earthly equivalent.

Feeling happily accomplished, she set her four-year-old to playing, parked baby #1 beside some toys and began to tidy the kitchen.

Then she opened the freezer.

And discovered the breakfast she had been going to feed her school kids.

No wonder she had managed to get everything done.

SHE HAD FORGOTTEN TO FEED HER FAMILY!!!

All sense of triumph drained away in an instant.

She felt horrible. She had sent her children to school with empty stomachs.

Okay, yes, they did have a good-sized morning snack.

And an even bigger lunch.

And throughout the summer, they had never wanted breakfast before 10:00 AM.

But still . . .

When Betty told me this story, we laughed.

Betty tells it well.

And hindsight is often really funny.

But it got me thinking. (I do that sometimes.)

About Betty’s to-do list for her FDOS.

And how she had done it. Almost.

It made me tired.

Yep. One breakfast out of the year forgotten . . .

I still think she’s amazing.

Wind

See?

Picture: www.wallpaperfo.com

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

A lot.

And usually from the west.

Invariably, it’s hot and dry in summer.

But in winter, you get a selection. Either it’s cold and penetrating; or warm and very, very melty (my word).

This second wind, known as a Chinook, comes in from the west without warning, forming a great arch in the overhead cloud cover and raising the temperature forty degrees in an hour.

The people who make Southern Alberta their home have learned to live with the wind.

What else can you do?

The kids adapt at a very early age.

Case in point . . .

I was five and in grade one. That magical time when everything is . . . magical.

It was winter.

A warm Chinook had blown in during morning classes.

And we had been sent outside for recess.

Not an unusual combination of events.

We ran about the playground, moving with the wind, or trying to make headway against it.

Or huddling close to the school when we had had enough.

And that was when it happened.

And it was Kathy who did it.

Now, I will admit that Kathy was a slender little stick of a kid.

Wiry and athletic and just a tad daring.

But still, her action was life-changing.

She stood out in the wind, unzipped her coat, held the sides out and . . . leaned over.

And the wind held her there!

I am not making this up.

It held her there. At an angle.

Like a kite.

Ooooooooh!

The rest of us had to try it.

We had more or less success.

For some of the heavier kids, the wind wasn’t – quite – strong enough.

For the smaller, a little too strong. It could actually lift them off their feet or roll them over backward.

But for those of us somewhere in the middle, it was remarkable.

You almost felt as though you were flying!

After that, no one zipped their coats shut during a Chinook.

Instead, you used said coats – and that wind – to blow yourself wherever you wanted to go.

Extraordinary!

And world-altering!

I could see Kathy’s invention of cloth and wind being used for amazing things.

Like . . . pushing great vehicles.

Oddly enough, when I told my parents, they were less than enthusiastic.

And not at all willing to take me and Kathy’s invention immediately to the patent office.

Parents.

Pfff.

Moving forward . . .

The decades have gone by.

And still, whenever the wind blows, I think of Kathy.

And her coat.

And that clever mind that made such entertaining use of something that could have been so aggravating.

Sometimes, you can still catch me out in it.

The wind, I mean.

Holding my coat open.

And remembering . . . 

Quoting Quirks

We watch movies.
Old movies.
A lot.
Our family was raised on the crazy antics of Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Jack Lemmon in The Great Race.
The hilarity of Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.
The magical song and dance of  Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in Brigadoon.
The comic timing of Red Skelton in The Fuller Brush Man.
And these are only four of the hundreds we sat through together as a family as they were growing up.
Inevitably, these movies had a great influence on our lives.
When the characters made mistakes and paid dearly for them, my family suffered alongside. When a story ended, inevitably, in triumph, we celebrated.
We lived their lives. Learned their lessons. Grieved and cheered with them.
The stories became very real to us.
We discussed them endlessly.
The lessons learned. The principles taught.
And our conversation became peppered with noteworthy lines.
I do mean peppered.
Our youngest son, three-year-old Tristan, was playing with a small, battery-powered railroad with a friend. "Push the button, Max!" (The Great Race)
Friend, "My name's not Max."
People visiting our household would often gape in confusion as quotes cropped up in the conversation.
We knew what was being said.
They didn't.
Oops.
Occasionally, someone would join us who knew that the answer to, "And there was much rejoicing" was a subdued, "Yay!" (with appropriate hand movements) from Search for the Holy Grail.
Or that, when asked to do something specific, would know to quip, "I'm smokin' a salmon!" from Oscar.
And that, with the end of a meal, the appropriate gratitude was voiced by the words, "The meal was good. The wine was excellent. I must send the Cardinal a note." (Again, with appropriate hand gesture, this time, hand kissing.) A noteworthy quote, though we weren't wine-drinkers, from The Three Musketeers.
We were the family who would break, unexpectedly, into song.
And everyone would know the words.
Occasionally, outside of our home, others would take note of our unique (note that I'm using the PC term) customs.
For good or bad . . .
Our daughter, Tiana, was in kindergarten.
Almost five.
Her teacher heard her singing, "Goin' Courtin'. Goin' Courtin'." (From Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)
She pulled her aside and asked her to repeat it.
Tiana obliged.
The teacher frowned and asked her where she had heard that.
Tiana stared at her.
This was probably her first experience with someone who didn't eat, breathe and sleep movies.
So, not like her family at all.
"It's from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." she said finally. "Just before they learn how to dance."
Her teacher was puzzled. "Do you know what it means?"
"What?"
"Courting."
Tiana smiled at her. "Oh, yes, it means 'dating'."
"Ah." Still puzzled, her teacher let her go.
But brought up the subject at our next parent-teacher conference.
I have to point out that it wasn't the only time I had heard from confused elementary school teachers.
Moving on . . .
But as the kids grew into junior and senior high school, our family quirk became more acknowledged.
Even occasionally appreciated.
Especially when a teacher would pose a question or repeat a quote from an old movie or program and our child was the only one in the class who knew the answer.
Or who laughed.
They became the universally-acknowledged 'experts' on old movies.
And, more importantly, quotes from movies.
It was a fun way to raise a family.
It is a fun way to live.
I think its time for another one.
"Push the button, Max!"

Making an Ash of Oneself

Before. 

My Husby built our family a picnic table.
Cedar.
Nice.
It was the scene of many, many family meals and celebrations.
And occasionally the scene of . . . adventures.
Let me explain . . .
First, a little background.
Husby built a little home for us.
Okay. Originally, it was built as a dog kennel.
Then converted to a chicken coop.
Then we cleaned it up, insulated and panelled the interior.
Put down new flooring.
Now it was a house.
We moved our family in.
Snug and cozy.
It was heated with a wood stove.
That is an important point.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
When I was expecting our fourth child, we decided that we needed more than 300 square feet to live in.
Husby built a basement and we moved our little house onto it.
Wow! Double the space!
We could now have such luxuries as . . . bedrooms!
A bathroom!
But still heated with a wood stove.
Now comes the part where the picnic table and the wood stove come together.
It was winter.
Not much call for meals outdoors when the temperature is hovering around minus 20.
The table had been shoved close to the house.
One day, just as we were preparing to head into town, Husby decided to clean out the little well-used stove.
He carefully collected the ashes into a paper sack and carried them outside to put in the ash can.
Yes, we really had an ash can.
Don't ask.
Moving on . . .
One of the kids had a minor emergency just as Husby reached the front door.
He set his bag of 'mostly dead' ashes on the picnic table and scrambled to take care of the problem.
Done.
Then we packed up and left.
The bag of ashes sat, forgotten, in the centre of the picnic table.
I should explain, here, that the wind always blows in Southern Alberta.
This is important . . .
We were gone for some hours.
The wind blew on the little paper sack full of ashes.
And finally, ignited some of them.
They consumed the bag.
Then started on the nearest combustible object.
You guessed it.
Our picnic table.
Pushed up tight against the house.
When we returned from town, my Husby stopped the car and turned it off,
Then hollered something unintelligible and ran for the house.
I was busy unbuckling children and pulling the baby out of her car seat.
I turned around just as Husby appeared with a bucket of water.
Which he threw on the picnic table.
It was then that I noticed the plume of smoke.
And heard the hissing of unhappy flames meeting . . . something extinguishing.
I moved closer.
Husby stood, surveying our picnic table.
Or, through the smoke, what was left of our picnic table.
An expression of relief and chagrin on his face.
“What on earth happened?” Me.
“I think I must have left the bag of ashes on the table.” He.
“Huh.” Me.
I herded the kids into the house while Husby poured more water on the picnic table.
Later, we took stock.
The table, miraculously, was mostly intact.
The bag of ashes had burned a large (12”) hole in the very centre.
The rest of it was still usable.
The miraculous part was the fact that the fire had confined itself to the centre of the table.
With the brisk wind, it could easily have burned the entire thing.
Not to mention our house.
Miracles, indeed.

There is a codicil.
My brother, Jerry, and his family were over to our little house for dinner.
As they were leaving, Jerry spotted the hole in the middle of our picnic table.
He laughed, sat down and said, “This porridge is too hot! said Papa Bear.”
Miracles aside, it was pretty funny.

After.

Vicious Muffy

Muffy. Okay, she got bigger . . .

We lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba for eight months.
It was a beautiful city.
It just wasn't home.
But, in support of the breadwinner/student in our family, we packed up our household and moved.
Now anyone who knows our family, knows that we are completely enamoured (good word) with Old English Sheepdogs.
Hair and all.
So when I say that we moved bag and baggage to Winnipeg, that includes our dogs.
Plural.
Because what's one dog without another dog, right?
And both of them need a dog . . .
Okay, my husband didn't get it, either.
I should point out, here, that OES (see above) are extremely gentle and friendly.
Though they can be protective.
But that is another story . . .
We lived in a townhouse.
Having moved from a mobile home in Alberta, we were overjoyed with all of the extra room.
But that townhouse had a minuscule yard.
Or, in other words, tiny.
I would let my dogs outside, and they would turn to me, doggy faces frozen in shock, as though to say, “What? You expect us to run in here?!”
I would point and tell them to 'go run!'
They would sigh and trot to the far (I use this term lightly) fence.
And back.
In about 3 seconds.
I would shake my head and close the door, leaving them outside for a little while to get some 'exercise'.
Yeah, it didn't make much sense to me, either.
One morning, I had put Muffy outside by herself.
She wanted to go.
And no one else did.
This isn't rocket science.
A few minutes after I put her out, my phone rang.
Cool. Someone wanted to talk to me!
I answered.
It turned out to be my letter carrier, calling from the nearest phone booth. (Cell phones existed only in the minds of Science Fiction writers at this time.)
She couldn't get into my yard because of the vicious dog guarding the gate.
There was a vicious dog in my yard?
How did it get in?
And where was Muffy?
I dropped the phone and hurried to the door.
Swinging it wide, I peered outside cautiously.
Muffy, standing beside the gate, turned and looked at me.
And then I realized that the vicious dog spoken of was my 35 pound stick. With hair.
It's true. An OES, shaved, looks like a toothpick.
On toothpicks.
Yep, the dog world equivalent of a 98 pound weakling.
While I'm in information mode, I should also tell you that OES don't have tails. They are nipped off soon after birth.
Thus, when the dog is happy, or excited, or hungry, or tired, or worried, or . . . you get the picture . . . they wiggle.
Their whole back end.
It's quite a sight.
And that was what Muffy was doing.
So this pile of hair, back end shaking like a hula skirt was what had frightened the letter carrier.
Okay, I guess I can understand.
Someone who isn't used to dogs could certainly be intimidated by the sheer size.
And the motion.
But, to me, it was funny.
That anyone would be frightened of Muffy . . .
I grabbed my dog, apologizing profusely and dragged her away so the carrier could complete her mission.
Then I explained that she was extremely gentle, and even introduced the two of them so Muffy would know that the woman was a friend.
And vice-versa.
All was well.
Until I received a notice from the postal company that no more deliveries would be made to our house if our vicious dog was in the vicinity.
Okay, this had gone a little far.
I looked down at my 'vicious' dog, currently the bottom of a game of 'dog pile' with my boys and sighed.
But we complied.
Yard time was moved to the afternoon.
To avoid any conflict.
And letter carriers.
P.S. I completely understand that not everyone likes dogs, and that some of them even have a terrible fear of dogs brought on by attacks and/or experience that they really can't control, so I apologize to them for this story. I'm the same way with guard-chickens. But that is another story.

Considering Blogging?

Me. Doing what I do.

I blog.
And now you're probably wondering why on earth I'm blogging about blogging.
Wait for it . . .
My blog is a series of short stories about growing up.
Huh. Me. Growing up. Most people think it didn't happen. Couldn't happen. Will never . . . but I digress . . .
Occasionally, I feel guilty about spending such a lot of time with my beloved blog.
Even entertain the thought of abandoning it.
But then, someone tells me to continue.
Usually this is a reader (I do have them . . .). Or a person who has read a particularly amusing tale (true story). But sometimes, it is someone . . . OFFICIAL (dun, dun, duuunnn!).
This has happened to me.
Twice.
The first was my publisher, Cedar Fort.
Imagine my joy . . . "Diane, get your name out there. Blog. Get people reading your blog."
It's like being told, firmly, to "Eat that chocolate! All of it. Don't miss a bite! Oh, and lick the wrapper when you are done!"
Mmmmmm.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Bog.
And officiality. (Is that a word?)
I scurried to obey, frantically typing little stories and posting them. Then telling everyone in Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, Google . . . you get the picture . . .
It was . . . fun. (Fun being 'ten' on the 'fun-ness' scale.)
All was well.
Then, another magical day. I was sitting in Church ( I do that sometimes) and our Stake President was speaking.
And what pithy, uplifting theme did he choose to advocate? 
Blogging.
You heard me right.
It was from the pulpit.
I am not making this up.
His exact words were, "I encourage you to blog. Blog. Blog. Blog. People are reading your stories. They are making a difference."
Okay, I know that there were many, many people in the congregation, but I'm sure he was talking to me.
That made it official. With a capital OH!
And good enough for an elbow in my husband's ribs and a hearty "Ha! Told you so!"
So I blog.
Officially.
It just doesn't get any better.
So, admit it, you're convinced. Blogging is what you want to do.
Now, how to do it?
First, choose an amazing topic.For example, what do you most enjoy reading or hearing about?Surprise! That's what your blog should cover.That was easy.So now you are writing a world-class blog. How do you get to be, for want of a better term, better?Be entertaining. Be unexpected. Be humorous. Be inventive. Be courageous.Okay, yes, also be honest.Then get yourself known.How?Well, you could do something outrageous.But, trust me, that just creates more problems.I know.Really.Moving on . . .The best way is to blog every day. Get your name out there every day.
Post every day. (Have I said 'every day' too much?)And read other blogs.Comment.Their authors will follow you back.In a non-creepy way, of course.And before you know it, your readership has gone from zero to sixty to six hundred to . . . you understand.

Love, Hugs and Hope

What do you do when scary things happen?

Do you hide?

Fight?

Scream?

What if you’re a child?

Now there is a beautiful new book by Christy Monson and Lori Nawyn that addresses this issue.

With bright, colourful pictures by Nawyn and simple, engaging text by Monson, Love, Hugs and Hope: When Scary Things Happen, is a blueprint of what to do when you’re little.

And frightened by something terrifying.

In a world increasingly shattered by violence, mistrust and hatred, Love, Hugs and Hope is a bright little spot of warmth. A much-needed resource; its easy-to-follow, sympathetic advice and charming pictures will make it a go-to book for generations.

I loved this book! Thank you to Monson and Nawyn for giving us a simple balm for the truly frightening events of our day.

Synopsis:

Written after the tragic shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, Love, Hugs, and Hope: When Scary Things Happen is an invaluable tool for helping children identify feelings that overwhelm them with anxiety and despair. Author Christy Monson guides readers through emotions of fear, sadness, and anger, then lends constructive and practical ideas for how to manage such feelings and seek comfort. Lori Nawyn’s engaging illustrations help young children understand that hope is only a hug away.

Love, Hugs and Hope is available at:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble

 Author Interview: 

Christy Monson

for Love, Hugs and Hope

How did you meet Lori? How did your collaboration work?

Lori Nawyn did the art and I wrote the script for this picture book, Love Hugs and Hope, and we are both very happy about it. However, we didn't start out to work together. Lori and I knew each other from a couple of SCBWI Conferences. We had formed a picture book critique group that met each month so we were friends. But it was the publisher that teamed us up. Lori is a darling, and I love her art. We never collaborated on the book at all. I turned in the manuscript and Lori and the publishers did the rest.

How long have you been writing?

I have been writing about 7 years and loving every minute of it.

Do you have children? If so, did you draw on your own experience as a mother in writing this book?

My experience as a mom has really helped me in writing this book. Children just need to talk things out a lot of times. They want love and reassurance.

You're a retired family counselor. How did your training and/or years of practice help you with this book?

I kind of had a sense about how to process with kids from being a mom, but my training as a therapist really gave me the knowledge I needed to help children heal. In my practice I saw a lot of kids that were dealing with tragedy of some kind or another. Talk therapy is good for kids, but art is a wonderful way for them to release feelings.

How long did this book take to create?

It took me about a week to write the first draft of this manuscript. I felt so sad for those who had experienced loss in the school shooting at Sandy Hook. Shortly after that a gunman shot up the Clackamas Towne Center in Oregon. Our daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters live about three miles from the center. The parents monitored the events carefully, but turned off all media to protect the kids from knowing about it. However, the next day at school the children were all talking about it, so you can't protect children from knowing about tragedies like this.
As I thought about these two catastrophes, I felt something needed to be written to help parents and children look at disasters like these, be able to share their feelings, and find hope in the world around them.

Do you have other book ideas along the lines of children's self-help/picture books?

I love writing picture books. I have many other book ideas I'm thinking about, but right now I'm focused on  a series about children's feelings.

How did you find a publisher for the book?

I am so fortunate to have found my publisher, Christopher Robbins, and Familius. At LDS Storymakers Boot Camp, Rick Walton was conducting  out picture book section. He began talking about Familius and what a great new company it was. When he found out I was a retired therapist, he suggested I contact Familius, and I'm so happy I did.

Free Stuff

It was the most exciting, amazing, stupendous, thrilling, exhilarating, stirring, electrifying, sensational thing!

Ever!!!

Okay, I admit that I lived in the middle of the prairie, at the back of beyond, just past the end of the road, and not quite to that part on the map where it says ‘Here be Dragons’.

Sigh.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Exciting, amazing, (see above) . . .

The mail at the ranch came whenever someone drove into the nearest town, Milk River, and picked it up.

Sooo . . . intermittently.

Whenever Dad would appear with an armload of envelopes and dunners and fliers, I would always be first in line to greet him.

The ensuing conversation went something like this:

Me: Dad! Anything for me?

Dad: What’s your name?

Me: Diane!

Dad: Nope.

Me: Rats!

As time went by, I got smarter and learned to circumvent his inevitable question and get directly to the disappointment . . .

Me: Dad! Anything for me? My name’s Diane!

Dad: Nope.

Me: Rats!

See how much better that is?

Moving on . . .

Then my friend, Kathy, pointed out the amazing, stupendous (see above, again) activity.

She was looking through a magazine on the school bus on the way home from school and pointed out the rows and rows (and rows) of offers listed in the back few pages.

And many of them were absolutely free! (Their words)

She told me that most magazines had the same listings and that if you sent requests, the advertisers would send you . . . get this . . . free stuff!

What could possibly be better than that?!

When we got home that night, I dove into the stack of magazines that inevitably accompanied Dad’s comfy chair in the front room.

Wow! The Western Horseman was loaded! Even the Canadian Veterinary Journal hosted pages and pages of . . . stuff!

I was set.

For the next few evenings, I was happily closeted with one or more magazines, carefully writing out my requests and enclosing them in their handy-dandy envelopes.

Then I raided Dad’s desk for stamps – would you believe that it only cost four cents to mail an envelope back then? – and handed the pile to my dad for mailing during the next town run.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Finally . . . it happened.

Me: Dad! Anything for me? My name’s Diane!

Dad (just slightly surprised): Yes. This came for you!

Me: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .!

You get the picture.

For months, I got catalogues, pictures, pens, trinkets, the occasional poster and several hair-grooming necessities.

Life was good.

I finally lost interest in the searching and requesting.

Though I never tired of the receiving.

But the one never happened without the other.

Sigh.

Moving forward several decades . . .

Yesterday my daughter came in from getting the mail.

Me: Oooo, mail! Anything for me?

Daughter: Yeah, there’s a package here for you.

Me: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeee!

Some things never change.

Written in Time

Once more, Delores has delivered.

Once more, we put pen to paper. 

So to speak.

This week's words? flirtatious, blurred lines, headstone, vixen, discerning and fish

And off we go . . .

When e’re we fly, my man and me,

To countries near or o’er the sea,

We find the old cem-e-ter-ies,

And take a trip through history.

For neatly 'scribed in work so fine

Or written now in blurry lines

We read of lives, low or sublime,

Upon the headstones, lost in time.

The saddest are the children gone,

Those lives stopped short from living on,

Who made no choices, right or wrong,

Called from embraces firm and strong.

With careful steps we move along,

And find some words inscribed with song,

A life well-lived and days so long,

With courage and with faith so strong.

This one, it seems, had loved to fish,

That one’s flirtatious, quite the dish,

A third thought horses so delish,

The best friends anyone could wish.

Here’s a discerning, bookish man,

The next one’s hard to understand,

I see the words ‘The Best’ and ‘Land’,

Oh, there’s the Grandpa of the clan.

A hunter sure, was this man’s claim,

A vixen’s carved beside his name,

Each one unique, and none the same,

Some unknown and some with fame.

Each tells of life or life-to-be,

It’s written there for all to see.

But when I’m gone, an absentee,

What will someone say ‘bout me?

Here Kitty, Kitty . . .

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was evening. Just before bedtime.
And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.
Something she did a lot.
Especially at night.
We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.
It was . . . annoying.
Finally, I set my book down and got up to see what could be bothering her.
Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby?
A cow bawling?
Water running in the canal?
Wind in the trees?
Crickets?
Dumb dog.
I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport with two walls: one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.
The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.
It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

See? Carport. Without the cars...

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.
Something I usually did.
Tonight I . . . didn't.
I don't know why.
I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.
There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.
And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.
My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.
Still barking her fool head off.
Stupid dog.
I sighed and pushed the screen door open.
Then hesitated.
And did something I had never done before. I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other neatly-placed garden tools.
Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.
I paused at the edge of the carport.
Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased. I could see her clearly now, even in the dim light. Hackles raised. Whole body stiff with intent.
I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.
And I do mean shattered.
It was the scream of a cougar.
Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.
It's . . . scary.
This scream was five feet away.
Above me.
At the very edge of the carport roof.
See? Shattered.
I froze instantly.
Then started to back up, one step at a time.
Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.
I called my dog and she came running.
Still barking.
The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.
Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”
I was staring out the window.
Cheetah was now standing behind me. She continued to bark.
“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.
“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”
“Are you sure?”
I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”
“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.
I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.
My dad appeared. Calm as always.
“Where?”
“Well it was on the carport roof a few minutes ago.”
“It'll leave.”
I stared at him. “You're not going to go out after it?”
“Not while it's on the roof.”
Good point.
Dad got a flash-light and pointed it out the window.
The roof was snared in a noose of light.
Empty.
I cautiously opened the door.
Cheetah shot through and into the night. Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and toward the foothills.
Our visitor was obviously headed home.
Everyone present heaved a sigh of relief. With some visitors, that's just the way it is.
Less is more.
Moving on . . .
I will add that this was the first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.
And not being offered a warm meal.
Oh . . . wait.
I guess that's a good thing.

Voices in the Trees

A poem.

Because . . .

Each summer, since the dawn of time,

We’d pack our kids and dogs and gear

With plans to spend a week, sublime

And frolic with the bears and deer.

For camping was our family ‘thing’,

Anticipated through the year,

And, oh, what praises they would sing

When finally, the time was here.

We parents’d sit beside the fire

And eat and laugh and shoot the breeze,

While younger legs who’d never tire

Would charge together through the trees.

With shouts and laughter as they ran,

Or giggles, hopefully suppressed.

‘Hide and Seek’ and ‘Kick the Can’

And ‘Find the Flag’ and all the rest.

When daylight waned, called back to camp

To spend a moment round the flames.

And crown the glowing, happy champs,

And plan for the tomorrow games.

What fun to hear those voices shout,

And watch their progress through the trees.

To see them scurrying about

On fleetest feet; or hands and knees.

Time’s gone by. It’s what it does.

And still we’re camping in the trees.

But something’s missing now, because

There’s silence floating on the breeze.

We parent’s camp, as we’ve always done,

With tales to tell and wood to hew,

But in the trees, there is no one,

No voices yelling, “I’ve found you!”

We tell ourselves it’s peaceful, true,

As restful as someone could wish,

We do the things we want to do,

Like eat and nap and swim and fish.

At night, we stare into the flames

And talk about the times long past.

When woods would ring with noisy games

And summer days forever last.

But now our kids are raising theirs.

And time’s a thing that’s hard to find,

And spending days with deer and bear’s

A priority that’s far behind.

Oh, what I’d give for one more day,

And woods that echoed with the noise,

When games would pass the time away,

When simple fun brought endless joy.

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Hill?

A guest post by Steven Clark.

Ready . . .?

My oldest daughter has cultivated a new passion this summer: riding her bike.  

As a bicycle commuter, I could not be a happier father than to have my girl be as enthused about cycling as I am.  

Every opportunity she has to ride, she'll take it.  

I used to ride my bike with her, but found that I could keep up with her just as well by walking.

Earlier in the season, she did quite a bit of walking over riding because she had a paralyzing fear of hills.  Didn't matter if the hill was a steep grade or slight enough to barely get a marble rolling on its own, she had to walk down.  

After a couple days of this, I went over braking with her and then encouraged her to try braking to slow her descent.  

She still persisted in walking down hills.  

Before I chided her disbelief in her own abilities, I remembered someone else who had trouble with hills: my sister.

Summer of '86 or so.  

We were living in Petawawa, Ontario at the time and bikes were our vehicles of independence.  Wherever we wanted to go, we went.  

One of the destinations of choice was Petawawa Beach, renamed Black Bear Beach.  For some odd reason, whenever we went there, there was never a lifeguard, which added an element of adventure, but the ride there was what made me think of my daughter.

Comparing my memory to Google Maps, the final turn to get to Petawawa - sorry, Black Bear - Beach went down a fairly steep hill.  The adventurous - and scary - part was close to the bottom of the hill where the road transitioned from paved to gravel.  

My step brother and I had no problem getting down the hill.  We just alternated between coasting and braking, never letting our speed get much beyond a crawl.  

My sister went much quicker, and not because she was a daredevil with a death wish, but simply because she was frightened and froze up.  

In retrospect, I'm surprised she survived since this was the time before bicycle helmets were common and mandatory for youth.  

As my sister put it when I asked her about the experience, she only remembered going down the hill and then waking up in the hospital.

My sister made a full recovery, and soon we were off to the beach again.  

When we reached the hill, she was still shaken, but determined to try again.  I demonstrated the safe way to go down the hill, and told her what I was doing as I went down.  Coast, brake, coast, brake, coast, brake... 

WHOOSH!  

She zoomed past me at the bottom of the hill and I realized her biggest mistake.  Closing her eyes when she got scared.  This led to another crash, but not quite as spectacular as the first.  

My memory may be faint, but I don't remember any other bicycle excursions to the beach.  I seem to recall we went with my parents every time afterwards.  

After this recollection of blood and dust, I figured it would be best to let my daughter take hills at her own pace, and not push her to ride down them regardless of the grade.

I am happy to report that my girl now delights in riding down small hills, but still dismounts for steep ones.  

And she has never been to the hospital for any of her crashes.

Go!

A Haunting We Will Go

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.
Haunted.
Really.
Demons lived there.
Witches.
Hags.
You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.
We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.
Even in broad daylight.
With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.
Even so I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams.
And no, they didn't come from me.
Sheesh.
At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.
Situated about half-way down the block.
A family had lived there.
Mother. Father. Children.
But that was where the 'normal' part ended.
At least that is what my friends had informed me.
One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.
It was dark in the cellar.
He had lighted a match to see more clearly.
And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.
What that was and why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I didn't know, but it sounded dangerous.
Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.
But I was four.
Who was scrutinizing?
I was too busy shivering in delight.
Moving on . . .
So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.
It lit up like a huge torch.
The kerosene, that is.
He and his family barely got out alive.
No one knows what happened to the cat.
The family then disappeared.
Never to be heard from again.
Ooooooooo!
Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.
It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.
The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.
But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.
Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.
Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally-burned oilcloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.
We were horrified.
And ran from the house screaming.
I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.
The house was eventually demolished.
Mainly to keep us kids from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.
But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the haunted house.
Where the family lived.
Before the fire.
And maybe they're there still.
Making noises and screaming at odd hours.
The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Backing Up

Ah. The good old days . . .

I had to take a couple of horses to auction.

One of the more painful aspects of ranching . . .

In the old days, when I was ranching with my parents, a truck and trailer (chosen from the selection on hand) would appear magically outside the ranch house, loaded and ready to go.

Oh, the good old days.

This new ranching-on-my-own required much more forethought.

I had the horses.

And the pickup.

What I needed was a trailer.

A rental was indicated.

As an absolute neophyte in this area, I did what one did back then.

Went to the Yellow Pages.

Huh. Did you know there were dozens of companies whose sole purpose was to supply one with the best, biggest, lightest, heaviest, sleekest, cleanest, most-efficient, strongest, easiest-to-pull, prettiest (okay, I added that one), most-amazing trailer in the area?

Well there are.

I chose the nearest dealer.

And a trailer that looked like one of Dad’s.

Better the evil you know . . .

I drove over and, trying to look like I had done this all my life, hooked up to my newly-borrowed piece of equipment.

Okay, that part was easy. Back up the truck as near to the trailer hitch as possible.

Or until the attendant hollered, “Whoa!”

And hook up.

Okay. From that point I was more-or-less comfortable. I had pulled a trailer many times in my life. My real problems arose when I tried something new.

Like backing up with said trailer attached.

This is where I admit that my brother or Dad had always done the ‘intricate’ work.

Have you ever tried this?

Backing up a trailer, I mean.

It’s perverse.

You have to turn the controller vehicle in the complete opposite direction you want the trailer to go.

All the while looking backward over your shoulder.

It’s like trying to write something on a wall behind you by looking in a mirror.

Everything screams at you to turn the other way.

Usually while your spotter/attendant is screaming at you to do it right.

Sigh.

I did make it to the auction.

Horses, truck and trailer intact.

And, after much, MUCH backing up and re-backing up and adjusting and backing up again, and attendants sweating and swearing, finally moved the trailer close enough to the ramp to off-load two confused and rather dizzy horses.

Then I got the heck out of there.

I stopped at the ranch to clean out the trailer.

A nervous horse is a poopy horse.

Just FYI.

And I took the trailer back.

Now, when I had picked up the behemoth, it had been parked among its fellows in a neat line.

Second from the end.

When collecting it, I had only needed to back the truck, hook on, and leave.

Simple.

Returning the trailer wasn’t going to be as easy.

I would need to maneuver it, without scarring its fellows on either side, back into its home.

The key word here is ‘back’.

I was sweating before I even drove into the yard.

The attendant cheerfully indicated my parking spot.

Yep. Right where I expected.

Cue the Hitchcock violin music . . .

I pulled ahead and shoved the truck into reverse.

Then, taking a deep breath, pressed down on the gas.

And slid in as neatly and perfectly as any trailer-jockey out there.

On my first try.

Huh.

The trick then was to try to not look as surprised as the attendant.

And to keep the swagger (mostly caused by relief) out of my walk as I helped unhook.

And to suppress the desire to turn hand-springs on my way back to the truck.

Yep. Sometimes, the planets align.

All things work together.

And one is allowed to feel that sense of accomplishment that goes with a job well (and perfectly) done.

Not often.

But sometimes.

Enjoy it while it lasts . . .