Streaker Peeking

Tell me you remember this.

Streaking.

The weirdest fad, ever, to show its hiney to the world.

Well, the only fad to ever show . . . never mind.

I was in college when I first became aware of this . . . dare I call it a phenomenon?

Yep. My current boyfriend and I were sitting at the local Dog ‘n Suds.

A car-hop burger joint.

Enjoying one Texas burger, one yummy Chili Dog and two of the ‘World’s creamiest root beers’.

With fries.

Suddenly, he stopped, mid-chew, and pointed.

I turned.

And almost choked on my hot dog.

Three young men, of varying size and . . . well, size, were coming toward us.

On the run.

They ‘streaked’ past the burger joint, through the parking lot of the next door Chinese food place and disappeared.

I know it’s not polite to leave your mouth hanging open, especially during meal time and especially when it’s full of food.

My mom would have pitched a fit.

Okay, first she would have fainted dead away at the sight of three naked, young men running hard past her ‘dining table’. Then she would have been revived and coached over her shock. Then she would have pitched a fit.

But she wasn’t there.

And her daughter was.

Let’s face it, that hot dog was cold before it got swallowed.

Then I turned and looked at my boyfriend.

“Did we see what I think we just saw?”

He nodded, grinning. “And we knew two of them.”

It was true. Two of them went to the same college as us.

One of them was even an ex-boyfriend.

Yikes.

After that, it was not uncommon to see naked bodies running.

Mostly through parking lots and drive-ins.

Football games and other sporting events.

And at least one down the long main concourse of the College mall.

The fad rather died out when winter hit.

It is Canada, the famous ‘nipper’ of regions nether.

And that when one is fully-clothed.

Oh, a few hardy souls still managed.

The fastest, fittest runners.

The rest of us huddled in our overcoats and shivered for them.

And then, suddenly, the fad was gone.

Done.

Yesterday, I was at the swimming pool.

Where ‘brief’ is the abiding fashion statement.

Huh.

Streaking is back.

Sunny Beaches

Don't let the dapper exterior fool you.
Somewhere inside is that  9-year-old.

Ah. Influencing the young and innocent.
Even in families, it's not always a good thing . . .
My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.
If anyone asks him if he is related to Owen (his eldest brother) he tells them: Distantly.
When my Dad was nine, said oldest brother lived close by with his family. A wife and three-year-old son, Brian.
Brian adored his much older uncle.
He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.
Usually a good thing.
Occasionally . . . not.
My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.
Brian loved to go along.
Just because.
It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.
All was well.
One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.
She combed the unruly locks into submission.
"Ouch!" Brian  said.
"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."
"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"
"Almost through."
"Ouch!"
Brian glared at his mom.
"If you do that again, I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"
"I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'."
"What?" she asked again.
"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.
Light dawned.
"You mean 'Son of a . . .'"
Her mouth popped open in horror.
She gripped his small shoulder. "Where did you hear that?!"
He stared at her, not understanding her panic.
She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"
"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"
Two things resulted from that haircut.
1.  Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2.  "Unca Mark' received a lecture on language and its proper uses. Oh! And . . .
3.  I just realized that, when it came to cursing, my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on - or maybe a beach to lie on (see here).
It's a good world.

Miss Ernestine

Delores has challenged us once again.

This week's words?

Insignificant, crimson, mottled, track, border, spinning

And/or the phrase: She was as stiff as last year’s Christmas tree.

What would you do with those?

Time for a short story . . .

Her name was Miss Ernestine.

And the kids in the neighbourhood were terrified of her.

We all called her Miss Scare-estine.

Miss Ernestine was a maiden lady.

A tall, slender person. Always impeccably groomed.

She had many talents.

For thirty-five years, she had taught home economics to hundreds of young girls at the local high school. Now, in retirement, she spun and wove. Was a seamstress extraordinaire. And worked in her garden - a cool, wondrous place that could sometimes be glimpsed through the slats of her back fence - with carefully laid-out tracks and flowered borders.

But her greatest talent was her ability to stare at kids through reading glasses that magnified her eyes to unbelievable proportions.

And see into their souls.

At any time of the day, you could see her sitting beside her great front window, spinning.

And watching.

Soaking up the intimate details of the actions of the kids on the block.

Obviously recording them in her steel-trap brain to tell our parents later.

The moment any of us stepped out through the front door of our homes, we felt like little insignificant insects under the careful watch of a giant, bug-eyed scientist.

Whenever her sharp, magnified blue eyes turned toward me, I could feel my face turn crimson and my heart speed up. Or my face drain of colour and my heart stop. In fact, I was always in a state of mottled anxiety: red, turning white. Or white, turning red. 

Fear does those things to you.

Sometimes, we would see one or more of the adults on the street stop and chat with her.

But it was obvious that, when it came to the art of jovial conversation, she  . . . struggled.

Okay let’s face it; she was as stiff as last year’s Christmas tree.

She would spend her time correcting any hapless person who chanced to make a comment that fell within her areas of expertise. And said areas of expertise included any and all topics.

She was sharp, critical, outspoken and downright scary.

And the bane of the entire block’s worth of children.

And then my mother got sick.

At first, it was ‘just the flu’, and would be over and done with shortly.

But it stayed, and worsened.

Finally, the doctor diagnosed it as pneumonia.

He assured us that, with proper care, she would recover and continue to live a full and happy life.

But she did need that proper care.

And how she was going to get it as a single lady with six kids - and the eldest only ten - was anyone’s guess.

Then came that knock on the front door.

My older sister answered it.

And there was Miss Ernestine, loaded down with boxes and bags.

Without even waiting for a ‘come in’, however timidly it might have been offered, she swept into the place and . . . took over.

For the next week, she cooked for us, cleaned, did laundry, helped with homework, kissed boo-boos and nursed my mother.

Bedtimes, though strictly enforced, were a relaxing time of storytelling and learning about bygone days as Miss Ernestine regaled us with tales of growing up in the mad, wonderful city of San Francisco in the roaring twenties. Of her wish for marriage and children that never came to fruition. Of her careful watching of the neighbourhood children to make sure they were safe and happy.

The day that I woke up to see my mother once more installed in the kitchen was both the best – and the worst – of my life.

And later, when Miss Ernestine disappeared out the front door, laden again with boxes and bags, I thought my heart would break cleanly in two.

After that, things on our street were different.

Gone was the fear. The dread. The ignorance and uncertainty.

Armed with the knowledge and understanding of a different perspective, we discovered there was something else that Miss Ernestine excelled at.

Love.

Drop by Delores' place and see what the rest of us came up with!

Sisters. And Fear

Go ahead. Scare me.

It shouldn’t have been frightening.

Really.

We knew her. She knew us.

Previously, we had been chatting happily with her.

And we were in a church.

But it was.

Frightening, that is.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Kathy, her older sister and I had been at an activity at the church.

The activity had ended.

My ride hadn’t materialized.

I should mention, here, that, when I had a church activity, my Mom had to abandon her uber-busy life and drive twenty miles to get me.

On sketchy roads.

In the dark.

Uphill both . . . never mind.

Sometimes, her life didn’t let go easily and she arrived late.

Okay, often, her life didn’t let . . . you understand.

My friend and her sister stayed with me so I wouldn’t have to wait alone.

We were wandering around in the chapel, chatting, peering out of the tall windows.

It was dark outside and all of us were anxiously watching for the tell-tale lights of Mom’s car.

Kathy’s sister, as a joke, shook her long hair over her face and started walking slowly toward us.

That’s it.

Long hair over face.

And walking.

It FREAKED US OUT. Screaming at the tops of our lungs, we fled.

To the other side of the chapel.

(Okay, none of us should have been playing in the chapel – don’t tell the Bishop.)

Sister kept on coming. Just slowly, never increasing the pace.

But inexorably. (Ooh! Good word!)

We shrieked and ran. Turned and looked.

And shrieked and ran.

Funny, now that I look back on it that it never occurred to either of us to  - you know - leave the chapel.

I guess it was because the rest of the building was much scarier. Even without someone’s stalking sister.

The trailing and scaring and shrieking went on until the lights of Mom’s car finally lit up the front of the building.

Whew.

Sooo . . . like I said, we knew her. She knew us.

Why on earth were we so scared?

But we were . . .

And we loved it.

Not-So-Empty Purse

www.loveitsomuch.com

I carry a purse.

This isn’t unusual.

I carry lots of necessities in it.

Kleenex.

Cosmetics.

Gum.

A small first-aid kit.

A screwdriver.

Pliers.

A flashlight.

Assorted small toys to entertain grandchildren.

A book.

Used Kleenex.

Medications.

Nailclippers.

But there is not (and never has been) a kitchen sink.

I just thought I’d mention that.

My Husby teases me about my purse.

With many and varied references to said kitchen sink.

Sigh.

I have discovered that he is not alone in this.

Let me explain . . .

We were holidaying aboard a tall ship in the Mediterranean.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Our ship was anchored in the bay near Santorini.

Let me take the opportunity to encourage you to go.

It’s . . . nice.

Moving on . . .

The ship was sending us pampered passengers to the island in the launch.

There were helpful attractive-young-men-persons to help us on and off.

One elderly couple were a trifle concerned during this process.

The woman, perched precariously between sea and sky, dropped her purse.

Before it could hit the water, it was snatched from grief by a quick-witted (and very fast) attractive-young-man-person.

Who proceeded to hand it back to its owner, now safely on board.

She thanked him graciously and commended him for his lightning reflexes and quick wits. Then she turned to her husband.

“It probably would have been all right, wouldn’t it, hon? It would have floated for a few seconds at least.”

Her husband grinned at my husby. A conspiratorial man-grin. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Straight to the bottom! Kitchen sinks don’t float!”

See?

Our steed.

The Blanket Conundrum

See? Blankets are traitors. Fun one minute . . .

I was helping Mom.

Okay, I was four, so ‘helping’ might be more of a hopeful term.

We were tidying the family room.

Dusting: check. All one had to do was slide a cloth over every and all surfaces. My job was actually the pre-dusting. Getting things ready for mom’s bigger and better cloth.

Vacuuming: check. I watched and moved out of the way at strategic moments.

Window washing: check. I washed. Mom dried and got rid of my fingerprints.

Putting toys away: check. Well, maybe a tentative check. Every toy I carried to the toybox must be played with a bit before actually putting in the toybox.

Folding the blankets: check. All right, a definite no check.

Because this is where I came to grief. Those blankets were huge! At least a thousand times bigger than me! And, yes, I know I was the one who dragged them out. I mean, one can’t build much of a blanket fort without the . . . you know . . . blanket. But they were huge!

Mom! Huge!

But she insisted.

And left the room.

Rats.

I gathered the blankets up and set them on the couch.

We regarded each other with suspicion.

I mean, how can you trust something that is a friend one minute and a job the next?!

Finally, I pulled the top one off and set it on the floor. Then I saw a corner and pulled it out straight.

I saw another corner and did the same.

Hey!

I found the other two corners and pulled on them.

Soon, I had a blanket laid out flat on the floor.

I adjusted and straightened until there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen.

I stood back and looked.

It was a thing of beauty.

Then I lifted the one corner and pulled it across, matching it to the corner opposite.

I found this technique worked better if one wasn’t standing on said blanket at the time. That definitely slowed down the process.

Just FYI.

I grabbed the second one – pulling it across to its corresponding corner.

Then I straightened and smoothed.

Eureka! I had succeeded in lessening my problem by half!

I grabbed the two corners together and pulled them down to the other two corners.

More straightening and smoothing.

This was working!

I did it again.

And again.

Finally, I had a tidy, neatly-folded bundle, just perfect for stuffing into the cupboard.

I called my mom and showed her my thing of glory.

My triumph.

My folded blanket.

She nodded and smiled.

And disappeared.

Hmm . . . sometimes moms really don’t get the stupendousness/remarkableness/amazingness/marvelousness/fabulousness/exceptionalness of what their four-year-olds have accomplished.

Moving forward fifty-some years . . .

My granddaughter had been playing with blankets.

It was time to tidy up.

She grabbed the first blanket and spread it out on the floor.

Then proceeded to fold it by matching corners.

And straightening and smoothing.

Soon she had a neatly-folded little bundle.

I blinked and stared.

Not everyone would appreciate that tidy little parcel of neatly-foldedness.

But I did.

Horace P. Flee

More Delores words!

And rhyming ones. What could be better!

thump, bump, dump, clump, rump, plump

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

No loveliness in his demeanour,

He lived all alone near the old county dump,

Developed his skills as a screamer.

Whenever he heard just so much as a bump,

His head would pop out of the door,

With a noise that would make almost everyone jump

And his displeasure then underscore.

One day to the village known solely as Frump,

(Please don’t think it’s for fashion expression!)

Came a strong-minded widow, quite pretty and plump,

With her children that numbered eleven.

Now, when moving, one’s household goods come in a clump

And are sorted through carefully after.

And necessitate many a trip to the dump,

For the children: Adventure With Laughter.

Now, Horace P. Flee, that old village grump

Wasn’t happy with all of the joy.

So he shouted a phrase that made all of them jump,

He intended to hurt and annoy.

Then Abigail, she who was pretty and plump,

But possessed of a lively, bright spirit,

A piece of her mind, she gave that village grump,

And forced him to stand there and hear it.

Then something strange happened that day at the dump,

With all of the parties together,

For Horace’s heart hit his shoes with a thump,

While Abby’s beat light as a feather.

Their marriage was viewed by the Village of Frump,

With the two of them there in the heather,

The minister stood on a great old tree stump,

With a smile, he joined them together.

From then, anyone using the Frump Village dump,

(If it’s not too hard to believe . . .)

Found the happy noise now from the home of the ‘grump’,

Was much more than what they could achieve.

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

Until life with his Abby ‘begun’,

When you least expect it, you’re knocked on your rump,

‘Cause there’s someone for ev-er-y-one.

They Never Look Up

-or-  I'm in Reverse! Everything Stay Out of My Way!

Our Delores has issued this week's challenge.

static, precursor, inclement, tractor, stump, racing

Six unrelated words that we must stitch together into something cohesive.

Or at least believable.

Fortunately, tractors and I have a history.

What follows is, unhappily, true . . . 

My victim. Again.

Dad had bought a new tractor.
Painted bright yellow, it was a thing of real beauty.
Or so the men in my family thought.
Pffff. Men.
It was parked proudly between the shop (formerly our home - see here) and the pasture, wherein my horse was . . . erm . . . pastured.
The tractor stood there in lonely glory, awaiting the delivery of two more back wheels.
Now it was unheard of, at that time, for a tractor to have more than the requisite two.
Back wheels, that is.
But this one did.
Or soon would have.
Each of the existing wheels had three feet of extra axle sticking out in happy anticipation.
This is important and a precursor to what follows.
And I didn't care.
I was racing to get my horse ready for a show.
I needed to load up my tack.
This entailed maneuvering the car between the pasture fence and the shed door.
Easily done.
I could see the tractor.
I could see the fence.
I could see the shed.
All was well.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Crunch.
What on earth had I hit?
There was the shed.
There was the tractor.
There was the fence.
All in perfect sight.
Okay. I was stumped.
I got out to inspect.
I should point out here that this was the same car that I had only recently filled with diesel fuel. My popularity had developed chills and fever over that event and was still rather . . . inclement. Any new stunt guaranteed that storm clouds would swirl forever more.
Sigh.
I walked to the back of the car.
To see six inches of extra axle poking into the rear car fender.
Oh.
The extra axle.
That would, one day, support extra wheels.
In all of my careful looking, I had forgotten to look up.
To the stupid axle hanging in the air three and a half feet above the ground.
Rats.
Once more, I drove to the house to show my dad.
Who gave me static and labeled me a driving menace.
He was right.

P.S. Tune in tomorrow for the rest of Delores' words . . .

Ups and Downs

Easy

Harder

Living on a great Alberta cattle ranch has its ups and downs.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In Alberta, cattle are generally raised in one of two locations.

In a feedlot. This is for the ‘feeder’ cattle. Those animals one to two years old without offspring.

The upside of a feedlot operation is that when you have to check on your animals, you just walk out into the corral and . . . look. The downside is it’s rather smelly.

But the cattle are happy and healthy with regular feedings and good friends to stand around with, so all is well.

The other location most frequently used is the field. Now the field, as suggested by its name, is out . . . in the field. So . . . not close to the house.

Checking the cattle every day requires a good horse and rider. (ie. me and/or Chico or Bluey or Zee or Zephyr or Fancy or Peanuts or Pinto or Rebel or Lady or Topper or . . .)

Or Dad in the family car. (ie. yikes)

Now, for many fields, the second option wouldn’t be a problem. Those fields are flat. (Saskatchewan flat. Google it…)

In our part of Alberta, the fields aren’t.

Flat, that is.

Maneuvering around them on a horse is simplicity in itself.

In a car? Less so.

And still, Dad did it.

A suggestion of a Sunday drive inevitably ended up in one field or another, ‘just to have a look’.

I, in the back seat would white-knuckle the entire trip as the car went straight up.

Or straight down.

Or, the very worst. Straight sideways.

We kids would roll around in the back seat like dried peas (seatbelts were only something they used at Cape Canaveral).

Fortunately, the speeds were kept to a minimum as we crawled about the field.

But that allowed for me to imagine tipping over backwards. Or forwards. Or sideways.

In slow-motion.

Believe me, I would rather have been crawling.

Quite literally.

The smell of sage in my nostrils.

The feel of the stiff, prairie grass under my palms.

The threat of some messy accident far away in the ‘never-going-to-happen’ realm.

Sigh.

One good thing came of our little trips through the fields.

I mastered the art of breathing only in short gasps.

P.S. I get sick on boats. Something about the up-ing and down-ing and sideways-ing. Perhaps a holdover from my childhood . . .?

Surprising the Surpriser

Little Sister's birthday has always taken a back seat to Halloween. This year, I'm changing that . . .

Happy Birthday, L'il Sis!!!

Before

During

 It was a surprise.

In more ways than one . . .

Mom and I were away for the day . . . somewhere.

My twelve-year-old brother and ten-year-old sister were home alone.

Well, technically, they were in the house alone.

Dad and my older brother were out in the barnyard.

But I digress . . .

Little Sister decided to surprise everyone.

With a delicious, delightful, delectable (that’s all the yummy ‘d’ words I can think of right now) dessert.

A cake.

She had seen Mom do it.

Even helped.

She dragged out the recipe and equipment and proceeded to assemble and stir.

All went well.

Soon, the smell of ‘cake’ was permeating the house.

Skillfully, she tipped the finished product out onto a platter.

Perfect!

And pulled out the ingredients for icing.

Sugar and milk and vanilla.

All according to her handy, dandy (oooh, another ‘d’ word) recipe card.

She added the requisite amount of sugar and milk.

A dribble of vanilla.

And . . . voila . . . what’s wrong with this stuff?!

The mixture at the bottom of the bowl more closely resembled soup than icing.

What had she done wrong?

She read the recipe again. She had measured correctly. Why wasn’t it working?!

She added more sugar.

Still a watery, sugary mess.

She knew that Mom often added flour to soups to thicken.

Maybe that’s what she needed. A bit of flour . . .

Nope. If anything, that made it worse.

She stared into the bowl.

Maybe that was how it was supposed to look?

She tried smearing some on her perfect cake.

Disaster.

Then she did something not mentioned on the recipe card.

She cried.

And that’s when Mom and I walked in the door.

I think Mom managed to salvage the situation.

And the cake.

With a gently-taught lesson on which kind of sugar to use. (Did you know there were kinds?)

Powdered is best for icing.

Turns out that granulated only works in certain, very select situations.

And flour never, ever goes into icing.

Little Sister still bakes. Infrequently, according to her.

After

Maybe she simply too busy being a wife, mom, grand-mom, flight attendant, business owner, cub leader, runner and all-around good friend to worry about anything else.

And that’s okay.

Love you, Best Friend!

Jail Break

Countdown to Halloween . . .

Mischief-maker extraordinaire!

Halloween was a time of hijinks and high-spirited fun in Milk River in the 60s.
Much like it was everywhere.
My brother's stories always surpassed anything my friends and I could dream up, however.
Our lone constable tried hard to keep order in his town.
By different techniques . . .
1. Keeping a strong presence. Rather hard when you are the only cop in  town.  And the 'hooligans' (his word, not mine) know that as soon as you've driven past, you can't see them.
2. Locking everything up. Also only effective if one actually . . . locks . . .
But I am getting ahead of myself.
One group were especially rowdy.
My eldest brother's group.
Oh, they didn't do actual damage, unless you count the time they burned down a rickety old shed and, along with it, the power lines to the entire town.
But that is another story.
They just had fun.
One Halloween, our intrepid, lone policeman decided that the best defense was a good offence.
And the only way to do that was to round up the troublemakers before they actually . . . made . . . trouble.
Which he did.
My brother and his friends were escorted, under protest, to the local jail and locked into one of the cells.
Throughout the evening, many more were brought in.
The cell was getting crowded.
Our policeman was quite proud of himself.
He had single-handedly stopped the mischief in our town.
Genius.
What he hadn't considered was the imagination and daring of this particular group of young men.
And the security of his police station.
With its back door that was never locked.
Ever.
Something that all of the kids in town knew.
Partway through the evening, one of the mayor's sons sneaked in by that door and gave the 'prisoners', which included his brother, a file.
An actual file.
I am not making this up.
Then he left.
The boys locked in the cell immediately went to work and, in short order, filed through one of the bars.
Turns out it can be done . . .
One by one, they sneaked through the opening and out the back door.
One of them, however, refused to leave.
He wanted to see the face of the constable when he discovered the empty cell.
He got his wish.
The constable came in to collect one of the young men for delivery to a waiting parent.
He found, not a sound cell full of potential law-breakers; but instead, a cell minus one bar and most of his prisoners.
Consternation warred with chagrin in his expressive face. (Ooh! Good sentence!)
The lone young man was laying back on a bunk, both hands behind his head.
He sat up. "Sir! There's been a jail-break!"
And you thought Milk River was a sleepy little town!

The Party That Wasn't

Okay. Picture us in costumes. And masks. 

It was the most exciting two months of my life!

And it just kept getting better!

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was five, turning six.

And, finally, that day of days arrived.

That day I’d been looking forward to since . . . I had learned to look forward to . . . things.

I got to go to school with my older brothers and sister.

Surely the best of times.

First school supplies and lunch box.

First bus ride.

First time walking into the new school. (And it was new. We were the first grade one class to actually start there . . .)

First teacher.

First friends.

First enemies.

First lessons.

First mistakes.

First heart-stopping successes.

And then, first time planning a Halloween party.

School just kept getting better and better.

We would have treats and games and more treats and more games.

And be able to dress up.

Mom was right. School was the best place on earth to be.

And to make things even better, our class was going to have a second party.

At our teacher’s home!

Wow!

Okay, I should probably explain, here, that there was no second party at Miss Woronoski’s home. I really don’t know where I got that idea.

And it was mine alone.

Mom dropped us kids off to go trick-or-treating (Moms did that in 1960) and we happily started in.

After a few minutes of knocking on doors and collecting treats, we got to my teacher’s boarding house. Bursting with excitement, I knocked on the door. The lady there was nice and gave us some treats. Then I explained that I was there for the party with Miss Woronoski. She looked rather puzzled, but shrugged and nodded and let me in.

Miss Woronoski wasn’t there. She was out with friends.

But I was welcome to wait.

So I did.

For hours.

Okay, I was six, so it was probably only a few minutes.

When Miss Woronoski finally arrived, she was, justifiably, confused to find one of her students waiting in her sitting room for a party that existed only in the child’s mind.

But she was sweet about it.

And did her best to entertain me until my Mom showed up.

Then she ushered me out the door, whispering words of comfort and sympathy and encouragement in my little ears.

Lest you feel sorry for me, please know I really didn’t miss out on anything that night.

I collected plenty of treats, as well as a couple of hugs from a wonderful teacher.

And isn’t that what Halloween is all about?

Almost ready to go. That's me...eating, as usual.

Any Excuse

Countdown to Halloween . . .

Tristan - acting evil.

Our family loves to dress up.

Maybe that's the reason we love theatre so much.

It's legal there . . .

For my husby and I, it started in our respective childhoods.

We carried it, happily, into our own family.

Through the years, any excuse to dress up was instantly seized.

Halloween.

NewYear's.

St. Patrick's Day.

Thursday.

As I said, any excuse.

Our costume collection grew apace (real word).

In no time, it outgrew the large cardboard box that I had originally stuffed things into and into its own room.

The kids spent many, many happy hours in that room, playing dress-up.

As they grew, so did their costumes, becoming more elaborate and detailed.

Bunnies, ladybugs and clowns became Elizabethan gowns and chain mail.

And I mean real chain mail.

With gauntlets.

The room that holds the costumes now is bigger than our first living room.

Our neighbourhood has grown accustomed to seeing our family traipsing around, dressed . . . unusually.

It's fun.

And now our grandchildren have caught the spirit.

Sometimes, good things are passed down through the generations . . .

Queen of Hearts

And yes, that's real chain mail. He knits it . . .

Expecting their/our first child/grandchild

A night in Bethlehem

Notice the backpack. Authentic in every way! Not!

My Husby as Teddy Roosevelt

Passing it on to the next generation . . .

Yes. They are PJ's

Nick-Naming

Bare Blue Stringam

Both of my parents served in the 4-H calf club in our community.
This duty included attendance at the club's annual summer retreat.
I know you are wondering what this has to do with nicknames, but wait for it . . .
Because both of my parents were going on the trip, all of their children had to come along.
Because.
My brother, Blair, was three.
A happy, friendly little boy.
Who didn't always spit out his words clearly.
One young man, a member of the club, asked the smiling little towhead his name.
"Blair Lewis Stringam."
"What?"
"Blair Lewis Stringam.
"Admittedly, it came out sounding something like 'Blairloostringam'.
But I digress . . .
"Bare Blue Stringam?"
"No! Blair Lewis Stringam."
"Okay. Bare Blue Stringam."
And just like that, he had a nickname.
It's that easy.
My Grampa, George Stringam had a younger brother who couldn't pronounce Grampa's name clearly.
It came out "Dard."
Thus, his nickname. Dard.
Which my brother, George, inherited the moment he was born.
My daughter, Tiana, was learning to spell her name.
She wrote the letters 'T', 'I' and 'N' properly. But her 'A's' had the lines on the wrong sides, thus disguising them as 'B's'.
Her second oldest brother, Erik was looking at a sheet of paper she had been practicing on. "Who's Tibnb?" he asked.
A name we call her to this day.
My eldest daughter was . . . bouncy.
She hopped everywhere.
We called her 'Tigger Pie'.
A lot.
So much that, on her first day of school, she insisted that it was her real name.
Oops.
I, myself have been through several incarnations of my name as told here.
My MIL didn't agree with nicknames. "Why," she would ask, "do people choose perfectly good names for their children, then go out of their way to call them something else entirely?!"
A good question . . .

A Good Cawse

This week's Delores words are way too much fun!

crow, evening, rapid, mist, emerge, blazing
Follow me . . .

A crow emerges from the mist,

Its blazing eyes can’t be dismissed,

I wonder as I have before,

What did he get his bad rap for?

Did he miss eating all his greens?

And then quit cawlege in his teens?

Drink too much cawfee in his life?

Forget to cawl his loving wife?

Perhaps his drinking went too far,

Spent too much time at his crow bar.

No visits from ol’ Santa Caws,

For frequent and diverse faux pas?

Did his cawstume-wearing e’er portend

An inclination to offend?

And did his friends all scream ‘foul play!’

When they met to play crowquet?

The cawking did our bird eschew,

When fixing plumbing old and new?

And did he horrify his Folks

With cawnstant telling of bad Jokes?

When meeting his albino friend,

Call him cawcasian to the end?

And did he stomp the crowcus flat?

When angry, crowcuss like a brat?

For such a shiny, pretty bird,

His reputation seems absurd!

So, for the record, I dispute

The rapid loss of his repute!

‘Tis evening of a crisp fall day,

And shrouded figures come our way,

Please be kind-hearted, don’t demean

Our slandered crows this Halloween.

Fluffy Guardian

Handle with care . . .

I had finished college.
I was now a college graduate.
This meant several things.
1. I was no longer a student.
2. I had to earn my own living
3. I had no idea how to do it
4. I was a bit frightened
My Dad knew the people who published 'The Canadian Hereford Digest'.
Yes, it's just as exciting as it sounds.
And yes, they would give me a job.
Their offices were in Calgary (population 450,000+ in 1975). This necessitated me moving there.
It was a bit larger city than I was used to.
A bit.
Okay, I admit it. Our family had been living outside of Fort MacLeod. Population 3500.
On a ranch.
Population 6.
I don't know what the percentage of difference is.
My estimate would be: large.
I packed up my little, orange Dodge colt and my six-month Old English Sheepdog puppy, Muffy, and headed out.
My best friend, Debbie was living in Calgary, in a comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I could move in with her.
In a matter of hours, it was done.
In a matter of days, I had gotten used to the change of pace that working and living in a large city entailed.
In a matter of weeks, I could fly across said city like a native, making use of the myriad (good word) back streets and little-known avenues.
I was officially a city girl.
I enjoyed my work and the people I worked with.
I got along famously with Debbie.
I was earning $300.00 a month. A fortune!
There really was only one thing that stopped me from being completely happy.
I was still a bit frightened.
Lets face it, Calgary just wasn't a ranch in the Porcupine Hills of Alberta.
For one thing, there were . . . people . . . everywhere you looked. People I didn't know.
And a complete lack of cows.
I did have my dog.
And I found a place to board my horse.
But somehow, that didn't make all of the strangers in my new world any more familiar.
Or friendly.
One Sunday night, I was just returning to my apartment from a weekend at the ranch.
I really hadn't been excited about leaving, so I had put it off until very late.
Very late.
My Muffy and I pulled up in front of the building about 2:00 am.
Now this wouldn't have been a problem back on the ranch. In that safe little world, the most I would have had to worry about was my parents . . . worrying.
Here, there was the unknown.
Suddenly the dark street looked, you know, dark.
And rather scary.
I got out and started unloading my suitcase and boxes of food and donations from my Mom.
Then I proceeded to lock the car door.
Suddenly, Muffy growled.
A deep, forbidding sound.
Then she pressed back against my knees, pushing me against the side of the car.
I stared down at her in surprise.
I should probably mention, here, that Muffy was the gentlest dog ever born.
Her own bark startled her. And I had never heard her growl.
I didn't know she could.
But there, still pressing me back against the car, and still growling deeply, was my gentlest of dogs.
I stared down at her.
A sound intruded.
Footsteps.
I looked up.
Just in time to see two men walk past on the sidewalk.
The far side of the sidewalk.
Both of them were looking at Muffy.
She was definitely looking at them.
Her head was lowered, her stance rigid and the hair on her neck and back, standing up threateningly.
She was almost unrecognizable.
For several moments, we stayed like that.
Muffy, me, and the car.
Which was beginning to dig into my back, by the way.
The men continued on their way, perhaps even quickening their pace a little.
They had disappeared before Muffy quit growling and looked up at me.
Her back end began to wiggle happily once more.
I let out my breath.
We made very quick work of gathering our stuff and getting inside the building.
After that, I made sure I returned, if not in the daylight, at least at a decent hour.
And, oddly enough, I discovered that I was no longer frightened.
And as long as I was accompanied by my guardian.
Gentle Muffy.

Potty 'Train'ing

We are potty training our two-year-old.
With mixed results.
But yesterday, I received a glimmer of hope.
She may be catching on to what 'potty-training' is all about . . .
(Make sure your volume is turned up for this one.)

P.S. If you can't hear it, she's saying, "Train go potty! Train go potty!"

We'll keep working on it . . .