Once and Only

I come from a long line of non-smokers.

Generations of puff-nots.

But my best friend had a cousin staying over for the summer.

A cousin from the big city who had seen it all.

And done most of it.

I was about to get an education . . .

My family lived on a ranch twenty miles from Milk River, in southern Alberta.

Life out there was bliss.

And, because of a lack of outside influences, completely under the control of my parents.

I had seen people smoking.

Certainly I had.

But I had never considered the possibility of being one of them.

Not even for an instant.

Moving on . . .

My parents owned a house in town.

When Mom got tired of driving the twenty miles to take us kids to school and activities, we would move into town.

Until Dad got tired of driving out to the ranch every day to do ranching stuff.

Then we would move back.

It was a fun and exciting way to live.

The benefits of town living.

The joys of the ranch.

But one or the other of our houses often sat empty in the interim.

That summer, we were firmly ensconced on the ranch.

So the town house was sitting vacant.

A perfect place for 10-year-old girls to get an education from the 11-year-old-far-more-experienced-and-world-weary-cousin-from-the-big-city.

My parents had dropped me off at my best friend's house for a - gasp - three day sleep over while they went out of town.

We: my BFF, her younger sister and the Cousin (notice the capital letter) had been knocking around town for most of two days.

It had been an education.

It was about to become more so.

The Cousin bought a packet of cigarettes.

She was going to show us country hicks how to smoke.

Okay, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Our biggest problem lay in finding a secret place in which to do our teaching/learning. I mean, there were twelve kids in my BFF's family. Plus the Cousin. Plus me. Her house was out . . .

Idea!

My family's empty town house.

I found the key and let us in.

The place echoed emptily.

Perfect!

We went into the main bathroom and dug out the cigarettes.

Cousin proceeded to light up.

Oooh! She looked so cool!

The rest of us were excited to try.

In no time, we each had a cigarette.

She helped us light them.

Soon, my BFF and her sister were blowing smoke in the most approved manner.

It took me a bit longer.

But I got it, once Cousin pointed out that one need to suck.

Not blow.

Oh.

I should point out, here that my parents weren't due to pick me up from my BFF's until the following day.

And, even then, they had no reason to come to this house.

Our smoking education could continue apace.

Without threat of interruption.

But parents never do what they say they are going to.

My BFF's little sister went out to the front room.

And immediately returned, wide-eyed.

"Your parents are here!"

"Sure, sure," I said, taking another puff. "Nice try!"

We all laughed.

A sound that broke off instantly when my Mom appeared at the door.

"Oh," I said. "Ummm . . . hi, Mom."

She looked at me. Looked at the cigarette I held in my hand.

Then turned and left.

Without saying a word.

We quickly cleaned up our mess and headed for the front door.

My parents were waiting in the car.

I said some quick good-byes and climbed in.

For several minutes, my parents said nothing.

Finally, Mom turned to Dad and sighed.

Then Dad turned to me and said, "I'm very disappointed, Diane."

I was completely crushed.

He didn't know it, but those four words had just killed my cigarette habit.

Forever.
Parenting done right.

A Little Cleaner

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.
The renewing of ties.
An opportunity to get re-acquainted.
Catch up on family accomplishments.
Additions.
Losses.
Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.
Our eldest son Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.
He was getting around under his own steam very well.
And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.
For several hours, he wandered around the site.
Exploring.
Eating.
Getting filthy.
All the things that make a little boy so very happy.
He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.
Gorged on hot dogs.
Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.
Spit out the baked beans (another story).
Slurped up watermelon.
And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.
He was a happy, filthy little boy.
He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.
I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.
Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.
Really.
I think it was the marshmallows.
Might have been helped along by the watermelon.
I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.
But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.
And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.
Or flippers.
I will admit they were still effective.
He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.
But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.
I went for a wipe.
But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.
While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.
Frodo's bowl.
I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.
And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.
I can't.
By the time I had returned with the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.
In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.
Ick.
And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.
He was happy.
And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water. So he was happy.
In fact, everyone was happy.
Except me.

Pill Ills

Does this look delicious to you? Yeah, me either . . .

My Mom had a magic cupboard in her bathroom.
It was full of wonderful little bottles.
Intriguing little bottles with funny shapes and beautiful colours.
And with all sorts of interesting contents.
Most of them defied my little three-year-old fingers.
But one twisted off easily.
Disclosing little, white pills.
Mmmm.
Okay they didn't taste very good, but they were little.
And melted on my tongue in a fun way.
I had another.
And another.
This was fun!
Mom came in just as I was finishing the bottle.
For some reason, she got quite upset.
She grabbed me and ran to the phone.
For a few seconds, she chattered excitedly.
Then she carried me to the kitchen and set me on the cupboard and hugged me tight.
I didn’t know what I had done that had gotten her so excited, but this was living!
Or not . . .
A few minutes later, a man came into the house carrying a black bag.
He put a tube down my throat.
And Mom let him!
Weird.
And traumatic.
I cried.
For several minutes, the two of them fought to keep the tube where they wanted it.
With minimal/non-existent results.
Finally, Mom stuck her fingers down my throat and made me gag.
And I lost all of my wonderful little pills.
Um. Ick.
The doctor packed away his horrible tube and left.
I wasn't sad to see him go.
Mom cuddled me for most of the afternoon.
Sigh.
Nice.
A few days later, I was again exploring Mom's treasure cupboard.
Well, look at that.
A new bottle of my little pills.
I wonder if they will taste any better.
Mom came in a bit earlier this time, but I had still ingested over half of the bottle.
She didn't bother calling the doctor, just used her patented new method to make me bring the pills back up.
This time, I got a scolding.
Moms can be so inconsistent.

Superdud

If you are ever in Denver . . .

Somewhere in or near Denver, Colorado, is my wonderful, stupendous, long-awaited, much-anticipated, beloved, toy of the century.

The one that was mine too briefly.

Sigh.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was growing up, my rancher father often took his family on holidays.

Said holidays often included some form of cattle show.

Or cattle ranch visit.

Or driving down the highway slowly because someone’s herd was just there.

In the field.

Waiting to be observed and categorized.

I know you’re wondering what this has to do with my toy.

It’s coming . . .

This particular family trip had been planned with the National Western Stock Show - annually held in Denver - in mind.

And that was okay with me.

Because said stock show also included horse classes.

And I had a new toy.

Now it comes out . . .

The Wham-o company had just released the most amazing gadget.

A solid rubber ball that would bounce higher and do more tricks than anything that had ever been invented.

Aptly named the ‘Superball’, it was a thing of beauty.

An amazing little ball of rubber that promised hours and hours of entertainment.

I had wanted one forever.

Well, since I had first seen an ad a couple of months before.

Dad had stopped at a store before heading over to the stock show.

They had them! A whole display!

The planets had aligned.

I was at a store that actually had the magical little balls for sale.

And my Dad was there.

With his wallet.

The day was mine!

And so, incidentally, was my little, dark blue miracle.

I pried open the package and, for the first time, felt the cool, smooth surface of the greatest high-bouncing ball of all time.

I sat there in the truck and held it.

Staring at it.

Smelling it.

I couldn’t wait to give it a good bounce.

Dad pulled into the stock section of the fair grounds and we all got out and went into the nearest pavilion.

I found myself standing in the lane of a long, concrete-floored, stall-lined, barn of a building.

Perfect.

I lifted the hand holding the ball . . .

And smashed it down onto the pavement as hard as I could.

Wow.

All of the ads never really paid it full justice.

That little ball hit that hard surface and shot like a missile toward the ceiling.

I stared at it; eyes wide and mouth open in a foolish grin of pleasure.

Then my magical toy came down.

Down.

Finally landing somewhere in the endless mounds of straw that filled the building.

Okay, that, I never anticipated.

I searched for that ball for hours.

I’d be searching still if my Dad hadn’t dragged me away for some frivolous ‘have-to-eat-and-sleep-and-for-heaven’s-sake-it’s-only-a-ball’ reason.

My one and only Superball.

You know, the ads claimed that it would keep on bouncing, almost forever. 

The ads were wrong.

Song Allergies

Oh, please! Not that song again!

I grew up on a large old Southern Alberta ranch.
Among cattle, horses and hired men.
I loved it.
I spent many happy hours riding (or sleeping) on the horses.
Chasing the barn cats.
Catching mice.
Wandering through the corrals and feed lots.
Or my favourite, watching the hired men.
It was while doing the last, that I received both my nickname and my signature song.
Let me tell you about it . . .
The Stringam Ranch generally employed six or more hired men.
They worked hard.
Wrangling cattle.
Breaking horses.
Fencing.
Doing one of the myriad tasks that were ranching.
But, inevitably, each job included one extra chore.
Watching over Diane.
I don't want to say that I was always under foot but . . .
Okay. I was always under foot.
When they were in the corral with the horses, I was perched on the fence.
When they were milking the cows, I was sitting on one of the empty stools nearby.
When they were hauling hay, I was in the cab of the truck, nose pressed against the back window.
Yep. If anything was happening, you can bet Diane was in the middle of it.
I should point out, here, that these men were good men.
Hard working.
Dependable.
A bit rough around the edges.
But that I never heard one curse word from any of them.
Ever.
Looking back, I'm sure they knew these words.
They just never used them around me.
Believe me, I would have repeated anything I heard.
Back to my story . . .
It must have been a trifle . . . inconvenient . . . having the boss' four-year-old daughter always under foot.
They never complained.
In fact, they even had a nickname for me.
Danny.
Which I loved.
And gave me my very own song, “Danny Boy”.
Which I didn't.
I'm not sure who was the first to discover this song.
Or my aversion to it.
But the word quickly spread.
Soon, whenever I would appear, someone would begin singing, “Oh, Danny boy . . .”
Whereupon (good word) I would cover both of my ears and scream, “Noooooo!”
Then run away.
It was magical.
Not one word need be said.
And they could continue their work in peace.
Genius.
Moving forward thirty years . . .
When my youngest son Tristan was born, he was our 'Little Warty Boy'.
I'm not sure who came up with this.
Or why.
He didn't have warts or anything.
It just seemed to fit.
He even got a song. (Sung to the tune of 'Surfer Girl')
“Little tiny warty boy,
Fills my heart with so much joy.
Do you love me,
Little Warty Boy?”
We sang this for years.
Until he was about four and abruptly developed an aversion to it.
Suddenly, he began covering his ears and screaming, “Noooooo!” whenever someone started singing.
I felt his pain.

Resolved

The warring factions.

Dinner is over.

Everyone is comfortably full.

With the cleaning of the dessert plates, the grandkids have scattered.

Thus abating the noise.

Somewhat.

The adults’ visiting, hinted at before, has been undertaken in full.

The best of times.

Suddenly, one of the two-year-olds skids around the corner of the kitchen, makes a bee-line for Gramma and dives into her lap. Gramma’s arms are pulled protectively around a little, warm body.

Not a word is said.

Now, I should mention, here, that this behaviour, while not uncommon is . . . okay, yes . . . uncommon.

Snuggles in Gramma’s lap are brief.

Unless Gramma is holding a book.

Or treat.

And usually, there is some shrewd preliminary negotiation, as in: “Shall we have a story?” or “Who wants a treat?”

Back to my story . . .

Suddenly one of the three-year-olds also comes around the corner.

And she, too, goes straight to Gramma.

Then stands there.

Staring silently and accusingly at the little cousin in Gramma’s lap.

Ah-ha! I'm beginning to see . . .

I look down. “Hazel, what did you do?”

Wide eyes look back.

Still no words.

I look at the other little girl. “Bronwyn, what did Hazel do?”

A tiny voice, “She poked me!”

“Poked you?”

Nodding.

“Where did she poke you?”

Pointing to the ribcage on the left side.

“Hazel, did you poke cousin?”

More nodding. Still wide-eyed.

“Are we supposed to poke cousins?”

Head shaking.

“Maybe you should apologize.”

Two heads nodding. Two little girls saying, together, “Sorry!”

Yeah, the whole ‘say you’re sorry!’ thing is still a work in progress . . .

Hazel slides off Gramma’s lap and the two give each other a big hug.

“Now play nicely!” I say.

And they giggle and disappear.

Oh, if only the world’s conflicts could be solved as easily . . .

War and Chocolate

How do you relax after dinner?

Okay, I admit it.

Our family is weird.

We like theatrics.

And things medieval.

Case in point:

My husband has a collection of catapults.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Catapults.

He loves them.

Oh, they're not large enough to cause havoc.

And certainly not of a size to terrorize the neighbourhood.

Although I wouldn't mention that to him. It might give him ideas.

Moving on . . .

No. His catapults are small.

Suitable for launching little, foil-wrapped chocolates.

Which he does.

Usually after family meals.

Our family is large.

And we have two tables in our dining room.

One round table, built by my Husby and seen here.

And one smaller table, also built by my Husby, which seats all of the grandchildren.

It is to this smaller table that he retreats after the meal is done.

With his grandkids, his catapults and his stockpile of chocolate balls.

Which he and his little army then proceed to fire at anyone left sitting at the main table.

Remember when I mentioned 'weird'?

That would apply here.

I should point out that the balls of chocolate don't hurt.

The little catapults barely throw them with sufficient force to get them to the other table.

Back to my story . . .

The usual targets of the invading hoards are their wife and/or mothers and/or grandmother.

Who have all learned to duck when needed.

I should also mention that, perhaps fortunately, their aim isn't great.

One day, we had just finished one of Grandpa's sumptuous feasts and he and assorted grandchildren had set up a siege at the kid's table.

Several of the moms were still sitting at the main table.

Visiting.

One of our granddaughters, five-year-old Kyra, came to tell her mother something.

Her timing was . . . unfortunate.

She had placed herself right in the line of fire.

So to speak.

A chocolate ball whizzed towards her.

With unusual, but deadly precision.

Thock!

Right in the center of her forehead.

She gasped and clapped one hand over the spot.

Everyone burst out laughing.

She wavered between laughter and tears for a few seconds.

Then her mother told her that she got to eat the offending chocolate ball.

And any thought of tears was forgotten.

She hunted for, and happily ate, the treat.

Then disappeared.

A few minutes later, she was back.

“Mom, can I have another chocolate ball?”

Her mother looked at her. “You have to let Grampa shoot one at you first.”

“Oh.”

She thought about that for a moment.

Then she put both hands, palms out, over her forehead and stood up tall. “Okay, Grampa! I'm ready!”

Bravery.

It comes in all shapes and sizes.

And ages.

But never more noticeable than in a weird family.

And after dinner.

Horsecapades

See? Blue.

When my husband married me, he got more than he expected.
I came with baggage.
More correctly.
Horses.
One was blue in colour.
Aptly and creatively named, 'Bluey'.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Bluey was . . . not a pretty horse.
She was an appaloosa-cross mare. About ten years old.
Like many of her breed, she had no mane. And an embarrassment for a tail.
But she was gentle and quiet. Patient and un-stampedable.
Perfect for farm kids.
But Bluey had one fault.
She was tall.
Too tall for the average child to climb on unassisted.
And that's where my story starts . . .
Mark and Erik, our two oldest boys, were in Bluey's field.
Playing.
Mark, 4, especially loved to ride.
But neither he nor his younger brother could climb up on their gentle friend.
Even though she was perfectly willing to stand quietly while they tried.
First, it was Erik helping his brother.
But they quickly discovered that three-year-old Erik's muscles simply weren't up to the task.
Finally, Mark had an idea.
He could help his little brother get up on Bluey.
At least one of them could have fun.
I have often imagined the conversation . . .
Mark: “Here, Erik, I'll boost your up.”
Erik (eyeing the mare suspiciously): “I want to go home.”
Mark: “In a minute. First, you get to have a little ride.”
Erik: “Don't want to ride.”
Mark: “Yes you do. It's fun.”
Erik: “Pretty sure I don't.”
Mark: “You're little. What do you know? C'mon.”
Erik: “Sigh.”
He submitted.
Once he was safely installed, Mark stepped back.
And gave the mare a slap. 'To get her going'.
She went.
Right out from under Erik.
Not a good thing.
A short time later, two boys came to the house.
One in tears.
They had both learned an important lesson.
The hardest thing about learning to ride is the ground.

Holiday Monsters

Lake Okanagan. It only LOOKS peaceful and serene...

The Ogopogo was going to get me!

Ahem . . .

I have a vivid imagination.

I admit it.

It’s carried me to places near and far.

Most of which simply don’t exist.

But that doesn’t stop me from visiting them.

The problem with a vivid imagination is that it can cause you a lot of needless worry and some amazing heart gymnastics.

On with my story . . .

My family was visiting Penticton on the south shore of Lake Okanagan in the beautiful interior of British Columbia.

We had been having a marvelous time.

Picking fruit.

Eating fruit.

And stopping at any and all tourist sites.

Heaven.

We were camped just feet away from the shore of the lake.

A beautiful, peaceful body of water approximately 80 miles long and with an average depth of about 250 feet.

Now, I should mention here that I loved swimming.

I had learned in the muddy waters of the Milk River that flowed past our ranch.

We spent our entire summer in that river.

So, murky-ness didn’t scare me.

Nope.

What scared me were the tales of the great Ogopogo that supposedly inhabited that serene-looking body of water. The Ogopogo with its horse-shaped head and great undulating, serpent-like body that had been known to swallow native canoeists whole.

I stood on the beach and stared long and hard at the water, looking for anything that might betray the presence of the beast. Because I knew that, if I slid even one foot into that water, the monster would immediately sense the presence of a ten-year-old gleamingly white-skinned, skinny, tow-headed girl and think, “Oooh! My favourite meal!”

And pop to the top.

I knew it.

I would rather have watched my feet break through the scummy surface of some smelly municipal sewer than to disappear beneath the clear water of Lake Okanagan.

Except that sewers have been known to harbour their own monsters.

Sigh.

Finally, with much cajoling and some really pointed teasing, I waded in.

And I do mean waded – the water never reached my knees.

I wasn’t happy about it.

Every splash made me jump.

And I had a nagging, persistent feeling that great, piercing, bloodshot eyes were watching my every move, deciding where would be the tastiest place to sink sharp, ragged teeth.

I spent the entire ‘swim’ continually glancing behind me, certain I’d see a line of ripples leading in my direction. Or worse, a great, hulking form rising up out of the water, slavering jaws wide open and  . . . eww . . . dripping.

And where would my holiday be then?

Finally, I parked my little self on the beach.

Safely back from the monster-filled water.

Under a lovely, toasty sun.

I watched my brothers and sisters and scores of other foolish people as they tempted fate.

Silly people.

Obviously, not everyone can be as smart - and safe - as me.

Tourist view in Kelowna.

You decide . . .

Every week, my good friend, Delores of Under the Porch Light, hands out a challenge. 

A six-word challenge.

This week's words?

piercing, persistent, municipal, sewers, glancing and bloodshot

What else would that suggest but a visit with the scourge of Lake Okanagan, the Ogopogo?!

The Difference Between Men and Women

I know it's hard to tell, but there are differences . . .

My husby and I were just finishing supper.
The doorbell rang.
He went to answer it.
It was a good friend from our Drama Society, who needed to discuss . . . drama.
We sat down in the living room.
And discussed.
Then, as usually happened, the discussing turned to visiting.
But something about the visit was odd. He wouldn't look at me.
I should point out that this was a man that both my husby and I had been good friends with for over fifteen years.

Our families were close.
We had spent many, many hours together, rehearsing, performing  and directing plays.
And much of that time had been spent in visiting.
This was the first time he wouldn't look at me while doing so.
Weird.
An hour and a half later, he left.
I shook off my uneasy feelings and went to get ready for bed.
I opened my mouth to floss my teeth.
And discovered that a leaf of lettuce was neatly covering one of my upper front teeth.
Not wedged between.
Not faintly visible.
Covered.
Like it had been painted.
Green.
Ick.
I stared.
Suddenly things were becoming clear.
Suddenly I knew why our friend hadn't been able to look at me during our visit.
I turned to my husby.
“Honey, I have a lettuce leaf covering my tooth!”
“Yes.”
Okay, a man of many words, my husby isn't.
I swallowed. Hard.
I knew the answer, but I asked it anyway. “Was it there the whole time we were visiting?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me???!!!”
“I didn't want to embarrass you.”
“What?! You don't think I'm more embarrassed now?!”
He shrugged.
I took a deep breath.
“Honey, I want you to promise me something.”
“Okay,” he said, rather warily.
“Promise me that if you see anything, anything that I would be embarrassed about, you will tell me.”
“Umm. Okay.”
And there we see a fundamental difference between men and women.
Women will go out of their way to tell a total stranger that the tag is sticking out of the back of their blouse.
Or that they have something stuck in their hair.
Or that they have some gravy on their sleeve.
And then offer aid.
Men don't.
Tell, that is.
Or aid.
If they observe it at all, they keep it to themselves.
Even with other men.
I once saw a man standing in a group of men with his zipper down.
And his shirttail sticking out of said zipper.
And no one told him.
I asked my husby afterwards if he had observed it.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't anyone say anything?!”
“Didn't want to embarrass him.”
Doesn't it occur to these people that it's infinitely more embarrassing to discover these things for oneself hours later?
Yep. Men and women.

Some of our differences are delightful.

And some . . .

Horsie Riding

Horses came in all shapes and sizes on our ranch.

All shapes.

And sizes.

Oh, and materials.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On a working ranch, the horse is the best, most used tool.

I’m talking about the warm, four-footed, rather hairy type here.

Or, as my machine-loving brother titled them, the hay-burners.

Paired with a rider, horses work the cattle.

Check fences.

Provide transportation.

Ditto, entertainment.

And make pushing, pulling, dragging or carrying just that much easier.

No self-respecting ranch could be run without its four-footed hay-burners.

On the Stringam ranch, the people could be divided into two horse camps.

Those who loved them.

And my brother, George.

Oh, we got him up there.

But only when there was work to be done.

Moving on . . .

I was the leader of the opposite camp.

I lived, ate and breathed horses.

Had been known to hang out with them at any and all hours of the day or night.

Been observed taking the occasional nap in close proximity.

And pretended and improvised when there was no horse to be had.

Did you know that the wide arm of an overstuffed chair or couch makes an excellent substitute?

Well, it does.

I spent a lot of hours in that particular ‘saddle’.

Had some amazing adventures.

And had even been known to get pitched off on occasion.

My next younger brother, Blair, age two, was following in the paths I had created.

Riding the same mounts.

Then, one Christmas, he was given another option.

He got our family’s first spring horse.

King Prancer as it was nobly named.

And our world was never the same.

Now, when we wanted to kite off to the imaginary prairie, doing imaginary deeds of wonder and saving the lives of countless imaginary people, we could climb aboard the King.

Okay, yes. He was technically Blair’s.

But I was bigger.

Ahem . . .

That sturdy little spring horse provided us with hours (and hours) of entertainment.

Until Mom told us we had out-grown (what on earth did that mean?) it and that it was time to be handed down to the next generation. ie. little sister, Anita.

Suddenly, I was back on the old stand-by. Riding the range with my trusty, slightly dusty steed.

Sigh.

Why am I telling you all of this?

My granddaughter, age two was in the living room, playing.

I went in to check on her.

She had straddled the arm of our overstuffed couch and was riding, hell-bent-for-leather, across the ‘prairie’. Whooping and hollering impressively.

It was no King Prancer.

But it sure made Gramma smile.

George and me.
Before the chair became a steed.

Blair. And the real thing.

The next generation: The King. Anita.
And a friend.

Okay, close to the real thing. George and me again.

The King. And Blair.

The Scary Side of Smoking

Admit it. This is scary...

Okay.

Maybe I overreacted.

Maybe.

We were on holiday.

In a foreign land. France, to be exact.

And having a glorious time.

Our family had just finished an underground rafting trip.

Did I mention that we were under the ground?

Well we were.

And it was fantastic!

Feeling slightly euphoric, we had driven to our hotel and were unpacking in the parking lot.

Suitcases.

Food.

Other stuff that wasn't suitcases or food.

Our rooms were on the second floor. One door opening from the long communal balcony into two separate units.

I dragged myself and my load up to the second floor.

Then looked back into the parking lot where the rest of the family was still in the process of unloading/loading.

There, standing in the very center of the lot was a young man, dressed completely in black.

Black hoodie pulled up over his head so that only his nose showed.

He was just standing there quietly.

Looking up at me.

It was . . . startling.

I stared back at him for a moment, then turning, shoved my key in the door and escaped into my room.

Throwing my load onto the closest bed, I took a quick look around.

Nice, quiet little room.

Two double beds.

Comfortable.

Then I walked over to the window.

And threw open the curtains.

The man in black was standing directly outside the window, now looking into my room.

I screamed.

I admit it.

He had been mysterious, standing down there in the parking lot.

Standing right outside my window, he was downright frightening.

And really, really creepy.

He made some sort of gesture, but I didn't notice.

I was too busy pulling the curtains shut and crawling under the bed.

Okay, so heroine material, I'm not.

My husby toted his burden of suitcases, etc. into the room a couple of seconds later.

And stared at me as I crawled out from under the bed.

“Ummm . . . looking for anything in particular?”

“No. That guy just frightened me,” I said, as calmly as possible.

“What guy?”

“The one dressed in black. Out there on the balcony.”

“There was a guy out on the balcony?”

“How could you miss him!” I demanded. “He was right there!”

My Husby walked across the room and whipped the curtains back.

I caught my breath.

Isn't this sounding mysterious?

There was no one there.

“But he was right outside! Looking into the room!” I stomped over to the window and peered out.

The man had disappeared.

“Huh. Weird.”

My husband was staring at me. “I think you were down in that cave too long,” he said.

I snorted.

I want to point out that it was a ladylike snort. Because I am a . . . oh, never mind.

When my kids arrived a few seconds later, I challenged them.

“Did you guys see the scary guy in black?”

They too, stared at me. “Scary guy in black?”

“Yeah. He was down there.” I pointed.

“Oh, you mean the one down in the parking lot who was trying to bum cigarettes?”

Cigarettes? Ahem. "Yes. That would be the one.”

“Yeah. We just told him we didn't smoke and he left.”

“Oh.”

So much for my scary encounter.

I had been hiding under the bed to escape a . . . broke smoker.

Holidaying can be such an entertaining experience.

For so many reasons.

The Back End of Things

Yeah. We can do better.

I had long, skinny children.

Who always outgrew their clothes in length, far before said clothes fit them in width.

As they grew, fitting them got to be a greater and greater problem. 

Did you know that few companies, back when my babies were growing, created clothing for children who look like they have been shaped in a taffy-puller?

Or on the torturer’s rack.

Well, it’s true.

And, by the way, shaping children in either of those methods is illegal.

Just thought I’d point that out.

So . . . long, skinny children . . .

Ever try to find pants to fit a 28 inch waist and a 38 inch inseam? 

I did what any desperate and decidedly broke mom would do. I started making my children’s clothes.

All of their clothes.

Shirts, pants, shorts, dresses, skirts, blouses.

PJ’s.

I even took a short course in making 5-pocket blue jeans and made them.

Rivets and all.

I made so many and got so proficient that I stopped even needing instructions and could whip up a pair – from cutting to trying on the finished article – in less than two hours.

I had even been known to make them in my sleep.

Of course they didn’t look quite the same.

But I digress . . .

One thing I discovered with blue jeans was the fact that you are fairly limited in things you can do to make them . . . remark-able.

Oh, you can sew trim into the outer seams.

And use different colours of thread.

But probably the most noticeable of TYCD (things you can do) is to mess with the back pockets.

And yes, I went there.

I embroidered many things on my kids’ back pockets.

Pictures.

Slogans.

Designs.

Then I got the wild idea of using their initials.

Genius.

Only they didn’t always agree.

For example, Erik refused to wear his jeans embossed with the giant letters ‘E’ and ‘T’ on his back side.

I don’t know what his problem was. I thought it would be cute to be called ‘ET’.

Finally, in an attempt at mollification, I added a ‘B’, for his middle name of ‘Blair’.

It passed.

I then used the same idea for his next older brother’s jeans. Robin Duff Tolley. What could be better than ‘RDT’?

He thought it was great.

Until his father asked what the ‘RDT’ stood for. “Rabbit, duck, turtle?”

“Nooo! Robin Duff Tolley!”

“Oh. Rabbitduckturtle?”

“Nooo!”

Yeah. Those pockets had to come right off.

I replaced them with something a little less controversial.

Like squiggles.

But the name remained. From then on, our Duff was known as Rabbitduckturtle.

Have you ever heard of the consequences of labelling a child?

Well, the stories are true.

Mom Logic

Dad, Jerry and Chris
About 3 BD (Before Diane)
But 5 minutes AC (After Coats)

Our kids and grandkids were over for the weekend.

Fortunately for us, spring has finally arrived in Edmonton, Alberta, and they were able to spend much of the day outside.

One grandson, anxious to rejoin his cousins on the pirate ship in the backyard (yes, we have a pirate ship in the backyard) was frantically looking for his coat.

Which he had discarded when he had come inside.

Moments before.

“Can’t find it!” he lamented loudly.

“Well, Sweetie,” I said. “I don’t know . . .” That was as far as I got.

Because, suddenly, I was remembering my Mom.

And something she said to us every time we were bewailing the loss of some article of clothing.

Which happened often.

Ahem . . .

There would the usual scurry to find said article of clothing.

Coat.

Hat.

Boots.

Shoes.

Pants.

And then the inevitable words, “I CAN’T FIND IT/THEM!!!”

Followed, if one were really good, by tears.

I was really good.

Just FYI.

Back to my story . . .

Mom would appear on the scene and immediately bring the problem into ‘Mom’ focus with the words: “Well, I don’t know where I put it/them when I wore it/them last!”

We would frown because adult-sized Mom would never, ever have fit into it/them.

And this was NOT helpful!

Then she would laugh.

Whereupon (good word!) we would sigh and slump and renew our search.

So, back to my grandson.

The three-year-old standing indignantly in the middle of the kitchen.

I smiled. “Well, Sweetie, I don’t know where I put it when I wore it last!”

He frowned at me.

I heard laughter from the periphery. And “I remember Mom saying that to me!”

Some things lose nothing in the years.

Ranch Pets

Bambi and four of his pets

Baby antelope kisses

A ranch is a different place to grow up.
Miles from any other humans, one never worries about what the 'neighbours will think'.
Also because of the distance between homesteads, one has to become very self-reliant.
One doesn't drive half an hour to borrow a cup of sugar or a can of soup.
One makes do.
And learns to plan ahead.
Kids growing up on a ranch make their own entertainment.
Well, at least they did in the 50s and 60s.
Electronics hadn't been invented yet.
There was one channel on the TV.
And talking on the phone wasn't the private enterprise it is today.
Entertainment consisted of visiting with your family.
Playing games. Also with said family.
Swinging from ropes in the hay loft.
Riding.
Reading.
And, of course, playing with your pets.
On our ranch, there were all the usual pets one would expect.
An assortment of barn cats. The end result of years of 'spur of the moment' cat sex.
Dogs. All brought in from other ranches and, unlike the aforementioned cats, strictly controlled.
Some a little harder to hide in your bedroom. (ie. Ponies. And yes, I tried.)
Assorted baby animals, found by me and subsequently (good word) turned out of the house by my unenlightened mother.

Pigs.
Calves.
And then, at least on our ranch, the animals you wouldn't expect.
Wild animals who had been injured or orphaned.
And just needed some care and a place to stay.
A litter of coyote pups. Discovered by my father after finding a dead, female coyote.
A seagull. Found near the road, unable to fly.
Countless frogs.
A snake or two.
Several mice.
Jackrabbits.
Did you know that a baby porcupine is really, really cute?
Well they are.
Moving on . . .
And several baby deer.
These wilder 'pets' didn't stay around long.
As they grew, they began to pose some problems.
Wild animals, no matter how cute, simply don't domesticate.
Regardless of how hard you try.
Or how much you talk to them.
One baby deer, unexpectedly named 'Bambi', got quite aggressive, especially with my toddling baby sister.
I don't know what he thought she was.
But he didn't like it.
And tried to express himself with sharp hooves.
He, like most of them, after tearful good-byes, went to petting zoos in the area.
But, for a time, they belonged to our family.
I still think that befriending them and spending time with them was better than any form of electronic entertainment.
And I'm always right.

The Subtle Smell of Employment

Who would you hire?

To a cowboy looking for employment in the 50s, the Stringam spread proved enticing.
Many times, someone would ride in with everything he owned on his back and in his saddle bags.
Usually at mealtimes.
Invariably he would be invited to put up his horse and stay to eat.
The interview had begun.
During the meal, everyone seated around the table would ply the newcomer with questions:
Where are you from?
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
But the boss would be watching for answers to the unasked questions.
By the end of the meal, his decision would be made.
And the cowboy would be directed to the bunkhouse.
Or the highway.
We often wondered how Dad did it.
How could he tell what kind of a man/hand this stranger would be?
He finally let us in on his secret.
Or secrets.
By the way the man swung into the saddle and handled his horse, Dad could tell he'd had lots of experience.
The fact that he treated his horse with affection and respect told Dad he was trustworthy.
He carried very little tack, so Dad knew he wasn't a thief.
He'd worked at the Bar K/Night Ranch/Q Ranch for two years and Dad knew their standards and expectations, so the man had been well-trained.
And last, he wasn't flamboyant in his dress. No ten-gallon hat or silver, big-rowelled spurs. The man had his needs and wants under control.
He was hired.
My Dad was seldom wrong.
Although once, some . . . refining was needed.
Let me explain . . .
Luke rode into the ranch yard, looking for work.
He was invited to loosen his girthstrap and join the boys for dinner.
He complied.
Talk was general as the boys got to know him.
There seemed to be a broad consensus that Luke was okay.
Everyone looked at Dad.
Who nodded.
Luke was directed to the bunkhouse and given a bunk.
The door closed.
And that's when everyone got the first whiff of Luke's one . . . drawback.
Luke didn't like water.
More particularly, washing in it.
At first, the boys were subtle.
Opening the windows.
And then the doors.
Then they started making comments.
“Whew! It sure smells in here!”
“I think someone needs a bath!”
Which got more pointed.
“Yak! I'm choking to death!”
With looks directed at the offending party.
Luke remained stubbornly oblivious.
Finally, the rest of the boys grabbed their bedrolls and toted them to the big ranch house.
“Morning, Ma'am,” the first one said. “We're moving into your attic!”
“Yep. There's poison gas in the bunk house,” the second one said.
“We're choking to death!” said a third.
“Dying!”
And they did.
Move in, I mean. Not die.
Mom turned to Dad, eyebrows raised.
Dad shrugged his shoulders. “I'll talk to them,” he said.
He must have.
Because that evening, the boys moved back into their bunk house.
Then roped Luke, hauled him down to the river and scrubbed him down themselves.
All was quiet for a week.
Till glances and remarks indicated that the next 'bathing' was being contemplated.
This time, Luke hauled himself to the river and scrubbed off.
From then on, all one of the boys had to do was take down his rope.
And Luke would scurry for the shower.
Oh, he complained. “Too much water is bad for the health!”
His words, not mine.
But he did it.
And the sweet, clean air of the Alberta prairies once more wafted through the bunkhouse.
Hiring is a tricky business.
But with discernment, skill . . .
And soap . . .
It can be done.