Peeling Poo Prevention

It's magic!

Okay, this is as gritty as I get . . .

Last night, we were having dinner with our good friends.

Lots of talk. Tons of laughter.

And some eating fit in there somewhere.

You know the drill . . .

The talk turned from our kids (our favourite topic) to dogs.

Another favourite.

Our friend, I’ll call her Tammy, mentioned with a shudder, that their miniature schnauzer (hereinafter known as Ruby), sometimes would . . . umm . . . eat those droppings she should have left far behind.

Yes, this was during dinner – now you know why there was more talk and laughter than eating.

Moving on . . .

Tammy had read, recently, that this usually indicated a lack of potassium.

And that the best treatment was to feed her dog a bit of banana.

Did you know that dogs like banana?

Well they do.

Ruby snapped it up like manna from heaven.

And the . . . umm . . . unfortunate tendency . . . disappeared.

Ta-daa!

Tammy’s husby, . . . I’ll call him Gord, spoke up.

“You know,” he said. “I knew it would work!”

We all looked at him.

“Yeah. I’ve been eating bananas forever . . .”

We waited for the punch line . . .

“. . . and I’ve never once been tempted to eat my droppings!”

Banana. Tasty prevent-er of so many things . . .

Lava Love

“Gaahh! Mom! You’re standing in the lava!”

Mom and Dad had taken us kids to see the movie ‘Krakatoa, East of Java’.
(Okay, yes, I know that the title is geographically incorrect, but that was what it was called.)

It had scared me to death. All my young, six-year-old mind could think of after that was trying to get away from the slowly-flowing river of death.

And my favourite game became the daring deathwalk over precariously-placed pillows across the lava lake that was the front room.

I was at it again.

And Mom wasn’t cooperating.

“Oops! Sorry!” Mom jumped lightly onto the closest pillow.

Whew! That was close! I didn’t have a lot of Moms to spare. I’d sure hate to lose this one.

For hours, my brother and I made up scenarios that necessitated leaping back and forth across the pillows and landing, temporarily safe, on the couch or coffee table.

It was fun.

And we never got burned even once.

Nimble kids that we were.

Fast forward a few years . . .

My kids were downstairs playing.

I went to check on them.

They had pillows placed at strategic intervals across the family room floor.

“Careful, Mom! Don’t step in the lava!”

Now where did they get that idea?

The déjà vu was frightening.

And, moving forward again - a lot of years . . .

Yesterday, my daughter and I were visiting in the front room, seated comfortably in recliners.

Her daughter and another granddaughter were playing.

They had been through the toy box.

And had graduated to hiding under piles of cushions on the couch.

Giggling.

A few minutes went by.

“Careful!” the three-year-old said.

I turned to see what they were doing.

They had set the cushions out across the floor in a line and were hopping back and forth along them.

“Stay on the bridge!” the three-year-old cautioned. “Don’t get hurt!”

The two-year old jumped off the last cushion and onto the floor.

“Gaahh!” my daughter and I said together. “You’re stepping in the lava!”

Okay, now I see where it comes from . . .

A Moving Meeting

See? 4-H. Totally important.

 I was raised on a ranch near the small town of Milk River, Alberta.

On the Alberta/Montana border.

Farming and ranching country.

We were, quite literally, children of the prairies.

Big brother, George. And calf.

And the highlight of our young lives - the very pinnacle we could aspire to – was 4-H Calf Club.

Our world was small, I admit it.

Yep. When we turned the age of twelve, we could – at last! – join the calf club.

We learned many things there.

Of course, the main (and most obvious) were the care and feeding of your calf.

In my case, handled almost exclusively by my big brother, George.

Because he’s amazing. (Are you reading this, George?)

Big brother, Jerry, ditto.

But there was also the record keeping. (Which George completely refused to do for me. Sigh.)

And the monthly meetings.

Wherein (Oooh! Good word!) we were supposed to learn the proper, accepted, efficient way to run a gathering of that type.

I emphasize the words ‘supposed to’.

Because we didn’t.

Always.

In fact, at some point during many of our meetings, our current club president would throw up his hands and exclaim, in loud and carrying tones, “I don’t know why I do this! I’m getting outta here!”

Something he never did.

Returning to the idea of running a proper meeting . . .

Me. With glasses. And calf.

We had been taught that, if we had something to offer, we should do it in the form of a ‘motion’. As in: ‘I would like to make a motion.’ And then followed by ‘I move . . .’

We were getting it. We were.

One evening, the meeting had been going well.

Everyone had been unusually attentive.

And our leader hadn’t, even once, cried out in despair.

Then one shy young man stuck up his hand.

He was recognized by the ‘Chair’.

And he proceeded. “I-I-I w-would like to m-make a movement!”

There was silence. Then some sniggers.

Umm . . . first door down the hall? Says ‘boys’ on the door?

One of the leaders whispered into his ear, “Motion.”

“Motion!” he corrected himself, turning bright red. “I-I w-would like to make a motion!”

Things carried on.

But the mood had definitely been lightened.

Who says meetings have to be boring?

4-H. Don't you wish you were here?

The grand finale.

Let Them Eat Corn

I can only dream . . .

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this in the middle of winter?

Because it’s the middle of winter.

Moving on . . .

For over thirty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

Cautious, that it.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating .

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.

In the Ear

My Sweetie and Me

Newly married.

What a wonderful time.

A time of love. Friendship. Companionship.

A time of discovering for the first time that one has a true and forever friend. Someone to be with. Always.

It's magical.

Then, too, it is the time to discover those frailties that we have tried so very hard to keep from our sweethearts. 

And finally have to admit to owning. 

Everyone has bodily functions.

Get over it.

My husband I had been married for a couple of weeks.

He had risen early in the morning and disappeared into the bathroom.

I had stayed where I was. Warm and comfy and still deliciously drowsy.

Soon the door opened and my new husband emerged, but . . . not looking as he had when he went in.

He had blown his nose, while attending to other necessities, and given himself a nosebleed.

Easily fixed. Just stuff a Kleenex into his left nostril.

Oh. He had discovered a pimple in his right ear. Quickly disposed of. And another Kleenex inserted to blot up any discharge.

Now, back to bed to snuggle with his new wife.

I stared at this apparition who was approaching my bed. It looked like my husband. But it had white tissues issuing from nose and ear. Could it possibly be . . .? I braced myself up on one arm. "Is that one Kleenex?" (Hand gestures to suggest pulling something which had been run into the head through the ear and now protruded from the nostril.)

"Harrumph!"

"Was that a 'harrumph'?"

With a glare, he jerked the Kleenex out of his ear, spun around and headed back into the bathroom.

And firmly closed the door.

He never answered my question . . .

Hunting Arti-facts

Have you seen one of these?

In 1979, Husby and I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba so he could complete his Master’s degree in history.

It was an interesting, eye-opening experience for a girl who had never been off the ranch for more than a few days.

We were there for eight months.

It was as long as I could be away from my beloved Alberta prairies . . .

But moving back to Alberta necessitated some commuting back and forth as he completed his thesis.

These trips, a necessity for him, were pure holidays for me.

One, in particular, stands out . . .

We had packed up another couple, parked our kids with our respective mothers, and headed out.

It was a joyous, happy group that talked and laughed our way across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

One evening, the four of us camped at Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, an historic buffalo hunting site just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. (Yes, there really is a place called Moose Jaw.)  Years ago, native hunters used to drive herds of buffalo into the bogs in the area and dispatch them as they struggled in the mud.

Umm . . . ick.

Remember where I said that Husby’s thesis was in history?

Well, that would become important here . . .

 Because such sites are a good place to find artifacts. My Husby’s favourite pastime.

And what else would one want to do when holidaying?

Immediately after setting up camp, the two husbys set out.

Most notably, they were looking for arrow heads.

We wives stayed at the campsite, visiting, preparing the evening meal and generally enjoying the outdoors and the fact that we weren’t sitting in a car.

About half-an-hour after they set out, our Husbys returned.

With broad grins denoting success.

“We found an arrowhead!” they announced.

“Really?” Okay, we wives were a little bit surprised. Pleased for them. But surprised.

“It really wasn’t that hard! We just looked around and there it was, laying right out in the open!”

“Well, let us see it! Let us see it!”

A hand was extended and there, in the palm, was indeed an arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Rubber. With a suction cup on one end.

Our great archeologists’ work was done.

Going in the Woods

Ahhh! Romance!

Our good friends had been dating . . . umm . . . each other . . . for some time.

For a young man deeply in love, a despairingly long time.

He had decided that the moment had come.

In a surge of love and commitment, he had purchased . . . the ring.

Then, being a man of imagination and daring, he plotted . . . the proposal.

He would take his love to their favourite place and pop the question there.

Where was their favourite place?

The woods.

Brilliant.

All had gone according to plan.

They had rambled along the woodsy paths.

Had a picnic.

The time had come to hide the ring, then lead his love to the magical spot.

And propose.

He excused himself, citing ‘having to take care of some business’.

Now I don’t know about you, but if I was walking with someone in the woods, and he excused himself saying . . . that . . . I know what I would think.

His soon-to-be-if-all-went-well fiancée thought the same thing.

He disappeared.

She sat on a log among the pink, white and indigo flowers and waited.

And waited.

Finally, a large grin of satisfaction on his face, her date returned.

She stood up.

“So!” he said heartily, thinking of the ring he had just so cleverly hidden. “Do you want to see where I went?”

Now, in his mind, all was sweet, romantic and full of promise and anticipation as he led his love to that beautiful, magical little clearing.

In hers . . .

“Umm . . . no,” she said, giving him a strange look.

It took a moment to register.

His well-planned, uber-romantic idea had just fallen flat.

‘Business in the woods’ flat.

And looking in from the outside, I would have to side with her.

Oh, they did get engaged.

And married.

Enjoyed parenthood and are now enjoying grandparenthood.

He just learned, when planning surprises, he had to be more careful of how things look.

And how he worded them.

Once again, Delores of Under the Porch Light has supplied the words!

register, flat, surge, indigo, despairingly, log

Once more, we scramble to obey!

Wish Me Luck

Beginner’s Luck.

First time’s the charm.

Fortuitous, jammy, miraculous, providential, heaven smiles on you, fluky, as luck would have it, in luck, more by luck than judgment, someone’s lucky day, when your ship comes in.

It’s happened to me.

Twice.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I’ve always been interested in sports.

Playing them, not watching them.

An important side note.

Back to my story . . .

Annually, throughout my school years, all of us were bussed to another school to participate in ‘Track Meet’.

It was our only field trip and a wonderful, joyous escape from the normal, mundane, humdrum grind of daily learning.

At the track meet, one would be expected to participate in different events.

My specialties were running, long jump, and high jump. And I had been practicing.

Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. (Emphasis on the ‘nauseam’.)

This was a long, long time ago . . . sigh.

At one meet, the hosting school introduced a new event. The softball throw.

Okay, it wasn’t complicated. You merely took the ball.

And threw it.

Easy peasy.

My friends encouraged me to enter.

I did.

I threw that ball clear to the other end of the mapped-out area. Set a record.

Of course, I was never able to approach that distance with my other two throws.

Or ever again.

First time lucky.

My second experience was during college, again at a track meet, this time with other people who had trained.

I had been practicing my sprint, long jump and high jump.

I’m nothing if not predictable.

At the meet, someone put a javelin in my hand.

With no other training or experience, I took that sucker and threw it.

And set a new college record.

My teacher, seeing me as some sort of prodigy, grabbed me and proceeded to train.

And I never again was able to throw that stupid stick anywhere near what I had that first time.

Beginner’s luck.

See?

P.S. I’m going out to buy my first, ever lottery ticket.

Wish me beginner’s luck.

Warm, But Gusty

This . . .

Sometimes, setting a record is a good thing.

Sometimes . . . it isn’t.

Yesterday, on the 15 of January in Edmonton, Alberta, we set a record for temperature. +10C ( +50F).

Happy dance!

And wind. 120 KPH (75 MPH).

Ick.

Fortunately, we don’t often get gales of this force up here.

But in Southern Alberta, they are quite common . . .

In the early days of our marriage, Husby and I bought a mobile home.

It was 686 square feet of cozy, happy space.

And it was all ours!

Our little home on wheels came with a small entryway, built by the previous owner and attached to the side of the trailer with an assortment of screws.

Husby got the trailer set up. Dug lines for water and sewer. Connected the power.

And attached the entry.

We had a home!

I should probably mention, here, that, in Southern Alberta, mobile homes MUST be set up in an east-to-west direction. If they sit north-to-south, there is a very real risk of having them roll over in tomorrow’s gale force winds.

True story.

Moving on . . .

Our little home sat on the bare prairie, fully exposed to the elements, but it presented one of the small sides to the wind.

All was well.

Our bedroom was in the far west side. No problem.

And then . . . the wind.

During the day, spending our time - as we did - in the center, or on the east end, the wind was merely scary as the trailer shivered with each onslaught.

At night, however, it was truly terrifying as we lay in our bed with the floor bucking and hopping beneath us.

One doesn’t get much sleep when one is in a constant state of ‘oh-my-goodness-we-are-going-to-roll-completely-over-with-the-next-gust’.

One afternoon, I was standing in the kitchen with the wind howling around me. A strange noise had begun. A . . . scraping sound. I waited for the next blast. There it was again. I followed the sound.

Right to our little entryway.

With each blast, it was being slowly ripped from its moorings. I could see daylight in the cracks.

Frantically, I called Husby at work.

He hurried home and surveyed the situation. He fired up the tractor and placed the bucket against the backside of the little box, supporting it against the onslaught.

Then went back to work.

For the rest of the day, I kept an eye on our sad little entryway.

Things didn’t look good.

Finally, Husby came home for the day. He looked at the entry, creaking and jumping with every gust.

Then he reached out and, putting a hand under the step, lifted.

The entire structure vaulted into the air like a box-kite and flew 300 feet, landing in the nearby field. You have to know that this wasn’t a little, flimsy, featherweight structure. It was built of solid materials. Walls, floor, roof, doors.

And yet it flew 300 feet.

Yikes.

Husby then proceeded to build newer, bigger and better.

Which lasted until we sold our little first home and moved north.

Out of the wind.

Into the cold.

But our house didn’t shake and we could sleep at night.

Yep. I'll take the cold.

Or this . . .
Photo Credit

Getting Pinched

Five of the six siblings. Husby is the cutie on the far right.

Family travel in the late fifties was . . . interesting.

I don’t know how we survived it.

The kids were herded, en masse, into the back seat of the car and the door was shut.

The youngest invariably rode up front, between Mom and Dad.

No one was buckled in.

The kids rolled around in the back seat like dried peas.

Interaction between the two quadrants of the car was usually accomplished by someone in back standing up and leaning comfortably over the front seat.

As a sop to safety, the driver often extended an arm sideways when braking.

Yep. Interesting.

Six-year-old Husby was travelling with his family.

Mom. Dad. Six kids.

Their sedan was hurtling over paved roads at speeds close to 60 MPH.

They passed a road sign.

Suggested speed – 60 MPH.

“Dad.” Husby was standing up, leaning over the seat. “What does that sign mean?”

His dad glanced at the sign. “That means we’re supposed to travel at sixty miles-per-hour,” he said. He pointed to the speedometer. “See?”

“Oh.”

Just then, another car sped past them, obviously going far faster than the ‘suggested’ speed.

“How come that guy is going faster?”

“Because he isn’t obeying the law.”

“Oh.”

Things were quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as a car carrying eight people can be.

Then, “Dad. What happens if you go too fast?”

“The police will pinch you.”

“Oh.”

Husby thought about this for a long time. The police will ‘pinch’ you?

Obviously it was something to be avoided and/or feared. Husby had been pinched before. It was momentarily painful, but not terribly so. The police must do something really different to make people afraid of being pinched.

Finally, “Dad? When the police pinch you, do they use pliers?”

A six-year-old mind hard at work . . .

Bunny Breakage

Dishes and I have a history.

Okay, yes, I use them at meals.

But we regard each other with deep suspicion.

I’ve recounted one experience here.

But the one I’m about to describe is the first I can remember . . .

On the Stringam ranch, mealtimes were an exciting gustatory trip down the trail to deliciousness.

When the meal ended, the work began.

Well, for the rest of us. Mom had obviously already been at . . . never mind.

I was five.

The work, for me, consisted of transporting non-breakables from the table to the sink.

Yep. The spoons, butter knives and forks were my special friends.

Occasionally, I also branched out and dealt with such things as: napkins. Salt and pepper. Toothpicks.

My work load was exhausting.

Leftovers were carefully covered and stored in the ‘fridge.

Anything left on the plates was scraped into one container and taken out to the dogs, who then thought they had been sent to doggie heaven.

It was 1960. Doggie nutrition and diet hadn’t been invented yet.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, the scraps had been placed in my little brother’s ‘bunny’ bowl.

A cute little china bowl with a bunny scene in the bottom and bunnies running all around the outside.

The favourite choice of the under-five group.

Which, at that time, consisted of my brother.

Moving on . . .

Everyone was busy.

I had finished my all-important silverware shuffle and was at a loose end.

Then I saw it.

The bowl of dog scraps. Just sitting there, waiting for some grown-up person to transport it.

Me!

“Mom! I’m gonna take out the scraps!” I said, in my most authoritative voice.

“Mmm,” Mom said.

You have to understand that she was busy: effecting the organization of three other children, keeping a watch on the baby and talking to Dad.

“Yeah. I’m big enough!”

“Yes, dear.”

She said yes!

I grabbed the bowl and headed for the door.

Feeding the dogs on the ranch consisted of carrying the scraps across the cement driveway to the far copse of trees beside the old garage and tipping said scraps into the large, metal hubcap waiting there.

Sound easy?

Now picture several dogs (who had appeared as soon as the door opened) leaping and jumping around like idiots.

I suddenly realized why the job of taking out the scraps usually fell to a . . . bigger person.

I didn’t even make it across the driveway.

Blair’s little bunny bowl was knocked from my hand, breaking in half on impact.

The dogs happily started in on the scraps (glass fragments hadn’t been invented, either) and I collected the two pieces and returned, in tears of defeat, to my Mom.

It would be some years before I was again trusted with anything breakable. (See above.)

And our little bunny bowl was gone forever.

P.S. There is a happy ending to this story.

During a recent trip to Costco with my son, I saw something that . . . . well, I‘ll just let you see for yourself.

They’re back. Or, in truth, were never, really gone.

Just keep them away from me!

The Gratitude Attitude

Husby and I have just spent the past five days with our middle son at his home in Courtenay, BC.

They have been days of long, long talks.

Walks on the beaches of Vancouver Island.

Hikes through thick, soft forests.

Soaks in the hot tub.

Meals at our favourite restaurant.

More talking.

It has been an all-to-brief dip in paradise.

We just finished lunch at a local fast-food restaurant on our way to the airport.

The food was very edible.

And prepared by someone other than us.

Which made it amazing.

My son thanked one of the servers on our way out.

It reminded me of something . . .

Admit it, you'd love for someone
to make this for you !

I'm weird.

I do weird things.

I've accepted it.

Moving on . . .

I had taken my three-year-old granddaughter to The Mall.

The big mall. The one that covers many city blocks and holds many, many stores and attractions.

And several thousand people.

It is bright. Entertaining. Noisy.

And, at times, crowded.

Kids love it there.

Parents tolerate it.

Older people ignore the enticement of 'modern shopping gone mad' and use it as an indoor track during the interminable Edmonton winter.

'People-dodging' has become an accepted, even sought for work-out.

With all these people and attractions vying (real word) for our attention, it is only understandable that some . . . gentility might get lost.

Let me explain . . .

My granddaughter and I were waiting for my son to finish an interview.

We were hungry.

The choices were, truly, endless.

She chose McDonald's.

Because.

We ordered from a smiling young man. Chicken pieces for her.

Salad for me.

We found a booth and started eating.

Now, I should point out here that, for the most part, I like McDonald's food.

Not gourmet, but tasty and satisfying.

Even with those expectations, my salad was a very pleasant surprise.

It was good.

Really good.

In fact, probably one of the best salads I had ever eaten.

Crisp where it should be crisp. Cheesy where it should be cheesy. Olive-y where it should . . . you get the picture.

I looked at the brightly illustrated billboard to recall what I had ordered.

Ah. Mediterranean salad.

Huh.

I finished.

And licked the bowl.

Okay, not quite, but I have to admit that I was certainly tempted.

My granddaughter finished her meal.

"Come with me, Sweetie." I took her hand and walked back to the counter.

A young woman was standing there, smiling brightly.

I went up to her. "Hello. May I please speak to the manager?"

Her smile . . . dimmed somewhat.

"Umm . . . yes?" She started to slide down the counter away from me.

I followed. Finally, "Are you the manager?"

She nodded hesitantly, by now, her smile all but gone.

"Oh, good. Well I have to tell you that I just ordered your Mediterranean salad," I pointed, "and it is probably the best salad I've tasted in my life. Thank you."

She stared at me. Finally, my words must have sunk in, because, suddenly, her face lit up.

Really. With the biggest smile I had ever seen.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, rather breathlessly.

The boy who had served us our meal suddenly appeared from the 'food' part of the establishment, where it would seem he had been hiding, and presented me with an equally large smile.

"Thank you!" he said.

I smiled at them and left.

I have to tell you that this isn't an unusual thing for me to do.

It started when I saw the movie, "Heaven Can Wait", with Warren Beatty. In one scene, he gets up from the very formal meal, served by his army of servants, and pushing open the kitchen door, hollers, "Thanks for dinner!" or something like that.

Now I had been raised to always compliment and thank my mother, or whoever had prepared my food in ours or someone else's home. I had just never taken it to the next level.

Thanking and complimenting someone you haven't even met. 

Or seen.

After that movie, I decided to try it.

With amazing results.

I've now been doing it for years.

Almost without fail, I receive surprised, but enthusiastic smiles.

And gratitude.

It's a simple thing.

A smile, a compliment, and a thank you.

It might put some much-needed sunshine into someone's day.

I know it did that day, in that crowded mall.

Into mine.

Putting Out the Fireman

See? Easy.

Our third son, Duff, works with Special Needs adults.

An exhausting, trying, patience-testing, infinitely rewarding sort of job.

Which entails certain daily routines in and around the home and community.

As well as occasional forays into uncharted waters . . .

As part of their ongoing safety training, Duff and his clients were at a local fire station, receiving instruction in the dousing of a fire.

The obliging firemen had a controlled, but fair-sized fire going.

And each of the observers were given the . . . opportunity . . . to take one of a selection of fire extinguishers and actually use it to put out the fire.

All had gone well.

Even Duff’s clients had taken a hand at pointing and shooting.

And dousing.

It was finally Duff’s turn. The very last of the spectators.

He listened to the instructor’s careful instructions, nodded, gripped the handle of the extinguisher, and squeezed.

There was a slight ‘snap’ as the triggering mechanism broke, turning the stream of fire-retardant powder on full.

They were standing in the rain, it being Vancouver Island, and the nozzle was rain-slick.

The unexpected pressure caused it to slip from Duff’s hand.

The hose flipped around like something gone mad, spraying, first him, then his instructor with thick, white powder.

Duff got off easy. He was white from his mouth down.

But his instructor took the blast full in the face.

Full. In. The. Face.

It was like a scene out of a Laurel and Hardy film. (Google it . . .)

His coworkers, while trying to suppress their snickers, asked if he was all right.

“Yeah,” he said. “I managed to close my eyes.” He turned slowly and, blindly, made his way to the eye-washing station.

Duff, meanwhile, managed to recapture the errant hose and gradually force the valve shut.

The stream of white powder slowed. Then stopped.

Everyone surveyed the mess.

The entire area was heavily coated in white powder.

And the fire was still burning.

I don’t want you to think that anyone Duff works with is in any danger.

He can certainly handle any emergency that arises.

He also supplies the entertainment.

Fatherhood

I think he did just fine!

Many men take a very active role in child-rearing in this modern day.

There are baby-change-stations in public mens’ rooms.

And I’ve even seen a ‘Father’s Room’, complete with rocking chairs, for feeding and caring for babies and children.

It’s a good thing.

When I was growing up, it was not so.

Men were not only not encouraged to take part in the care of children.

At times, they were actually discouraged.

My dad started child-raising in the 40s. I don’t think he changed a diaper in his whole life.

Husby started fatherhood in the late 70s. He changed plenty.

And my sons rearing children in the present day? Even more.

But it’s not really the diaper-changing that I’m talking about. It’s what it represents.

A chance to take a more active role, and be closer to, their children.

My dad has observed this shift in the parenting paradigm.

With regret.

Let me tell you about it . . .

In the earlier days of our marriage, Husby and I lived in a small home that he had built. A very small home. 306 square feet.

Cozy.

In that tiny space, we still managed all of the amenities. I had my washer and drier. And even my dishwasher.

There was a miniscule front room, carpeted with tacked-down rug samples from our local carpet store.

Luxury.

One day, my dad stopped by for a chat.

I happily sat down with him in the front room.

There, between us on an otherwise tidy floor, lay a broom.

Two things stand out in the aforementioned (Oooh, good word!) statement. One, that the room was tidy. Weird. And two, that there was a broom in the middle of the carpeted floor.

But I digress . . .

Dad noticed the broom. “Um, Diane,” he said. “Why do you have a broom in the middle of your carpeted front room floor?”

I looked at it. “Oh.” Then, “Erik!”

My two-year-old bounced into the room.

“Your steed!” I said.

Erik grinned and, picking up the broom, he straddled it and ‘rode’ it out of the room.

Then I turned back to Dad.

He was shaking his head and had tears in his eyes.

“Dad! What’s wrong?”

“I never enjoyed you kids when you were little,” he said. “Never spent enough time with you. I should have.”

Dad was a product of his time. A time when men weren’t expected to take that more proactive role.

It’s a great pity.

P.S. Dad has made up for his perceived lack of involvement with his own kids by being very proactive in his grandkids’. 

It’s a beautiful thing.

Adventure . . . umm . . . Calling?

Sometime, I’d like to take a trip,

To parts mysterious and deep,

‘Cross vast and strange new lands, I’d skip,

While tooling in my trusty jeep.

Taking everything in stride,

No mayhem, monsters, storms or signs

Would startle me or turn the tide,

From exploration I’d designed.

I’d walk on lands both near and far,

And check out strains indigenous,

No fears or qualms of things bizarre.

No misgivings to discuss.

I’d leave my plastic world behind,

And print my own exciting map,

Feeling free and unconfined,

Adventures falling in my lap.

I’d learn the jargon: trudge, poop deck,

Adventure, survey, navigate,

Tramp, spelunk and cruise and trek,

Ramble, hike, triangulate.

I’d do all this, and without fear,

Though something dims my zeal somewhat,

To see those worlds both far and near,

I’d have to get up off my butt.

P.S. This poem is courtesy of Delores' Wednesday Word challenge.

Oh, Delores! My Delores! What fun you give to everyone!

This week's words: 

print, mayhem, indigenous, plastic, jeep, triangle.

Putting Them Off

See the guy in the background? That's Dad. Entertaining the troops.
Foreground, the troops. 

My Father-In-Law (hereinafter known as ‘Dad’) was a farmer.

A good farmer. In over fifty years of dry land farming, he only failed to bring in a crop once.

And that was during a great drought year, when no one brought in anything.

He was careful and meticulous.

Smart and efficient.

And had a great sense of humour.

One that wasn’t always appreciated by the next generation . . .

The drive from Fort Macleod to the largest nearby city, Lethbridge, was a distance of about thirty miles.

Not a great distance, but an uneventful, rather boring, ride.

At least it was for the boys who had tagged along.

Halfway between the two destinations was the small hamlet of Monarch.

And there, at the side of the road in Monarch, was a gas station.

With a pop machine.

On really good days . . . really, really good days . . . Dad would pull in to the station and purchase – at the great price of seven cents – a bottle of pop for each of the boys.

Would it be a great surprise if I mentioned that said boys wanted every trip to Lethbridge to be a really good day? And end with a stop for pop?

Probably not.

On the days when the gas station appeared . . . and then disappeared just as quickly, a small head would bob up from the back seat. “Da-ad! I wanted a pop!”

To which Dad would reply, “The well at home is brimming with pop!”

At first, this stumped the boys. Their well had pop? How had they missed that?!

Then they realized that he was simply ‘putting them off’.

“Da-ad! The well’s full of water!!!”

Sigh.

Dad was also known for his store of treats. Something saved for a rainy day.

And called, interestingly enough, ‘Rainy Days’ (told here.).

Usually when his kids clamoured for a treat, he could slip into his bedroom and come out with a bag of candies. Or chocolates. Or, on a good day, licorice.

But sometimes, he would be caught somewhere other than home, without a treat in the landscape.

On those occasions, he improvised.

Picking up a small rock, he would hand it to whichever kid was making the most noise and say, “Here, suck on this. The flavour will come.”

My Husby hasn’t told me how many times Dad did this.

Dozens.

And the kids actually tried.

At least once.

Each.

Putting off kids.

Some Dads just have it.

The Bubble Solution

I spent part of my Sunday helping in the Nursery at our church.

It was an experience.

Twenty little kids, ages 1 ½ to 3 years.

What do you call a group of toddlers?

A tantrum of toddlers?

A teeter?

Tumble?

It would be worth exploring.

I know what you call a group of parents/grandparents who have spent the ensuing two hours with the little cretins. A tired.

But I digress . . .

This little group of boys and girls had been playing happily.

Reading books. (I use this term lightly.)

Running.

Playing with puzzles. (Again used lightly.)

Running.

Throwing balls and other toys at each other.

Running.

‘Cooking’ such gourmet specialties as . . . trucks. Shoes. At least one book. And two of the puzzle pieces we had been hunting for for over twenty minutes.

Playing with dollies.

Fighting/tug-o-warring with said dollies.

Crying when dollies were put away in a safe place and other toys introduced.

Running.

Falling off the slide.

Devouring snacks.

Devouring their neighbour’s snacks.

Running.

Before you think any of them were in any real danger, let me disabuse you.

No one was in any real danger.

There were few tears (mostly at losing their tug-o-war prop) and no injuries.

But I discovered something.

See?

When a group of toddlers is running madly and the room is started to resemble the streets of Edmonton after the Stanley Cup, all one has to do is turn on the bubble machine.

It’s true. I watched it happen.

The bubbles instantly attracted (and held) the entire group of toddlers.

They (the bubbles, I mean) floated gently into the air and every child in the room stopped what they were doing and exclaimed, as one, “Oooooh!” Then they ran to the blanket/blotter beside the machine and jumped and hopped, trying to catch the little, dripping, glistening balls of wonder and amazement.

It was incredible. Magical.

Quiet.

I’m getting a machine like that!

P.S. I wonder if this would work on the mobs that form after sporting events or political rallies? It's worth thinking about . . . 

Who's with me?!

Thanks, Mom

Today, January 6, would be my Mom’s 90^th birthday.

Wow. 90.

Missing her today . . .

Mom

It’s odd, but when I think of my mom, what comes to mind the most are stories of her and food.

Mom was a terrific cook.

Maybe not so odd after all . . .

Anecdote One:

We were eating pot roast, one of Mom’s specialties.

I should probably point out, here, that when roast beef was served on the beef-raising Stringam ranch, the only condiments permitted were the drippings it was cooked with, gravy made from said drippings, or the Lea and Perrins or Worchestershire Sauces.

Ketchup was . . . frowned upon.

Thus, on the table flanking the platter of sliced meat always sat a gravy boat and two bottles.

If one wanted anything else, one had to get it oneself.

And then endure Dad’s disgusted stare while one used it.

Ahem.

Moving on . . .

Mom had filled her plate and was preparing to dig in.

She looked up. “Would someone please pass me the Pea and Larens?”

Okay, I’m sure you’ve mixed up letters before.

I know I have.

But to six small-minded little kids, asking for something that began with ‘Pee’ was beyond funny.

We laughed about it for the rest of the meal.

And still refer to Lea and Perrins as Pea and Larens. Yes. We’re just disgusting that way.

Anecdote Two:

Mom loved to cook with onions.

Dad hated onions.

He was tactful about it though. He simply said they ‘didn’t agree with him’.

His attitude wafted through the family.

My younger brother, in particular developed an aversion to them.

But Mom insisted that they were needed for flavour.

She chopped them as small as she could, trying to get them under the radar.

With mixed results.

We were eating bowls of Mom’s rich stew.

Chunks of tender meat.

Potatoes, carrots, peas and other vegetables in a tasty gravy.

Mmmm.

My brother lifted a spoonful. “Hey!” he said. “There’s an onion here!”

Mom, without batting an eye said, “That’s not an onion! That’s a celery!”

“Oh,” my brother said. He frowned suspiciously for a moment.

Then ate it.

Score one for my Mom.

Now, years after she’s gone, whenever I ask for something disgusting to put on my roast beef, or when I chop 'celery' to add to something simmering on the stove, I think of her.

Thanks, Mom.

Cleaning Up Our Language

Probe, (n): a parlor game introduced in the 1960s by Parker Brothers. It is reminiscent of the simple two-person game Hangman, whose object is to guess a word chosen by another player by revealing specific letters. Probe extends the number of players to a maximum of four and introduces additional game elements that increase the levels of both skill and chance. Like Hangman, each player has a secret chosen word. But unlike Hangman, the game ends when the last word, not the first word, is revealed. All players remain in the game until the end.

Enough background . . .

My Father-In-Law, Ray (hereinafter known as Dad), loved games. But one of his favourites was the game of Probe. He loved the challenge of guessing his fellow players’ words.

And he really loved the challenge of coming up with nasty, horrible, very, very difficult words.

Particularly words containing letter such as ‘Z’ or ‘X’ or ‘Q’ or ‘K’.

Or multiples of the same.

Sneaky devil . . .

Dad loved this part of the game so much that he kept a list of words he encountered.

I am not making this up.

In his breast pocket, he kept a list of words he had read or heard that would surely stump his opponents in future games of Probe.

Such words as: acquire (a ‘c’ and a ‘q’? Come on!!!). Galax (wha . . .?). Abuzz (took us a while with that one!). Katharometer (okay, now you’re just making stuff up . . .).

Ugh.

So while I was composing such stumpers as rhododendron, he was crafting masterpieces like: xenophobia. Now how do you compete with that?

It got so that, when any of us sat down to play the game with him, we’d see that list come out, and hear the distant drums that signalled our impending doom.

Sigh.

But my Mother-In-Law beat him.

Okay, I don’t mean actually ‘beat’ him, although there were times (Particularly when he dipped into that pocket and emerged with that list) . . .

No. I mean that she fixed him and his little list of stinkers for good.

And she wasn’t even playing the game.

How? You ask as you prepare to play your own game and are looking for an edge . . .

Simple. She waited for laundry day and washed his list.

When he complained long and loud about her actions, she snickered and said, “Well, they were dirty words. I just had to clean them up!”

Of course she claimed forevermore that it really was an accident. And that she’d never actually meant to do it.

But we knew.

She was simply getting payback for trying to guess such posers as: zomotherapy. And: quadriform.

Yep. We knew.

Genius.