My Grandpa Stringam

My Grandpa as I remember him. With Chris and Jerry. 

My Grandpa Stringam was born in 1876, in Holden Utah.

He ranched there with his dad. Married. Prepared to welcome children.

And then tragedy struck.

His first wife, Mary Ann (May) Snow, passed away, together with her twin unborn sons, following an accident involving runaway horses.

Broken hearted, Grampa continued to ranch. Then accepted a call to serve a mission for his church to Australia.

After his return home, he married longtime friend, Sarah Lovina Williams and they set up housekeeping, first on his father’s farm, then on their own place in Teasdale, Utah.

A few years later, they had settled in Glenwood, Alberta, ranching there and in the Milk River area, and raising nine of eleven children.

My dad was the baby.

Grampa was a rancher, husband, father, grandfather, MLA for Cardston for three terms, faithful church attender and leader, neighbour and friend.

He was faithful, honest, hardworking, kind, and thorough, with a terrific sense of humour and a firm belief that actions should always speak louder than words.

My Dad loved him and tries to emulate him to this day.

Grandpa Stringam passed away when I was four.

I have only one memory of him . . .

My grandparents, in their later years, moved to the city of Lethbridge, in Southern Alberta. The main entry of their home opened onto a hallway that bisected the house, front to back, with French doors to the right, leading into the living room.

Behind those doors was my grandfather’s recliner.

At this point in time, he must have been quite ill with the cancer that finally took his life.

All I know is that’s where I found him.

Reclined in his chair, feet up and newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Grampa!” I said.

The newspaper dropped. “There’s our little Diane girl!”

That was all the invitation I needed.

There was Grandpa. There was Grandpa’s lap. Just waiting for a little girl to snuggle.

And that’s what I did.

For several minutes, I cuddled there, listening to his heart beating and the sound of his voice coming through his chest as he talked to my parents.

I didn’t follow the conversation, which was probably quite serious.

All I knew was that I felt safe. And cared for.

Breathing in, for what turned out to be the last time, the scent that was Grandpa. 

As a young man

During his mission to Australia

Oh, the missionary life!

May 4, 1903

At my parents' wedding

Gramma and Grampa Stringam on their Golden Anniversary

A Royal Welcome

Go on. Give it a pull!

Life on a ranch is glorious.

Open, endless vistas.

Fresh air.

Time with you family.

And endless hours with your 'other' co-worker.

Your steady, actually-does-most-of-the-work partner.

Your horse.

Did you know that horses are fun?
And smart?
They have distinct personalities.
Some are lazy.
Some crafty.
Some love people.
All love to play.
A favourite game when I was growing up was 'tongues'.
You would tickle a horse's lips until he stuck out his tongue, whereupon (good word) you would give it a little pull.
The tongue, I mean.
The horse would whip it back into his mouth.
Then promptly stick it out again.
Pull.
Retract.
Stick out.
Pull.
They loved this game.
They would play it for hours.
Or until you got tired of it.
You can probably guess which scenario usually happened first.

Enough background . . .
My Husby and I were touring the Buckingham Palace Mews, conducted by the head hostler to the Queen, Edward.
A very proper and pleasant British man.
Who also loved horses.
We were instantly connected.
Moving on . . .
My Husby and I were having a great time.
We had dutifully and happily walked through the storage buildings.
Gotten up close and personal with the royal family's famous Gold Coach.
And had finally headed into the stables.
Ahhh! Heaven!
Horses are intensely curious.
If something is happening, they want to be front and center.
Gawking.
Getting in the way.
Pretending to be startled and fleeing spiritedly.
Coming back to see if there was anything they missed.
For the resident horses, our tour of the stables was out of the ordinary.
Everyone wanted a look.
Heads popped out of stalls the whole length of the building.
One horse, a handsome grey gelding, quartered by himself, was especially interested.
I should point out here that horses, when they meet another horse, sniff each other's noses.
A much more civilized practice in my opinion than what one would typically see when dogs greet each other.
Ummm . . . back to my story.
The big grey sniffed me.
I sniffed him back, then started to move on.
He moved with me.
I think someone was bored.
I touched his lips.
He licked them.
I pulled his tongue.
His head shot up, startled.
He stared at me for a couple of moments.
Then he stuck out his tongue again.
I pulled it.
He drew it back in.
Then he did it again.
This went on for some time.
Grant and Edward had been standing a little ways off, talking.
The horse and I were enjoying our game.
Then I realized that the stable had fallen silent.
The men were watching us.
Thinking they had finished their conversation, I patted my new friend and started toward them.
The big grey leaned out as far as he could, nickered at me and stuck out his tongue. “Hey! I'm not finished with this game!”
I laughed and patted him again.
Then joined the two men.
Edward was still staring. Finally he shook his head and in his perfectly modulated English accent, said, “I've never seen a horse do that before!”
He looked at me with renewed interest and said,” Any time you want to come back here, you are welcome. Anytime.”
A horse lover knows another horse lover.
And all horses are the same.
No matter what circles they move in.

Baby, It's Cold Inside

Okay, I'm still in a poetry mind set . . . 

From this spell of cold and damp,

The germs in close formation, tramp,

On my resistance, blithely stamp,

And place my head inside a clamp.

These foes, I did incarcerate,

And I shiver as I, here, relate:

While hoping to ameliorate,

Oh, woe, I did deteriorate.

Companions, mucus and some phlegm,

From deep within my system, stem,

Their presence here, I do condemn,

I want no close rapport with them.

I reach for some meds and groan,

My horrid fate I do bemoan,

And for all my sins atone,

And pray that soon I’ll be alone.

Then I think a sharpened knife,

Will quickly end my woeful life,

And my existence, hereto rife

With pain and suffering and strife.

Then, all at once, my life is blessed,

The germs are gone, the rheum expressed,

And all discomfort’s been suppressed,

It’s peaceful, now, within my breast.

Cheerily, from my bed, I climb

And wash away the sweat and grime.

My life is good, my soul sublime,

At least until the *sigh* next time.

Oh, Delores, you taskmaster, you.

And I do mean 'master'.

This week's six-word challenge: Incarcerate, phlegm, damp, groan, knife, blessing

Drop by and see what her other cohorts have created!

Speaking Canadian

Buddies. Eh?

I knew what he was saying.

He knew what he was saying.

Too bad they weren’t the same thing . . .

When I was little, I hung around with my dad.

A lot.

Well, at least as often as time – and his busy schedule – would allow.

He was a rancher, veterinarian, Hereford Club director, 4-H Club director, Church leader, husband and father.

In no particular order.

Yep. When time would allow.

I made the most of every moment I had with him.

I chattered.

Constantly.

And every sentence ended with, “Eh, Dad?”

Okay, yes, I’m Canadian. It goes with the territory.

Moving on . . .

It must have been a bit annoying.

But he never showed it.

Patiently he answered me.

Every ‘eh, Dad’ was responded to with “B, Diane.”

I was happy. I thought ‘B’ meant ‘Yes’.

Our conversations must have been interesting . . .

“Horses! We love horses, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Look at those birds! They’re pretty, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Ooh! Look at the little calvies! They’re playing, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Mmmm! Dinner! We love dinner, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

You get the idea.

It was years before I realized that he was merely putting a non-committal ‘B’ with my ‘A’.

Just to keep the conversation flowing with a chattering little girl.

It worked.

And that’s what it’s all about, eh?

B.

My Hiding Place

See? Really old! And mysterious!

On the Stringam ranch, we had an old garage.

Really old.

Grampa Stringam old.

It was long and single storied with white, stucco siding and very small windows.

At the north end, there was the big garage door.

Opening into a large, dark room that smelled of old oil and farm cats.

Cut into the thick planks of the floor of that room, was the heavy trap door to the root cellar, described here.

But the root cellar only took up half of the 'basement'.

The other half was a strange stable.

Really strange.

The entire room was deeply covered with straw. And had solid wooden dividers, forming tie stalls, though there was no where in the stone walls to actually tie anything.

And there were no mangers if one did manage to . . . tie . . . anything.

The weirdest thing about this stable was access.

The only entrance/exit was a small window high up in the south wall of the garage.

I often wondered how one could get any animals down there.

Someone didn't plan that very well . . .

No wonder the straw was clean, even though it wasn't fresh.

The small window, however, made an eminently suitable entrance/exit for children.

Like me.

And their toys.

Like mine.

It was my secret place.

My hiding place.

Where no one could find me.

All right, I admit that it was only about forty feet from the front door of the house. Well within hollering distance.

And that when my Mom wanted me, all she had to do was shout.

But I felt secret.

Hidden.

The single window had no covering, so, during the day, the room was brightly lit. And there was no danger that one could be shut into darkness by a heavy door.

One could slide in through the window, toys and all, drop into the thick straw, and spend hours in one's own little sunlit, straw-filled world.

Perfection.

It became the place where I parked anything I didn't want the other kids to get into.

And where I hid the stuff I wasn't supposed to get into. (I once lugged in an entire boxful of old pamphlets and envelopes and stationary that Dad had tossed out. I know. Kids . . .)

I played happily for months in my secret stable.

Finally, I asked Dad what had happened to the door.

He stared at me, puzzled.

I explained that I had to crawl into the little stable through the window. What happened to the door?

He laughed. “That's no stable, Diane. That's the old ice house.”

Ah. Everything was explained.

Not.

“Um. What's an ice house?

Dad tried to explain to me that every winter, the men would go down to the river which just happened to flow right past the garage, and cut great chunks of ice.

Then the ice would be hauled up to the ice house and passed through the little window to someone waiting inside.

The straw was to keep it cold.

Weird.

I suspected that he was pulling my leg because I had played down there for months and I hadn't seen one bit of ice.

“Why would they do that?”

“Well, they needed the ice to keep food cold.”

“Why didn't they use the freezer?”

“They didn't have freezers.”

I stared at him. How could anyone survive without a freezer?

“They didn't even have a fridge.”

Okay, now I knew he was just making stuff up.

Everyone had a fridge.

Some people, like us, had two.

I shook my head. “Dad. Dad. Dad. That's just silly.”

And I went back to my playing.

But you know something?

He was right.

Sometimes dads are.

Ranching Country Entertainment

From the ashes . . .

. . . rise the new and improved.

Ranch families know how to have fun.
And it usually involves dancing.
Let me explain . . .
Our barn had burned to the ground.
On my birthday. (see here)
It was a tragedy.
We lost some livestock and all of our tack and equipment.
But out of the ashes arose a newer, better, bigger barn.
With modern conveniences and plenty of room.
And lots and lots of places to play.
That's important when you're four.
Which I was.
Moving on . . .
The new barn was nearing completion.
And needed to be properly initiated.
A barn dance was called for.
I should mention here, that, in my world, barn dances nearly always occurred immediately after the barns were built.
Before the smells from the denizens living below stairs began to permeate the hay loft upstairs.
Enough said.
People began to gather.
The Stringam Ranch is located twenty miles from the nearest town (Milk River) and is surrounded by other ranches.
With ranch families.
You have to look for your entertainment when you are that far from the bright lights.
A barn dance was eagerly anticipated and reason for a lot of excitement.
And everyone, from the elderly to the newly arrived, showed up.
Everyone.
And people began to gather early.
While my Mom was busy in the kitchen, happily baking and cooking.
There was much talk and laughter.
Old friends greeting each other for the first time since last summer's brandings.
The anticipation began to build.
Finally, the piano player arrived.
And then the festivities hit a snag.
She had counted on the Stringams providing the piano.
But our barn didn't come equipped with one.
Go figure.
And this was the 50s.
Electronic anything hadn't been invented yet.
We needed to find a real piano.
ASAP.
A quick phone call to Lethbridge secured one.
But it was an hour and a half away.
With a fast truck.
A willing group was dispatched and the rest of the party began to . . . party.
There was good food to eat and lots of news to catch up on.
The time passed quickly.
Finally, a truck pulled into the yard, horn blaring.
The piano had arrived.
Many hands pulled it from the back of the pickup and pushed into the barn.
There was a brief discussion as to the best way to transport it from the ground floor to the hay loft.
Finally, it was centered beneath a large hay chute door. Ropes were passed beneath it and willing hands pulled it up to the dance floor.
I'm quite sure it must have weighed several hundred pounds.
You couldn't tell.
It was a mere blur of movement as it made the trip.
Within seconds, and I do mean seconds, music was blaring forth.
And the dance floor was crowded.
The Stringam Barn Dance was officially underway.
I should mention, here, that this is where I learned to dance.
Standing on my Dad's feet.
Like many, many of the other kids in the room.
That's just how it was done.
The party continued throughout the night.
We danced the Butterfly, Schottische, Two-steps, various Reels, Old-time waltzes, Polkas and many others.
What the group missed in the first three hours, they made up for in the last.
Everyone started heading for home about the time the sun came up.
Just in time to do morning chores . . .

There is a codicil.
Remembering the fun we had as children, and seeing a marked decline in the great old Barn Dance, my family decided to re-introduce it to the world.
We started doing 'Family Dances' in 1990.
It was very popular.
Though we played in very few barns, and had all electronic equipment, the feeling was the same.
Families dancing together.
For nearly twenty years, we provided music and 'on the hoof' instruction to large family groups.
It was . . . fun.
And memorable.
A small slice of ranch life prolonged.
At least for a little while.

Old. And Counting

A poem.
Because it's Sunday.
And Dad's been telling stories again . . .

Daddy. Eighty eight and still counting . . .

Great Gramma and her Little Bean

Had the greatest day you’ve ever seen.

They’d talked and laughed, played games – all sorts,

Built puzzles and a blanket fort.

Played Lego, making things just right,

Baked treats and had a pillow fight.

Played knights and forts, read stories, too,

Dressed up, and sang. (To name a few.)

Then, happily exhausted, they

Decided to slow down the day.

Great Gramma’s Little Bean and she

Were nestled down quite snug-i-ly.

Then LB stroked Great Gramma’s hair,

And to her own, she did compare,

“Yours is white!” said the little girl,

Gently touching her own curls.

Then the soft, plump hand the lines did trace,

That clearly showed on Gramma’s face.

“You’re old,” she said, with honesty.

“You’re so much older, Gram, than me!”

Great Gramma smiled, as Grammas do,

And touched the lines she too well knew,

She said, “The things you say are true,

I’ve lived a lot more years than you!”

“I’m four,” said Little Bean with pride.

And a grin that went from side to side.

“I’m eighty-six,” Great Gramma said.

She sighed. “Somewhere ‘tween birth . . . and dead.”

Then LB tipped her head askew,

And grappled with this thought so new.

And then she said, when she was done,

“Great Gramma, did you start at one?”

Neighbours

Supplier of kindliness. And food.

The Stringam ranch was a large spread situated some twenty miles from the town of Milk River, Alberta.

The land stretched for miles along the Alberta-Montana border.

The buildings were nestled in a picturesque prairie valley somewhere in the middle, surrounded by tall cliffs and the lazy sweep of the south fork of the Milk River itself.

It was nine miles to the nearest neighbour.

But we got there as often as we could.

Or, at least we kids did.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In my day, the school bus service ended at Nine-Mile corner, a triangle of crossroads exactly – you guessed it - nine miles from the ranch.

This necessitated the driving, twice a day, of a vehicle to intercept said bus.

Okay, it was something unheard-of in this day of school bus service to your door, but it was a fact in the sixties.

Mom was the driver of choice, with occasional relief work by Dad.

But that’s only a peripheral to my story . . .

Less than a mile from that corner, at the end of a long driveway, was the Sproad farm. Our nearest neighbours.

Ben and Clestia Sproad were an elderly couple who raised sheep and milk cows. Their daughter had married and moved away and they had settled into a routine of farm work, household duties, grandparenting and kindliness.

Their home was a haven of peace, cleanliness, love and fabulous German baking.

Every day, after the bus had deposited our little group beside the road, and if our intercept vehicle was not in sight, we would excitedly begin the long trek toward the promise of smiling faces and wonderful food.

We didn’t make it often.

Usually, the ranch station wagon would come skidding around the corner in a cloud of dust and slide to a halt beside us, before we had taken much more than a few steps.

But occasionally, if Mom had been delayed, we managed the ten-minute walk and actually grabbed the brass ring.

Or, in this case, the freshly-baked reward for our efforts.

Served happily by Mrs. Sproad, and accompanied by her soft, cheerful chatter.

“Oh, Di-ane! You are getting zo big. Zoon you’ll be taller than me! Here. Have another.” And she was right. By the time I was in sixth grade, I had passed her by.

On these special days, Mom would appear, rather red-faced and spilling apologies. “Oh, Clestia! I’m so sorry! I got tied up . . .”

It didn’t matter. Mrs. Sproad would laugh and offer something to Mom as well.

Soon we would be on the road back to the ranch.

Still tired from the day.

But with bellies filled with yumminess and hearts filled with cheer.

Nine-Mile corner no longer exists.

And the Sproads have long been gone.

But I can still taste that baking.

And feel the love.

Unin'habit'ed Nun

Sisters

Also a Sister

In our church, everyone is addressed either as 'Brother' or 'Sister'.
It gives a fun, family feel to the congregation.
And to the whole 'attending church' scenario.
It was something I was raised with.
Women my Mom's age were Sisters.
Men were Brothers.
Life was simple.
Moving forward twenty years.
Still attending church.
Still addressing each other as either Brother or Sister.
But now, there was a new generation, calling me Sister.
I should point out, here, that when you work in the children's organization, or Primary, you instantly gain rock-star status if your class members meet you outside of church.
Hence, you can be wandering in the mall and a young voice will scream out, "Mom, look! It's Sister Tolley!"
And I do mean scream.
Back to my story . . .
One day, I was shopping with my children, plus a few.
Because who wants to go shopping with just your family?
A cry suddenly rattled the rafters of the local Safeway.
"Sister Tolley! I didn't know you shopped here, too! Look! Look! It's Sister Tolley!"
And then a chorus of "Hi, Sister Tolley!" "Sister Tolley, look what I'm wearing!" And the all-important, "Sister Tolley, look what I can do!"
It was adorable.
I oohed and aahed over their clothes and accomplishments and our two groups separated, intent once more on whatever it was that had originally brought us into the store.
One of the boys who had come along for the amazing experience of shopping with two parents and ten children turned to my son and whispered, loudly, "Wow! I didn't know your Mom was a nun!"
Okay. Not something you hear every day.
Or ever.

Sleeping Through Disaster

Mark. With his friend.

Our family loves root beer.
Homemade.
And our eldest son can sleep through anything.
These two facts are related.
Maybe I'd better explain . . .
My Husby loves to make root beer.
And he's very good at it.
I got my first taste of his homemade brew on our wedding night.
Neither of us drink alcohol, so he had brought several bottles of the magical elixir in his suitcase so we could toast each other.
It was . . . fun.
And thus began a family tradition.
I should explain here that root beer making is an exact science requiring skill and knowledge.
And large containers.
Grant used a garbage pail.
A new one, purchased for that exact reason.
Just so you don't get the wrong idea.
Moving on . . .
He would add the precise amount of water, then the elixir, then the sugar.
And finally, the yeast, the vitally important 'makes everything else work' ingredient.
Then the stirring.
And finally, the fun part, the bottling.
One important aspect of root beer making is the two to three weeks of 'construction' or 'fermenting' time.
It must sit quietly in a warm spot during that all-important period.
That's where our son, Mark, comes into the picture.
Mark was our first-born. He was little.
We kept his room warm.
Perfect for a couple of cases of root beer bottles waiting to 'become'.
So to speak.
Now, the biggest problem with home-brew is that, as the brew ages, the pressure inside the bottle builds. And after a few uses, some of said bottles may become weak.
And you can't tell, by looking, which are so affected.
You can probably guess what happens then.
Pop! Fizz!
Mess.
Ugh.
It was very early morning. Grant and I were still soundly asleep.
The glorious rosy sun was just rising on another perfect prairie morning.
It's my story, I can remember is how I want.
Suddenly, there was a dull 'popping' sound.
Then another.
We were instantly awake. And knew, just as instantly, and with the instinct of new parents, what those sounds meant.
Our root beer was ready.
And we had a couple of weak bottles.
And, more importantly, they were posing a very real threat to our baby, sleeping mere inches away in his crib.
Imagining projectiles of glass flying everywhere, we scrambled from our bed, threw open the baby's room door and charged inside.
Before you get too excited, I should explain that things weren't as bad as we had imagined.
Whew.
The bottles had obviously become weak at the base of the neck.
They looked as though they had been neatly beheaded.
The neck and lid were sitting right beside each bottle.
Our sleeping baby was fine.
Visions of flying glass faded from our minds and we immediately turned to the next problem.
Clean up.
Jabbering excitedly, we gingerly disposed of the broken pieces and hauled the remaining cases from the room.
Then proceeded with the scrubbing and vacuuming.
Finally satisfied with our efforts, we prepared to leave the room.
It was then I realized that Mark hadn't made a sound throughout the entire . . . loud . . . process.
I peeped into the crib.
He was still rosily, happily, soundly asleep.
Snoring slightly in that cute 'baby' way.
Huh.
My Husby and I learned several things that day:
1. Re-use your root beer bottles judiciously.
2. Don't ferment your root beer
3. In the baby's room
4. Unless he's a great sleeper
Cheers!

One Dirty Dish

For once, he’d listened to his wife,

How to ameliorate her life,

And he went without delay,

To take her on a holiday.

But as he hastened to comply,

In proving he was one sweet guy,

He left his glistening lab in less

Than pristine order, I confess.

While those two hurried who knows where,

One petri dish abandoned there,

A part of his criteria,

Was moistened with bacteria.

When they returned, that fateful dish,

Was not as clean as they could wish.

Bacteria, possession had,

And things were looking rather bad.

Except one place had not been ‘got’,

No icky growth upon that spot.

Instead, a little bit of mold

Had landed there and taken hold.

Beating off the icky stuff,

And proving it had strength enough,

Its presence brought discovery,

And new ways for recovery.

I guess you’ve guessed by now that guy

Was christened Fleming from on high.

And penicillin, started small

S’the best discovery of all!

After that, we note that he

Made no startling discoveries.

His wife, by his chaos dismayed

Decided she would hire a maid.

Today, Delores of Under the Porch Light, has issued these six words: Listen, glisten, christen, moisten, hasten, penicillin

Now go and see what the rest of her slaves co-workers have done with them!

Coming Home

In 1973, at the age of nineteen, Husby (to be) departed for France to serve a mission for our church.

It was something he had always wanted to do.

And he had been preparing for it his whole life.

For two years, he wore out his shoes, walking the streets of Paris, meeting people.

Serving.

Growing to love both them and their country.

And then, in an instant, it was over.

His time was done and he was headed home.

His flight was booked.

Letters confirming dates and times were sent to his family, who would be meeting his plane at the nearest international airport two hours from the family’s home town.

All was ready.

He arrived, bag and baggage, at the airport in Paris.

Only to discover that the flight he was booked on . . . didn’t exist.

Oh.

Umm . . .

Frantically, he spoke to the people behind the counter.

No problem.

A new flight was suggested.

A flight that would have an overnight stop in one of the great cities in the US.

And then land in Calgary sometime the next day.

It was his best option.

He booked it.

Now, how to let his family know?

There was no time for a letter.

Overseas calls were ‘iffy’.

A flash of brilliance.

He would send a telegram!

He headed for the telegraph office.

Then, family duly notified, he climbed aboard the plane and relaxed.

Forty-eight hours later, heart pounding with excitement, he waited on the Calgary tarmac until the rest of the passengers had deplaned.

Then, closing the zipper on his bag, he stood and made his way out of the plane.

I should mention, here, that when missionaries come home families tend to get a little over-excited. After all, it’s been two years since they last saw each other.

Definitely justifiable.

It’s not unheard-of for groups of fifty or sixty people to crowd into the airport waiting room.

With banners and brass bands and dancing bears and acrobats and fireworks.

Okay, well, maybe not the fireworks.

Back to my story . . .

Husby was expecting, well, not a brass band, but a bit of enthusiasm.

Some smiles, some laughter.

A few warm hugs.

What he got was an empty waiting room.

Empty.

He stood there.

And blinked.

His warm welcome was a complete frost.

No one was there to greet him . . .

One phone call alerted his family.

And two hours later, they arrived.

And he did get his warm, enthusiastic welcome.

When the excitement had slowed to a gentle boil, they were able to compare notes.

The family had been at the airport the day before as per their original agreement.

They had waited.

And waited.

And finally given up in tears and despair and headed home.

But what had happened?

For the first time – before or after – the telegraph office in Lethbridge had ‘broken down’.

All telegrams had been rerouted to another office.

And Husby’s had ended up somewhere between the two.

Lost in the ethereal world of the wires.

His great once-in-a-lifetime entrance.

Spoiled by the hand of fate.

And a single broken wire.

Sigh.

Each week, Delores of The Feathered Nest issues a challenge for those of us brave (or crazy) enough to participate. The challenge is six little words. Use them or lose them. I've been behind a bit, so for the next few days, I'm playing catch-up.

It's too much fun to miss . . .

Last week's words: instant, telegram, flash, brilliant, zipper and frost

'Bean' There

You want me to eat what . . .?

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.
Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.
We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.
Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.
There's a difference.
But what a scheme!
My kids tried to use it, too.
Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.
His particular nemesis?
Beans.
Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.
My personal favourite.
And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.
Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.
Mmmmm.
From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.
Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.
Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.
Grant: “Father in Heaven.”
Mark: “Father in Heaven.” (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)
Grant: “We thank thee for this food.”
Mark: “We thank thee for this food.”
Grant: “Because it's so yum.”
Mark: “Because it's so not yum.”
Laughter (Grant).
More laughter (Mom).
Grin (Mark).
And so it went.
For 19 years.
At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.
He excitedly prepared to go.
I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”
“What?”
“Bean Town.”
His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”
“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”
He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.
“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”
“Oh.”
He went anyways, brave boy that he was.
And returned two years later.
We met him at the airport.
We had sent our little boy.
We brought back an adult.
The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.
His response?
“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”
Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .
Mark eats beans today.
Mostly to show his children it can be done.
But he doesn't wage much of a battle.
His oldest daughter Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.
Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

Mom Spit

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'.
Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.
But especially tacos.
Mmmmm. Tacos.
There was only one problem.
I couldn't get them hot enough.
I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.
Not enough.
Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.
Still not enough.
A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)
Almost there.
Seven drops.
Perfect.
And that's the way I ate them.
The entire nine months.
My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.
None.
I think I burned it off.
This is relevant.
Moving on . . .
After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.
Mmmmm. More food.
I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest.
Toasty and comfortable.
Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.
My dinner arrived.
I looked at the loaded plate.
Then at my baby.
I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.
But that would take effort.
And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.
Hunger decided.
I would just eat.
Over the baby.
It was just like being pregnant again.
Sort of.
All went well.
The mushy peas went first.
That was easy. I just held the bowl close and spooned.
Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.
Mmmm.
And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.
With ketchup.
Paradise.
Dip.
Munch.
Dip.
Munch.
And so it went.
Then, that fateful dip.
Splat.
Oops.
Right on the top of my baby's bald head.
What to do?
I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.
Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.
Done.
I happily went back to eating my chips.
That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table.
Looking at me.
A frozen expression of horror on her face.
Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.
I remember being a trifle embarrassed.
And briefly uncomfortable.
Then I shrugged.
In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex.
It's all a matter of perspective.
And hunger.

The Great Jam Test

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.
It categorizes you.
Marks your place in the family.
Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.
It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)
It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.
I'm talking about jam.
Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.
More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.
It is the family 'Maginot Line'.
You can be on one side or the other.
Both of which are tasty.
Or so I'm made to understand.
But wander over to the other side only in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.
My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.
His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.
Oops.
I mean - raspberry.
And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.
Mine.
Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.
And prefers apple jelly.
We don't talk about him.
Moving on . . .
Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.
I should point out here that it is a grueling test.
The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.
And I do mean breathlessly.
If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been know to pass out cold.
I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.
Teeheehee.
But I digress . . .
The prospective member of the family makes a choice.
And my side cheers.
It's true.
Every single one has chosen raspberry.
Until our last son-in-law.
Who chose . . . poorly.
I maintain that he was coached.
Money might even have changed hands.
So the score now stands at : strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.
And one son who will not be mentioned.
Now for the next generation.
Our eldest grandchildren are ready.
Time to make a choice . . .

Accidents With Dad. Part 2

Dad’s talking.
I’m listening . . .

Every. Square. Foot.

The annual production sale at the Stringam ranch was the highlight of our year.

It’s when we had the most visitors.

The most traffic.

The most income.

And the most work. Both before and after.

Before, we had the cattle and the ranch to prepare and beautify.

After, we had the deliveries.

Our family hauled cattle to nearly every square foot of North America.

Every. Square. Foot.

It was a slow, exacting task.

Driving the length and breadth of this continent in a truck, hauling a boatload of bawling cattle. Mapping out places to stop each night so the animals could be released, fed and watered.

Then loading them up the next morning to continue the journey.

Yep. Slow and exacting.

And it wasn’t without its own adventures.

Due to oversight, wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, misfortune.

Stupidity.

Or all of the above.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad were trucking cattle through Alberta.

They had only been on the road a few hours.

And were, ironically enough, just passing an auction market where a cattle sale was ongoing.

A truck pulled out.

Pickup. With the tailgate down.

This will become significant . . .

Spotting the slow-moving vehicle, Dad pulled into the other lane to give it a wide berth.

For several seconds, the two of them occupied close quarters.

Dad and his heavy rig in one lane.

The man and his pickup in the other.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the pickup decided to pull over.

Directly in front of Dad.

The collision was immediate.

And inevitable.

Remember when I mentioned the pickup’s tailgate?

Well, that comes into play here.

Dad hit that tailgate going sixty miles per hour.

Both vehicles jammed to a halt.

Then the drivers, both unharmed, got out to inspect the damage.

The grill of Dad’s truck had been caved in, rupturing the radiator and radically displacing the fan and other important features.

Interestingly enough, though, the gate had slid with surgical precision between the headlights and the running lights of the truck, leaving all four intact.

So the front of the truck had been crushed.

But without cracking a single light.

Okay, well, it was interesting to us . . .

Dad scratched his head and looked at the driver of the pickup. “Why did you pull over in front of me?” he asked.

“Oh, I was sure you could stop,” was the reply.

Dad blinked.

The man repeated the statement to his insurance company.

Who also blinked.

And paid.

Dad’s been involved in two automobile accidents in his life.

Both resulting in considerable vehicular damage.

And neither of which was his fault.

I wish I could say the same about me.

Sigh.