Handling the Pressure

Note the pressure 'bob'. It's there for a reason . . .

During their early years on the ranch, my parents sponsored several German immigrants.

They all proved to be wonderful, industrious, conscientious people.

Eager to work and to become 'Canadians'.

One of the girls, Erica, was helping Mom in the house when my next older brother was born.

She proved to be invaluable with the household chores and cooking, but struggled at learning English.

Mom knew a little German, however, so they managed to muddle through.

On a few occasions, though, the language barrier proved to be just that.

A barrier.

Erica was fascinated with the pressure cooker.

That miraculous appliance that could cook food in a fraction of the time.

The microwave of the 50s.

Apparently, though they were widely used in Canada, they hadn't caught on in Erica's part of Germany.

Mom had tried to school Erica on the proper use of this amazing new contraption.

She had managed to get through steps one through four.

1. Food and a small amount of water is placed inside
2. Seal adjusted
3. Lid screwed on and, most importantly,
4. Pressure bob applied.

I should point out, here, that those are the easy steps.

Then comes the actual cooking part.

And this was where Erica always came to grief.

She couldn't seem to grasp that, if the rings are up on the pressure bob, the kettle is full of . . . pressure.

Up to this point, Mom had always been there to divert disaster.

But on this particular day, Mom was still in town running errands.

Erica decided to cook dinner on her own.

What a glorious opportunity to try out the fabulous new invention!

All went well.
The pressure cooker . . . pressure cooked.

Other pots alternately steamed and bubbled.

Dinner was nearly ready.

Erica pulled the large pressure cooker off the stove and gave it a quick dunk under a cold stream of water.

Then she wrenched off the lid.

Oops.

The lid and released steam hit her. Full. In. The. Face.

And beets flew everywhere.

Erica screamed and blindly ran outside.

Dad heard her screaming and come running. There he found the poor girl, confused and in obvious pain.

Her nose was bleeding profusely and she had obviously been scalded.

He got her into the bathroom, where he started her soaking her face in cold water.

When Mom came home a short time later, she bundled Erica into the girl's bedroom and applied teabags to the exposed areas. They proved to be quite soothing and she was able to rest.

Then Mom was able to start on the kitchen which was giving a good impression of a slaughter house.

Beets were everywhere.

Mom even found one on top of the knick-knack shelf in the far corner.

Remarkably, miraculously, Erica healed without a mark.

But Mom was taking no further chances.

Though the pressure cooker remained in plain sight, the pressure bob, the little gizmo that made everything dangerous, was hidden in a very secret place.

Never store the gun and the bullets in the same cupboard.

Funny Friday

May Funny Friday

Today’s post is May’s Funny Friday, a regular feature published on the last Friday of every month.

Funny Friday is a collaborative project.

Each month one of the participants submits a picture, then we all write 5 captions or thoughts inspired by that month’s picture.

Links to the other bloggers’ posts are below, see what they’ve come up with!

I hope we bring a smile to your face as you start your weekend.

Here’s today’s picture. It was submitted by Baking In A Tornado 

1.  A whole new meaning to ‘Getting the Toddler Trained’.

2.     Tracks are only for trains. If you can read this, you are NOT a train!

3.     It's not my place to run the train. The whistle I can't blow. It's not my place to say how far the train's allowed to go. It's not my place to shoot off steam, nor even clang the bell. But let the whole thing jump the track and see who catches hell.

4.     Stoke that engine! This is a big one…

5.     Okay. Let’s see if this baby can fly!

Click on the links below and let some other bloggers make you smile:

Black Sheep Mom

Someone Else’s Genius

Confessions of a part-time working mom

The Momisodes

Sanity Waiting to Happen

On the Alberta/Montana Border

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Baking In A Tornado

A Boy Day

And they look so innocent . . .

It had been a tough day.

And we had three boys.

Those are my excuses . . .

The day had started out slowly.

Mark had sleep-walked and nearly mistook the closet for the bathroom.

Caught just in time.

Because I am superwoman.

Shortly thereafter (oooh, good word), Mark and Erik had staged an argument/battle over the TV remote.

I should explain, here, that the word 'remote' was largely optimistic at this point.

There was a device.

Attached to our VCR by a long cord.

Thus, 'remote'.

Moving on . . .

Our two oldest boys were fighting over it.

Mom won.

By banishing them to opposite sides of the family room.

Neither of which was close enough to the TV to allow access to said remote.

They were watching 'Black Hole'.

Again.

It was the only approximately 'family' movie that our newly fledged VCR rental outlet had.

Both of them could quote it by this time.

They began to discuss whether they should do what Mark wanted - watch it again - or flip to the TV for the daily episode of Sesame Street. Erik's idea.

More arguing.

Won by Mom again, when she suggested, rather forcefully that the time had come for them to go outside and bother their father.

Whereupon (another good word) they found themselves in the great outdoors.

With their little brother.

For a while, they sat and pouted.

Then Duffy discovered the mud puddle.

A short time later, there was a timid tap at the front door.

I opened it.

There was a figure standing there.

Vaguely human in shape.

Roughly the size of my third son.

Several scrubbings later, I realized that it was, indeed, Duffy.

Whose brothers had doused him, quite literally, in his own discovery.

The culprits were discovered, some time later, hiding in the basement of the house their dad was building.

Still giggling.

I dragged them into the house.

To apologize.

And to eat lunch.

Was it really only noon?

They immediately began to argue over who got the yellow cup.

And where each of them would sit.

I settled it again.

No one got the yellow cup and neither of them got to sit remotely close to where they wanted. In fact, they were lucky to be sitting at all!

As they finally bowed their heads and started scooping up Mac and Cheese, I told them, “I think I'm going to take the three of you in to the 'used kids' store and trade you in on girls!”

My second son looked at me, round-eyed. “Can you do that?”

I laughed. “No,” I reassured him.

“Oh.” He went back to scooping.

But sometimes, I wish . . .

Rum-Running for Amateurs

The Smuggler - and her get-away vehicle.
Before she . . . got away.

Mom was a teetotaler.

I thought I should mention that. It explains so much . . .

Dad had surprised Mom with the trip of a lifetime.

Okay, in the 60’s it was the trip of a lifetime.

Driving down along the scenic 101 through Washington, Oregon, California and into Mexico.

They were going to be gone for weeks.

She was just a bit excited.

They set out.

Visiting every landmark, great and small.

Every roadside exhibit.

Every tree, post and rock along the entire route.

Dad loved to see . . . things.

When they had finally finished with Sea World in San Diego, time was growing short.

They had one day to make a hop into Mexico.

Tijuana was all they would have time for.

They set out.

Crossed the border into Mexico.

And had a day of shopping the family-run stalls and businesses on the streets of Old Mexico.

Mom was in her element.

The sheer amount of purchasable ‘stuff’ was mind numbing.

She set to work with a will.

Picking up such treasures as: Velvet paintings.

Items of leather work.

Jewellery.

And some lovely bottles, encased in clever, hand-woven reed containers.

Happily, she piled her purchases into the back seat of the car and the two of them set off on the long road back to Canada.

Crossing the border from Mexico to the US was a simple matter of declaring that, yes, they had done some shopping and spent ‘X’ amount of dollars/pesos, and no, they weren’t transporting any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

They continued on.

Back through California, Oregon and Washington.

Seeing whatever sites Dad had missed on their first pass.

There weren’t many.

Finally, they reached the border, again declaring how much they had spent and that they weren’t carrying any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

The last few miles to the ranch were covered quickly.

Mom had children to see.

And gifts to bestow.

Their homecoming was noisy and enthusiastic.

Mom handed out her purchases.

Brought all the way from Mexico.

Across two borders.

She had purchased one thing for herself.

The three little bottles in their fancy, hand-woven cases.

She arranged them proudly on the mantle above the fireplace.

One larger.

Two smaller.

Perfect.

For many months, they sat there.

In their place of honor.

Then one of my brothers happened to pick one up as he was dusting.

It was full of liquid.

“Mom! What’s in this bottle?”

“Liquid.”

“What kind of liquid?”

“Well . . . just water, I suppose.”

“Huh.” He twisted off the cap.

Let’s just say that, if it was water, the water in Mexico is vastly different than anything that flows in Canada.

“Mom. I hate to tell you this, but this isn’t water!”

Mom appeared. “It isn’t?”

“Umm . . . no.”

“Well what is it then?”

“I think you have three bottles of tequila here.”

Okay, remember the part where I mentioned ‘teetotaler’?

That would apply here.

 “What’s tequila?”

 “It’s a very strong alcoholic drink. From Mexico. With a worm in the bottom.”

“Oh.”

The ‘liquid’ was duly poured out, worm and all, and good old 100 proof ranch sulphur water poured back in.

Mom went back to the kitchen and my brother went back to his dusting.

All was well.

But I can’t help but think about my teetotaling Mom bringing her three bottles of tequila across, not one, but two borders.

It’s always the ones you don’t suspect . . .

Slithery Dee

'Slithery-Dee'
With grandchildren

Our family was camping.

With our good friends, the Boyd family.

Something we have done every year.

For the past 26 years.

Rain or shine.

Usually rain.

It involves work.

Setting up trailers and tents for nearly thirty people inevitably includes some sort of exertion.

1.      1.  There is the usual ‘tarp wars’.

Won by whichever family can set up the best, tightest, most wrinkle-free campsite covering.

2.      2.  The leveling of the tents/trailers.

Highly important if some members of the tribe are susceptible to the headache inevitably brought on by sleeping with one’s head tilted below one’s feet.

3.      3.  And the choosing of the ‘Boydolley’ camp song.

This is very important. It has to be the most aggravating, annoying, ‘stick in your head’ song imaginable.

We’ve had such treasures as: ‘Oh, How I Love to Stand’.

And: ‘Hi! My Name is Joe!’

Plus the ever-popular: ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Non-Alcoholic Beverage on the Wall’.

And who can forget: ‘Jon Jonson’?

Seriously, who can forget it . . .?

And then there was the year that the Grandkids were finally old enough to get involved.

And vote.

What did they choose?

What classic would take its rightful place in history?

Was it something momentous?

Heart-warming?

No.

It was ‘Slithery Dee’.

The classic song featuring a monster that comes out of the sea and eats everyone.

Perfect camp fare.

For a family camped beside a lake.

Moving on . . .

There were various versions.

Depending largely on the age and capability of the singer.

Megan, the eldest could sing it quite well, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”

Right behind her was Kyra, “Oh, Swivery-Dee!”

And then there was the youngest talker, Odin, “Oh, Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee!”

They sang it by the hour.

And I do mean By. The. Hour.

Until . . . THE EVENT.

It was early afternoon.

Lunch had just finished.

Grandma (me) was lying on the bed in our tent trailer, telling stories to as many of the grandkids as would lie there and listen.

At nearest count – several.

Then they asked to sing ‘Slithery-Dee’.

Sigh.

I complied.

We were just getting through the first verse, wherein (good word) Megan had been eaten, when we were interrupted.

I should tell you, here, that our little tent trailer consists of a central square block.

With three wings/beds.

Each wing is covered by the main canvas, which hooks under said wing.

Canvas that can be . . . un-hooked.

Without the person, or persons, on the wing knowing anything about it.

Back to my story . . .

Where were we?

Oh, yes.

End of the first verse.

Unbeknownst (another good word!) to us, my Husby had unhooked the canvas immediately below us.

Just as we started to sing, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”, a hand and arm reached up through the wall of the trailer and grabbed the nearest grandchild.

Who promptly screamed.

Inciting an immediate riot.

Grandma and grandchildren boiled out of the trailer like angry bees.

Realizing what had happened, we started to laugh.

Then we fed Grandpa.
To Slithery Dee.

Angels Around Us

On this Memorial Day, I want to remember our servicemen and women and the other angels among us. Great and small.

There are angels around us.

And they appear in the unlikeliest places.

When they are most needed . . .

Our family had fallen on hard times.

It happens to everyone.

It was our turn.

My Husby had been out of work for some time.

And it looked as though he would remain out of work for some time more.

We were 'economizing'.

We had given up everything that was not strictly necessary.

Cable.

Restaurants.

Entertainment.

Shopping.

And we were living off our food storage.

The last thing I wanted to give up . . . and indeed the last thing I didgive up was our milk deliveries.

The thought of living on skim milk powder from our storage was . . . how can I say this tactfully . . . horrifying.

But we were about to do it.

Sigh.

Our milkman, John, was a very nice man.

Friendly.

Smart.

Attentive.

And no, none of our kids look like him.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

I dreaded telling him that this next delivery would be our last.

But our precious store of capital was rapidly dwindling, despite our best efforts.

And the job had to be done.

He arrived, carrying our order of milk, cheese and cream.

And I told him, tearfully, that we couldn't afford deliveries any longer.

He just grinned and handed me a note.

It read: “Happy birthday . . . or something . . . for the next four months.”

I stared at it.

Then at John.

What on earth did it mean?

“Someone has paid for your milk deliveries for the next four months,” he said, finally.

“What?”

Okay, so quick, I'm not.

“Someone has taken over paying your milk bill for the next four months.”

“Who?”

His grin widened. “I can't tell you.”

“What?”

Sigh. Some people are slow.

“I can't tell you,” he repeated patiently. “Someone, who wishes to remain anonymous, has asked that your bill be forwarded to them for the next four months.”

“It was you, wasn't it, John.”

It was more a statement than a question.

He laughed. “I can absolutely guarantee that it was not me,” he said. “Cross my heart.”

I stared at him suspiciously for a few minutes.

Then finally took the carton of dairy products from him and allowed him to carry on with his route.

And that's when the tears started.

Who knew that we were having such difficulties?

And, more importantly, who cared enough to do this for us?

Moving ahead four months . . .

My Husby once more happily employed and a steady trickle of money flowing into the family coffers, I took my last free delivery of milk.

And was happy to tell John that deliveries could continue.

On our nickel.

I never did find out who our Good Samaritan was.

They had swooped in and helped.

Just when they were needed.

Then swooped out again.

Faceless.

Nameless.

But definitely not heartless.

To my Angel, and you know who you are . . . THANK YOU!

And now, my favourite song, by Alabama that just happens to cover this exact topic . . .

Warmth From Unusual Places

Today's post comes from a guest writer.
My baby brother, Blair. 
Who also grew up on the ranch.
With me.

Blair. With another wet, slimy calf . . .

Dad was an experienced rancher and veterinarian.
And very good at detecting which pregnant cow was going to calve next.
When a cow was due, dad and I would sometimes place bets over bowls of ice cream about the day and time the calf would enter this world.  If dad won, I dished him a bowl of ice cream.  If I won, I dished dad a bowl of ice cream.
Hey, wait a minute . . . 
The problem was, when a snow or rain storm suddenly blew in we could count on 2 or 3 cows that were close to calving suddenly dropping their nice bundle of red and white into the wet snow or mud.  Dad said it had something to do with the change in air pressure.
One year in the early spring we had many cows that were expected to calve in the next few days.  Mom and dad had to go out of town for the day, so I was left in charge with a reminder that we had 2 or 3 cows that were due.  I completed the normal chores, checked the cows, and then went to school.  The weather had been clear until about the last half hour of school when it started to snow.  I knew that there was a good chance that one or two cows had calved so I headed home as soon as school was over.
Now as a teenager, I loved driving anything that made a vroom sound and there was just enough snow for me to take the snowmobile out into the field where the cows were located. 
Sometimes I could mix work with machines (bonus).
I quickly took my powered sled out to the group of expecting mamas to see if any had calved and if they had done so, make sure the calves were dry and happy. As I got out into the field I found that two cows had dropped their calves.  Both mamas were mature and should have been able to take care of their calves without any problems.  One cow had licked off her calf.  He was dry and happily nursing.  
I should tell you that there are times when cows seem to blow a mental fuse.
The second cow was demonstrating this phenomena.
She had dropped her heifer calf in the middle of the wet snow and was standing staring at her very wet - very cold baby. She was not licking the calf, she was not trying to nurse the calf, she was just staring.
I decided that all I could do was take the cow and calf to the barn. Normally when you pick up a new born calf and take it to another place like a barn or corral, the mother will follow you.
In some cases, the mother will try to dance on you and make you hurt very badly (see some of my sisters previous posts). 
But most of our cows were tame and would just follow you.
I stress most cows.
I picked up the very cold, wet, shivering calf - that also had lots of wet goo from its birth all over it - and climbed on the snowmobile. I placed the calf on my lap. I would get wet and slimy but I could take care of that later.
I started driving the snowmobile to the barn. 
Now remember the part where the cow usually follows?
In this case, she was still suffering from the blown fuse. She continued to stand and gaze at the spot that her wet calf had once occupied.
I realized that I would have to return and herd the cow back to the barn as well.
I was not happy about this because it meant that I would be very wet, slimy, and cold for an additional 20 minutes.
I quietly expressed my disappointment, using a few expressions that we had previously refined when dealing with other ??*%$# cows. 
For now I would take the heifer calf to the barn.
I should mention that wet snow was falling while I was out in the field with these cows and it continued to fall as I drove back to the barn with the wet slimy calf on my lap. I was cold and wet from the snow, slimy from the calf and very uncomfortable.
Normally, I would wind up the machine and zip back to the barn, but I had a new born calf and I needed to make the trip at more of a moderate pace.
I was about half way when my left hand got really nice and warm.  
I thought how nice, my hand is warm and I feel less cold, wet, and miserable.
Then I realized that the calf was peeing in my mitt.
Now I was cold, wet, and miserable with a mitt full of calf pee.
Well at least I knew that the urinary system was working well. 
I got to the barn, dropped off the heifer, grabbed a clean pair of mitts, drove back and chased in Blown Fuse.
She started mothering her calf and I started wondering if she intentionally blew a fuse so she could be nice and dry in the barn.
I later shared my experience with my dad.
He just laughed and told me that he had carried a bull calf across the front of his saddle while riding his horse and the calf was kind enough to pee on the saddle that my dad was sitting on.
Oh well it all comes off with soup and water.

Pee. S. Diane had the same thing happen with her brand new riding pad. Sigh.

Sleep Carpentry

Happiness

Shortly after we were married, Husby took a job as foreman at a housing plant.

Building pre-fabricated homes.

He was good at it.

And it was two minutes from where we lived.

He was home for lunch every day.

As well as for breakfast and dinner.

For his new bride, life was perfect.

For the man actually going out to work . . .

The job was very stressful.

Many bosses - several without any knowledge of building.

Any knowledge.

He carried on.

For two years.

He had a family to feed.

But the stress started to tell.

He developed health issues.

And stopped sleeping.

That's when he started making noises about going to school.

Husby had been in school when we started dating, but had quit to take a job after we were married.

Now, he realized that he had made a mistake and wanted to correct it.

I was unconvinced.

How would we provide for ourselves if we had no income?

So he continued working.

Growing more and more unhappy.

And sleeping less and less.

One time, he suddenly snorted, sat up on the edge of the bed and started getting dressed.

“Honey, where are you going?” I asked. “It's 4 AM.”

He jumped and looked around. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

He pulled off his shirt, lay back down, and was instantly snoring.

Is there a term for sleep-dressing?

Probably . . . sleep-dressing.

Moving on . . .

One night, around 3 AM, I was sleeping quietly.

Suddenly, Husby shot up in bed, grabbed me by the collar of my pyjamas, pulled me to a sitting position in the bed and shouted, “You hold the ladder! I'll nail the soffit!”

My sleep-fogged brain vaguely discerned that these were 'house-building' terms.

“Honey, you're dreaming,” I said, rather shakily. “Go back to sleep.”

He wasn't to be deterred.

He shook me slightly. “Okay?!”

“Okay!” I said.

“Good.” He dropped me and flopped back onto the bed.

Seconds later, I could hear his soft snore.

He had been asleep the whole time.

I, however, would probably never sleep again.

I was finally convinced. Stark, heart-racing trauma will do that to you.

Husby went back to school.

He studied History, Arts and Anthropology.

Finally achieving a doctorate.

His health instantly improved.

As did his sleeping habits.

Going back to school was a good decision.

Though with two tiny babies and a wife to feed, it had seemed anything but.

He no longer sleep-dressed.

Or roughed up his wife.

And you can bet that the installation of any soffit was in broad daylight.

With a much more willing assistant.

Oh, and real soffit.

Getting Badgered

Yes.

No.

The Stringam ranch sprawled out over many, many miles.

And took many hands to cover.

My Dad was twelve and had happily, and of necessity, joined the ranks of the ranch-employed aboard the first horse he could truly call his own.

The recently-broke and still fairly green, Queenie.

His pride and joy.

His first assignment was to keep an eye on the bulls.

I should point out, here, that the bulls were kept in the South pasture.

A vast, open field which went on forever.

With an outer fence that also went on forever.

Back to my story . . .

This fence had to be constantly patrolled.

On the other side of it were the Community Pastures.

Filled with . . . community cattle.

All female.

And none pregnant.

A state which their owners wished to preserve.

So someone had to explain to the bulls that any form of interaction was distinctly discouraged.

Hourly.

This was Dad's job. Make sure that the fence was doing its job.

Keeping the heifers on the one side . . .

And the bulls on the other.

But bulls are, after all, bulls.

And when the siren song goes off in their vicinity, they must answer.

With voice and/or action.

Usually action.

What's a paltry five lines of tightly-stretched barbed wire when love is calling to you from the other side?

They would ignore it as if it wasn't there.

And that's where Dad came in.

At a gallop.

Chase the bulls back.

Fix the fence.

He got pretty good at his job.

One day, he was riding along the fence.

Everything was unusually calm.

Then, something moved.

A brown head poked up out of the great sea of grass.

A brown head with darker brown stripes.

Badger.

Dad had never seen a badger close up.

He turned Queenie towards it.

It turned away from them and started off across the prairie.

They followed.

It ran faster.

They pursued faster.

After a few minutes of this, the badger had had enough . . . umm . . . badgering.

He turned and attacked.

Well. Hissed.

At this point, Queenie decided she was finished with this adventure.

Dad could go it alone.

She piled him, forceably, into the prairie dust.

And left him there.

Dad screamed and jumped to his feet, certain that his beloved horse had landed him on the badger.

Or near enough that the badger would soon be on him.

He pictured teeth and claws.

And ravening. He wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded nasty.

He looked frantically around.

Nothing.

The badger had disappeared completely.

He took a deep breath of relief, then recovered his horse and continued with his job.

Dad decided, then and there, that the only four-footed animals he and Queenie would chase would be the big ones with hoofs.

And horns.

They were safer.

One Tiny Jab

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggers.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.

But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots.

Dad Date

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

The best of times.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying.

Moving on . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. Not that I'm admitting anyway . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader.

I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line.

By whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation.

“Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much.

“Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant.

The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing.

Quiet talk and laughter around us.

Gentle chime of silverware on china.

Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu.

“Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match.

Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life.

Dirt Wranglers

Ranching is always an adventure.

Sometimes a tad . . .  uncomfortable.

But always entertaining.

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a pair of coupled calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

Flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.

His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. An adventure.

You get the picture . . .

Breakfast Show

Ever helpful and concerned.

Kids can make eating out such an . . . adventure.

It was the early fifties.

Mom and Dad were travelling in Montana with their three small children.

As they drove past the Deer Lodge prison, Dad tried to explain to four-year old Chris and two-year-old Jerry just what it was. He told them that when people were bad, the police would lock them up in the big building for punishment.

The original ‘time-out’.

He wasn’t sure just how much his two oldest children took in.

The next morning, he had his answer.

The family had stopped nearby for breakfast. While they were eating, a deputy sheriff came in for coffee, then proceeded to tell the waiter about his exciting evening. One very intoxicated individual had been disruptive at a local dance and the deputy had had to take the man to the local jail to sober up. There were no charges to be laid, so all that remained was to get the fellow up and send him home.

Throughout this story, Chris and Jerry were busily eating, not really paying attention to the tale.

Finally, the man stood up and said, “Well, I guess I’d better go down and get my boy out of jail!”

Chris looked at her parents wide-eyed and very concerned. “That man’s little boy is down there in the jail!” she said loudly.

See?

Call Me Babe

I love baseball.

Let me rephrase that.

I LOVE baseball.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because you get to beat an inanimate something with a thick, wooden stick.

Outside.

In the summer sunshine.

Whatever . . .

I played a bit.

Grade school.

High school.

But I didn’t play regularly until long after I had married and had a family.

It was then that I spent three glorious years in a mixed league.

And it was fun.

Oh, I wasn’t one of their best players.

In fact, I spent most of my time out in right field.

Praying that the other team would hit the ball anywhere but to me.

In fact, the only place where I was competent was in the batter’s box.

And even there, only competent. Good for a base or two.

Until that night.

Let me tell you about it . . .

It was a clear summer evening.

The mosquitoes weren’t too bad.

The sun was setting, but the field was situated such that it wasn’t in anyone’s eyes.

The shadows were lengthening.

The sky was trying to decide if it wanted to be cerulean blue or glorious orange.

My team was at bat.

Well . . . I was at bat.

The other team eyed me curiously.

I hadn’t done too badly in the field, but really hadn’t distinguished myself.

A couple of the guys moved in a bit.

The pitcher glanced around at the two players we had on base, then looked at me.

He went into his wind-up, which, in slow pitch, isn’t.

And flipped the ball at me.

I swung.

And felt the sharp crack and the burst of exhilaration as bat met ball.

Solidly.

And that’s when the first surprise of the evening dropped every jaw on my team.

Including mine.

That ball sailed out over the heads of the outfielders.

Way out.

Way, way out.

A triple.

It would have been a home run, except I’m old.

I brought in both of our runners and settled myself firmly on third base.

Then grinned as my team cheered wildly.

The next hitter brought me in and I was met by many slapping hands.

The good kind.

An inning or so later, I was again facing the pitcher. I grinned as the fielders moved back slightly in a she-did-it-once-but-is-this-going-to-be-a-habit sort of way.

They didn’t move back far enough.

Another triple.

Sometime later, I again stood in the hot spot.

This time, the entire outfield moved back.

Way back.

It didn’t matter.

This time, it was a home run.

That ball went far enough that even my aged legs could toddle around all the bases.

We won the game.

But that didn’t matter.

Because for the first – and only – time in my life, I felt like a real ball player.

I had watched as the opposing team moved back to the far reaches of the field and knew they were doing it because, and I quote, ‘This girl can hit!’

I don’t know what happened that night.

Maybe there was some charmed quality in the clear air.

Maybe the spirit of Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays or Babe Ruth had wandered in for a visit.
Maybe I was channelling my Mom.

Maybe I just had a pitcher I could hit off of.

All I know is that it was magical.

It was my night.

My only night.

And I’ll never forget it.