Thank you, Dad!

Tomorrow is Father's Day.

A little tribute to the most special father in my life!

Happy Father's Day, Honey!

My Hero

For most of his career, my Husby has worked for the Culture department in our province.
He enjoys it.
Building museums.
Refurbishing older exhibits.
It has been a constant adventure.
But he learned, as a civil servant, that gratitude was an accepted part of the job and very, very rarely expressed.
Case in point . . .
He and his team had been refitting an interpretive center.
They had been at it for three years.
Their job was finally drawing to a close.
Which allowed the center to open.
Ironic but true.
A grand gala was planned for the opening night.
With speeches by pertinent politicians.
And food.
Myself and our two younger children made the trip and were seated in the audience, happily anticipating hearing from our husby/father.
The evening wore on.
Speeches by many, many people. None of whom had even stepped foot in the building until that night.
Then, finally, just at the end of the evening, the MC announced my Husby.
The man who had organized and directed the entire operation.
The whole three years.
I was so proud of him.
He had worked hard, spending weeks and weeks on a project that took him far from home and family.
And he had done well.
I glanced around. I was surrounded by evidence of his careful, thoughtful, precise planning and execution.
We were now seated in a world-class center with the best and most advanced displays found anywhere.
The crowd had clapped politely as he stepped to the podium. Most of them had no idea of the part he had played.
But his family did.
My daughter suddenly whispered, "Come on! Let's do it!"
My children and I surged to our feet, cheering and clapping wildly.
The rest of the audience stared at us in stunned silence for a moment.
Then the smiles began.
And the applause.
No one else got up, but everyone there knew that this man was special. Deserving of what little praise we could give him.
He smiled at us, then, in his usual calm fashion said, "I have no idea who those people are."
Then, "And I didn't have to pay them much to do that!"
Much laughter and the tone of the entire evening was changed completely.
Later, one of the people with whom he had worked closely stopped me.
"We were so happy when your family did that," she said. "We would all have joined you, if we weren't already standing at the back!"
Dads get very little recognition for good deeds done in this life.

My daughter's advice? 'Let's do it!'
Sometimes all it takes is a little courage.

To Bale Some Hay

Add one brother and it's pretty close.

Not me, but you get the picture.
So to speak . . .

Eight years old.

In my children's day, that meant that they were allowed to dress themselves.

And bathe without three younger siblings in the tub.

In my day, it meant that I was now old enough to drive the tractor.

Pulling the baler.

My day had come!

My first lessons were a confused jumbled of clutch, steering wheel, gas pedal and 'Don't do that!'.

But I soon had it figured out and was able to drive a fairly straight path down the field.

Training over.

I was now ready for the real thing.

Dad directed me to the field where the rows of mown hay were nicely dried.

And ready to be baled.

I should point out here that we used a machine that popped out small, rectangular bales.

Depending on the type of grass, they weighed between 20 pounds (my favorite - made of prairie wool) and 90 pounds (my least favorite - made of something that resembled lead).

And were always moved by hand.

There were none of these gi-normous round or rectangular bales that you see in the fields now.

Bales that couldn't possibly be moved by anything other than a tractor.

Or Superman.

Who didn't live on our ranch.

Mmmm . . . Superman . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes . . . baler.

The tractor person - me - was supposed to follow just to the left of the windrow (line of mown hay) and keep the pickup on the baler . . . umm . . . picking up.

Are we clear?

Let's start.

The hay was grabbed by little fingers rotating on the baler.

Then it was passed through the machine and tamped into a small, rectangular compartment.

Finally, the contraption managed to tie the bale with two pieces of hemp string, and the whole thing was pushed out the back.

To where my brother, Jerry was waiting.

Jerry was standing on a stooker (small trailer) being pulled behind the baler.

The bales slid out of a chute straight into his arms.

Which he then stacked on a rack at the back of the trailer.

Four or five on the bottom.

Then one less.

Then one less.

Until a single bale marked the top of the stook.

Jerry then hit a leaver, which tipped the trailer, dropping the neat stack off the back and launching him into the air.

I don't know about other stookers, but Jerry always used this upward motion to see how high he could jump.

It was very entertaining.

Or at least it would have been, if I weren't keeping my eyes trained on the windrow.

Ahem . . .

The only things I had to worry about were keeping true and not going too fast.

If one went too fast, the tamper couldn't keep up and hay would get clogged in the baler.

Which then resulted in a broken shear pin.

And your brother running alongside the tractor and banging on the side to get your attention so he could put in a new one.

Or so I'm guessing.

It was a wonderful way to spend a hot July day.

The smell of newly-mown hay.

The blue sky.

Fresh, clear Alberta air.

Mountains shimmering on the horizon.

Your brother singing at the top of his lungs on the stooker.

And your mind busily creating all sorts of adventures.

A perfect world.

Discovered when I was eight.

From atop a tractor.

My 'G' String

Okay, I’m a farm girl!

I had never heard of things like this!

Sigh . . .

I learned to play the guitar when I was twelve.

After an afternoon spent with my big brother, Jerry.

He made it look like so much fun.

We were sitting downstairs on the piano bench.

With an opened ‘Reader’s Digest’ music book propped up on the piano.

We were singing, “When You Wore a Tulip”.

Loudly.

And happily.

With Jerry strumming the guitar enthusiastically.

Picture it: “When you wore a tulip, a sweet, yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose” . . . whereupon (good word) he’d stop and say, just under his breath, but completely in rhythm, “I don’t know that chord!”

“When you caressed me . . .” And the song would continue.

We sang and laughed for hours.

After that, I insisted on learning to play.

Patiently, he handed me the guitar and then taught me.

Fortunately for him, I caught on quickly.

And went on playing.

I was never an expert, but I enjoyed myself and played for family and friends.

Moving ahead . . .

I was happily playing “Puff the Magic Dragon” for my two young sons.

Well, ‘playing’ would be largely a misnomer at this point, because the oldest one kept trying to ‘help’.

Resulting in the dull ‘thump’ of a muted string.

Finally, one of the strings broke.

Rats.

I removed it and coiled it, then set it aside.

When my Husby returned home that evening, I handed him the string and asked if he could pick me up another.

He nodded. “Sure.” Then, “Do you know which string it is?”

“Yeah. G.”

“You want me to pick you up a new G-string?” He started to laugh.

I nodded. “Yeah. I need a new ‘G’ string.” I frowned at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you just asked me to pick you up a new G-string.”

I stared. Was he getting goofy? Had marriage and fatherhood finally tipped him over the edge?

“Yeah. I broke my ‘G’ string and I need a new one.”

 “You broke . . .?” He laughed harder, bending over and holding his sides.

“Yeah. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his eyes.

“Well, can you get me a new ‘G’ string?”

Another paroxysm (ooh, another good word) of laughter.

Then, finally, “You don’t know what a G-string is, do you?”

Remember where I said the words, ‘farm girl’? That would apply here.

“No.”

He explained.

“Oh.” I suddenly understood his laughter.

He got me the string.

After a laugh with the guy in the guitar shop.

But, in true Tolley fashion, never let me forget the lesson . . .

What's That Smell?

Okay. Let's see you do this without getting grimy . . .

Ranching doesn't encourage cleanliness.

You heard it here first.

In fact, ranching and cleanliness don't go together.

At all.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I had worked on the ranch all my life and had finally been promoted to 'herdsman' where I served for two glorious years.

This included such things as:

Riding herd.

Checking herd.

Feeding herd.

Treating herd.

Worrying over herd.

Hovering when herd was ready to calve.

Calving out herd.

Recording herd.

Eating and sleeping with herd.

Okay, maybe that last is a little extreme, but you get my point . . .

Sooo . . . cleanliness.

Cows aren't naturally clean.

I know this will come as a shock.

I'm sure you've seen the romantic pictures of mama cow licking her baby.

I have one thing to say about this.

Cow spit.

How clean can that be?

Cows also have other orifices that are . . . nasty.

And to which I have one response.

Cow pies.

Enough said.

On with my story . . .

I was ready to go to work.

Clean shirt.

Clean jeans.

Clean kerchief.

Clean socks.

Recently cleaned boots.

I headed out the door.

Bridle and riding pad on my horse and I was away.

We made good time reaching the calving field. And almost immediately spotted a cow.

Calving.

But having difficulties.

I decided to take her back to the corrals. And restrain her. And help.

That's as far as my plans/actions went.

I grabbed the protruding calf feet.

And that's when the cow broke out of my hastily-built restraint.

Grimly, I hung onto the calf as the cow started across the corral.

Dropping me and her calf in the middle of a puddle of - let me put it this way - it wasn't spring water.

I got up.

Carted the calf to safety.

And headed for the house.

My mother met me in the doorway. Her clean daughter had gone out the door only half an hour before.

Now, dripping from head to toe with . . . barn puddle, said daughter had returned.

Mom stopped me in the porch.

“You just left here. Perfectly clean!” she said. “What did you do out there?!”

“Well . . .”

“Never mind. Clothes off here!” she ordered.

I was divested of anything gooey.

Whereupon (good word) I sprinted for the shower.

In my underwear.

Ranching.

Not for the faint of heart.

Or the fanatically clean.

Okay, let's face it . . . not even for the somewhat clean.

Don't you wish you were here?

The Leading Edge in Home Defence

Beware!

We were visiting/staying with my husband’s sister.

Her home was in the country, surrounded by acres of Adventure.

Our kids loved it.

They had worn themselves out running outside, creating worlds with Lego inside, and were finally tucked into their respective beds.

The visiting adults had followed their example and were peacefully snoring.

My Husby and I were on the hide-a-bed in the family room.

All was quiet.

I should explain, here, that the family room was situated at the top of the stairs.

That the master bedroom was down said stairs.

And that anyone wanting to use the bathroom would have to walk through our room, between our bed and the only source of light in the entire house, the glass patio doors.

Back to my story . . .

I heard a noise.

As the mother of six, I was instantly awake.

A floor was creaking.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

An adult-sized figure materialized out of the gloom beside me making their slow, careful way towards the bathroom.

For a moment, they were silhouetted against the patio door.

Then they disappeared.

I’m not making this up.

They disappeared.

One moment they were there.

A black cutout against the lighter door.

And the next . . . gone.

I sat up.

“Who’s there? What happened?”

My whisper sounded loud in the stillness.

My Sister-In-Law’s voice from the end of the bed, “?@$%&* Lego!”

The figure reappeared, rising up from the floor.

Its gait subtly altered, it continued towards the bathroom.

Lego is the best, most imaginative toy ever, but those who have had the misfortune of stepping on one of those little blocks with an unprotected foot know the pain.

Let’s wince together.

P.S. I've just had an amazing thought! Spread Lego blocks around the house for defence. As long as the enemy approaches barefoot, you've got them!

Death By Toddler!

Oh, she only looks innocent...

The soft cascade of warm water and sweet-smelling soap caresses the aged body, following every curve.

And bulge.

Problems and irritations disappear down the drain with the water as total relaxation is, finally, achieved.

The warm water continues.

A state of near-bliss is achieved.
Ahhh . . .

Cue: Sharp strings played in a tight Eee! Eee! Eee! Eee!

The shower curtain is pulled back abruptly.

The shower-er spins about with a startled gasp.

A shadowy figure sticks its head into the cubicle.

“Hey! Gramma! What’cha doing?!”

And ‘Gramma’ collapses and dies of a heart attack.

Okay, it doesn’t quite have the punch of the original Psycho. But the death is just as real.

And permanent.

Death by Toddler!

Coming soon to a shower near you.

Rated: ‘T’ for Toddler. There is no stronger rating…

P.S. No skin was shown in the making of this experience.
None.
Absolutely none.

The world simply isn’t ready for that.

When Moms Get It Wrong

Two sweet faces

Occasionally, Moms make mistakes.

I just want to get that out there.

They do.

Not often.

But occasionally.

Moms are busy. Usually keeping at least three balls in the air at any given moment.

It's totally understandable . . .

My younger brother, Blair was playing in the front room.

Quietly.

Because he was always quiet.

Our baby sister, Anita, was playing nearby.

Less quietly.

Because she . . . never mind.

She had disdained her basket full of colourful toys and was climbing up on the coffee table and sliding off.

This had been entertaining her for several minutes.

Then, she mis-calculated. Slid off a little too quickly and bumped something important.

Tears ensued. Bringing Mom in a hurry from the kitchen.

She picked her sobbing daughter up from the floor where she lay in a crumpled, miserable heap.

“Blair! What did you do?!”

Blair looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth a perfect 'O' of confusion. “Ummm . . .”

He was summarily parked in the 'you've done something terrible' spot.

The piano bench.

Huh. You know I just figured something out. Whenever we did something horrible, we were set on the piano bench to think about our sins. Maybe that's why none of us liked playing the piano.

Just a thought.

Back to my story . . .

Blair blinked and frowned thoughtfully. 

Had he done something? He didn't think so.

He had been quietly reading.

Anita had been playing a few feet away on the coffee table.

“But Mom . . .!”

“Don't you 'but mom' me! You stay there and think about what you did!”

Mom marched back out to the kitchen.

Leaving a very confused little boy sitting on the piano bench in the front room.

Anita, tears forgotten, was back crawling onto the coffee table.

Yep. Moms make mistakes.

Fortunately for the future of the world as we know it, it doesn't happen often.

Driving Miss Daisy

A guest post by my Husby, Grant.

Meet Daisy.

On the farm in the early 1960s, one of the daily chores – actually twice daily, morning and evening – was milking the cow. 

For a few years we had a super-gentle, highly-milk-productive Jersey cow named Daisy. 

In rotation with some of my brothers, our twice daily job was to go out into the north pasture, bring Daisy into the barn, and tease from her the twice-daily bounty of rich, creamy milk.

Milking Daisy wasn’t a terribly hard task.  She always stood very quietly while one of us milk-boys would sit on the three-legged stool beside her and extract her bounteous supply. 

Her only quirk – and I am convinced she knew exactly what she was doing – was that she quite enjoyed swishing her tail around to her human-occupied side, pretending to swat at flies but hitting us square in the side of the head with a rather hard and hairy-raspy appendage. I think it was her way of saying “hurry up, I haven’t got all day here!”  Daisy loved her rich pasture much better than the annoying milking barn.

Daisy’s pasture was directly north of the barn, and she seemed to always migrate to the far side, at least a half mile away.  When it was time for milking, we could always bet that she would be right in the far corner.  Bringing Daisy in was the hardest part of the milking routine, because we always had to walk out to bring her in – about a mile or more, twice a day.

Then, as a young lad, I discovered the concept of laziness.

I realized that Daisy was a gentle enough soul that I could actually hop up on her back and she would let me ride!  This cut down the twice-daily walking by half!! 

I thought I was pretty smart.

Except that Daisy liked her pasture. 

Oh, she would move alright when I was on her back, but she would head to yet another far corner of the pasture rather than towards the barn.

I decided that what Daisy needed was a steering wheel.  So one day, going out to get Daisy, I took an old corn broom with me, hopped up on Daisy’s back, and used the broom to “steer” her, so to speak.  She would start walking in a random direction, but if I wanted to steer her meanderings toward the left, I would cover her right eye with the broom – magic!  She would move left.  And of course the opposite happened when I needed to go to the right.  Within days I had the system perfected, and Daisy had been trained to take me right to the milking stall in the barn, complete with my laziness and broom steering mechanism.

Daisy was with us for many years.  I am sure my bones are still made out of her wonderful, fresh milk.  When Diane and I married, we bought two more lovely Jersey milk cows, Kitty and Bunny (that’s another story, click here) largely because of the good memories we had of Driving Miss Daisy.  

Doggy to the Rescue

A guest post by daughter, Caitlin.

In better health...

Back in October 2006, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. 

Aside from the morning sickness that would hit any time it liked, it was a good pregnancy. 

During this time, I would sometimes hop the bus to the mall and peruse for some clothing that would fit my altering figure.

And occasionally find something for my hubby or the babby-to-come. 

One time, I went into a maternity store, but the only thing that caught my eye was a little stuffed dog toy. I bought it, thinking the new baby would (eventually) like to play with it. I paid for it, popped it in my bag and forgot about it.

I would remember it later . . .

Around that time, I was working women's clothing retail. It was my job to get the deliveries unwrapped and properly hung for display. I loved it, because it meant I didn't have to interact with people as much as the other ladies.

Ahem . . .

Also around that time, a rather nasty bug was making its merry way through everybody who worked there. It was a short-lived stomach flu, but it was still nasty.

Now, at the best of times, I dislike being sick. But I was about 5 months pregnant then, so I didn't have just me to worry about! The other ladies were very conscientious about my condition, but the bug wasn't.

I knew I had caught the flu when my hubby and I went to bed, and I couldn't control my nausea. Normally, I'd get a swift bout and I'd either run to the bathroom, or it would settle on its own. This night, after I ran to the bathroom for the third time, my sweetie got me a bucket to keep by the bed. By 3 am, I hadn't slept a wink, and I was starting to bring up food I hadn't even eaten yet.

Panic ensued.

Hubby bundled me into a jacket, and, bucket to hand, got me onto the next bus heading to the hospital.

We made it to the emergency, and when they found out I was pregnant and bringing up last week's meals, they tried very hard to get me in quickly.

Now, this was a hospital emergency ward. There were several other just-as-imperative cases there, including at least one car accident which I found out about after I'd been ushered into a cubicle and hooked up to an IV to combat my dehydration. They'd given me some Gravol to help with the nausea, and both hubby and I had managed to snooze a bit. 

Around 5 am, they took me in for an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay. It was, and when they wheeled me back, I noticed a little boy in tears in the emergency cubicle across from ours. 

His was the family that had been in the car accident. He was fine, but both his parents were immobilized, pending further tests to ensure no damages to . . . well, anything. 

All that little boy knew was that he couldn't sit with Mommy or Daddy, and he didn't know anybody there. The nurses tried to keep him occupied, but judging by the tears, they weren't succeeding.

That's when I remembered the little stuffed dog in my bag.

I pulled it out and told hubby to give it to the nurse to give to the little boy. 

Since the crying stopped soon after that, I think my tactic worked.

I was judged well enough to leave around 6 am, and we packed up our few things to get ready to go. I happened to glance into the main area where the nurse's desk was, and saw the little boy laughing with one of the nurses. She was stuffing the little dog into a vaccuum tube and sending it zipping up and down the vaccuum chute in the emergency ward. Every time it popped back down, the little boy would giggle so cutely I couldn't help but smile. We left to the sound of giggles, and that's when I knew why that little dog had caught my eye.

It's been eight years, and I would love to know what happened to that little boy and his parents.

Sometimes, we're moved upon to do things that we wouldn't ordinarily do.

Like me buying stuff.

*snerk*

 Not even I can say that with a straight face . . .

A Snapshot in Time

I loved skiing in my youth,

Went a lot, to tell the truth.

In solitude, or in a group,

I lived to sail and slide and swoop.

At times, a friend, I’d bring with me,

They’d follow as I taught, you see.

But I’ll admit right here and now,

I was somewhat past the old ‘snowplow’.

I’d haul their bodies to the top,

Then jump out when the chairlift stopped.

With brightened eyes and pink-nd cheeks,

Start a chase across the peaks.

One young man slid off the chair,

Then passed as I was standing there.

His rawness caused him no concern,

Just like me - till he missed the turn.

Complete abandon in his moves,

His ‘teacher’ wholly did approve,

Till I heard him shout, “How do you stop?!”

As he went off the six-foot drop.

Then, like a cartoon, one, two, three,

Two poles flew up, and just one ski.

Was I concerned? I’ll tell you so!

As I fell, laughing, in the snow.

This grizzled veteran of the hills,

Fin’ly crawled to view the spill,

And saw my good friend lying prone,

One skied. But well enough to groan.

I fished him out and we skied still.

Became the masters of that hill,

Then, round the fire at ‘après ski’,

Recounted the day’s deeds with me.

It’s forty years now, since that day,

But memories won’t fade away,

There’s still a yearning for those times,

Of air so clear and slopes sublime.

Too delicate as old age creeps,

Prefer my blanket, book. And sleep.

But I’ll not forget that day so prime,

A marvellous snapshot in time.

Each Wednesday, my good friend, Delores of Under the Porch Light produces a six word challenge.

It's been a few weeks since I was able to participate.

I'm so happy to be included this week!

Hop on over to see what her other victims participants came up with!

This week's words? grizzled, peaks, solitude, fire, delicate, yearning, a snapshot in time

How did I do?

Hawaiian Cowboy

Hmmm . . . maybe we can make it work...

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the nearest bus route.

But it still managed to attract a lot of employment-seekers.

In the earlier days, cowboys would arrive on their horses.

In my day, they arrived by ‘hitch-hike’.

Because they had been pointed in our direction when they got off the bus in Milk River and no one driving that road would ever pass by someone on foot.

So they arrived.

Often hot and sweaty.

But usually ready to work.

There were exceptions.

Oh, they still arrived, hot and sweaty.

It was the ‘work’ thing that they weren’t ready for.

Those didn’t last long.

Case in point:

A young man arrived on the bus from Hawaii.

Okay, yes, I know that’s impossible.

Let’s just say he arrived on the bus.

And that he was from Hawaii.

Sheesh.

He told the local bus-terminal operator that he was a cowboy looking for work.

Dutifully, the operator called Dad to see if the Stringam Ranch could use an extra couple of hands.

If they were attached to a large, happy, Stetson-sporting fellow from Hawaii.

Well, this was something new.

Our first Hawaiian cowboy.

Dad drove the twenty miles to bring this curiosity home.

He was a pleasant fellow.

Charming and cheerful.

And he sure loved Mom’s cooking.

So far so good.

Dad gave him an assignment. An easy one, to start. Tear out the fence along the tree-lined drive.

Dad wanted to replace it and he needed the old one removed.

Our newest hand was given tools.

Instructions.

And left on his own.

Some time later, he was discovered, lying in the shade, visiting with my eldest sister while she shelled peas.

He looked at Dad.

“Oh!” he said, jumping to his feet and hurrying back to work.

Dad went on with his day.

Only to stumble across the young man, once more, lying in the shade and visiting with my sister as she snapped beans.

Dad merely raised his eyebrows.

“Guess I’d better get back to work,” the young man said, pushing himself to his feet and sauntering back to his job.

Sometime later, the bell rang, calling everyone to supper.

The young man was first in line.

Smacking his lips over more of Mom’s cooking.

After supper, he remained in his seat and chatted with my sister while she washed the dishes.

For the next two days, he managed to find time to talk to my sister whenever she set foot outside.

He talked as she weeded the garden. Washed the 4-H calves. Hauled hay. And shucked corn.

Are we seeing a pattern forming here?

Progress on his own project was minimal.

Actually, non-existent.

On the third day, Dad loaded him into the car after breakfast and gave him a ride back to the bus stop in town.

The job that had taken him three days?

My brothers finished it in three hours.

That was our one and only experience with a Hawaiian cowboy.

I’m sure there are other Hawaiian cowboys.

Who are very hard workers.

They just haven’t made it to Milk River, yet.

Ted

A guest post by my baby brother, Blair Stringam.
I can call him that because it's my blog...

Got grain?

While growing up on the ranch, we had some very special pets.  

There was the perpetual dog - or dogs - that wandered around with us.  

A cat that would ride on our shoulder when we fed the cattle. (This cat was unique. When we opened the feed bin doors, the resident mice would scurry and the cat would jump off our shoulder and chase/catch said mice. Then he would climb up on the fence, drop down on our shoulder as we walked by and ride to the next bin.) By the way we had a very creative name for him.  He was called “Cat”.

But probably the most loved pet that I had was a Hereford herd bull that we called “Ted”.  

When Ted was growing up we had him in a pen with several other bulls his age. He was always the biggest one in the group.  

We would feed him and his pen mates in the morning and in the evening.

The feeding routine usually involved: me opening the grain bin door and grabbing a bucket. And Ted moving quickly in behind, gently pushing his head under me and shoving me up on the pile of gain so he could eat.

At this point I would finally manage to get the buckets filled, carry them to the feed troughs and deposit the feed there.

Ted would decide that it was easier to get the feed from the trough and go over there to finish his meal.

Then it was safe to shut the bin door and move to the next pen.

Ted grew until he weighed over 2000 lbs, but was always very quiet and very tame.  Dad kept him on the ranch and used him as a herd bull because he was so big and quiet.  In the winter, we would keep him in a small pasture where we would feed him grain and hay and get him fattened up for the next breeding season.

When I completed my daily chores, I would feed Ted at the end of my routine. 

Ted was always at the other end of the pasture.  

I couldn't just call him. I had to walk out and chase him in for feed.  

Well not really chase.

I’d walk out and climb up on his back. Ted would then walk toward the feed trough.  However, he would usually stop at least once or twice. This meant that he wanted to be scratched. As I scratched his back, he would resume his walk.

Once we got to the feed trough he would bow his head toward the ground and I would slide down his neck over his head and grab a bucket of grain. 

We had Ted on the ranch for a few short years.  When he developed a problem that our veterinarian father couldn't fix, sadly, Ted left this world.  

Most people have favorite pets.

I think my sister had a favorite horse. Or ten.

For me, my favorite was big, gentle, half-the-size-of-a-truck Ted.

Spare

What did you do during Spare?

Spare.

The best part of the school day.

The period when one catches  up on things.

Gossip.

Flirting.

Sleep.

Okay, I admit it, one could even catch up on school work.

If one was so inclined.

Pfff . . .

In Junior high, Spare was always supervised.

Nominally.

For the supervising teacher, it was also a time to catch up on things.

Reading.

Marking papers.

Sleep.

The class would steadily grow noisier and more unruly.

Until things reached a certain pitch.

The teacher would look up. “Okay class. Settle down!”

And the whole process would start over.

One time, the teacher had just lifted her head.

But before she could utter the fateful, silencing words, another teacher (obviously misled by the noise level), appeared in the doorway.

“Who’s babysitting you guys!” she demanded.

Loudly.

Then realized that her friend and fellow teacher was properly seated at the ‘supervisory’ post.

Oops.

As we got older, supervision became more and more . . . Slapdash? Haphazard? Cursory? Superficial?

I’m going to go with Non-existent.

We were required to police ourselves.

It wasn’t too bad.

By this point, there were several of my classmates who actually wanted to finish their homework.

Weird.

They would effectively shush us if we got too noisy.

Kill-joys.

But we had nothing on my Dad’s class.

Oh, they weren’t noisy.

Or unruly.

Just . . . creative.

Case in point:

A girl in Spare was reading the newspaper.

For those of you in the virtual world who are unfamiliar with the word ’newspaper’, it was a collection of news and advertising, published daily, and printed on very large sheets of paper.

Google it . . .

The girl was engrossed in an article in the top right-hand corner.

Her absorption left the entire bottom half of the paper unguarded.

Normally, not cause for concern.

But, remember – Dad was in the room.

As she read, he approached quietly.

And, squatting down beside her, lit the bottom left corner of her paper on fire.

Yes.

On fire.

So . . . creative, he definitely was.

Cautious?

Not so much.

The girl soon realized that something was amiss.

She glanced down.

Her paper was rapidly being consumed.

She blew on the flames a couple of times.

Dropped the paper and stomped them out.

Then levelled her best glare at the guilty party.
Because, let's face it, everyone knew who it was . . .

Spare.

The best part of the school day.

For so many reasons.

Troll. And Kids

For three wonderful years, we lived in a perfect house.

Oh, don't get me wrong, all of our homes have been wonderful.

And very comfortable.

But this particular house was all of those things.

And a little bit more.

Because it had a stairway that was perfect for playing 'Troll Under the Bridge'.

It's a real game.

You can look it up. It will be found somewhere under 'Tolley: Favourite Games'.

True story.

Okay, my Husby made it up.

But it was still fun.

The stairway in our house consisted of a short upper set of six thickly-carpeted steps.

Ending at a wide, also-carpeted landing.

Then a 180 degree turn before descending the last six steps to the basement.

A beautiful hunting/trapping/escaping set up.

Which was very well used.

My Husby would pretend he was a troll and lay on the stairs.

His head just poking above the top stair.

All of his little Billy Goats Gruff could try to run past him along the upper hallway.

Screaming and giggling wildly.

One by one, he would nab them and demand to know who they were.

One by one they would answer, “I'm a Billy Goat Gruff!”

Whereupon (good word) he would shout, “No Billy Goats on my bridge!” and set them behind him on the landing/prison.

Then, as he hunted for more victims, the entrapped would escape back up the stairs, still screaming and giggling.

And join once more with their fellow little goats in teasing and tantalizing the troll.

This went on for some time.

Usually until Dad got played out.

Then, one day, we moved from that house.

Subsequent (Ooo, another good word!) houses had similar, but not quite as perfect designs for playing Troll Under the Bridge.

The family made do.

Move forward 20 years . . .

Our present house is entirely unsuitable for the game.

It is a bungalow with one long, very dangerous, grandma-nightmare-inducing stairway.

We have put a gate at the top, which is rigidly patrolled whenever grandchildren come over to play.

A great disappointment to grandchildren who have been raised on stories of Troll Under the Bridge, as fondly told by their parents.

But in our front room, we have a large hassock. (Ottoman, pouffe, footstool.)

Leather covered.

Padded top.

And it stands in front of our couch.

With a two-foot space between.

Hmmmm . . .

A few pool noodles strapped together with a bit of duct tape.

Voila!

A bridge.

Propped between the couch and the hassock, the scene for the new and improved Troll Under the Bridge.

Which the next generation of Tolleys has taken to with great enthusiasm.

With just as much noise and exuberance as their parents.

There are a couple of subtle differences, though.

1. The grandkids are a bit craftier than their parents had been.

Our nearly-four-year-old grandson, when seized and questioned by the troll, answered readily, “I'm a troll.”

My Husby/Troll blinked.

This was a first.

But, since trolls are allowed on the bridge, the boy was allowed a free pass.

Smarty pants.

2. The troll gets played out rather quickly.

He is, after all, an older troll now, with lots of grey hair and a few creaking joints.

Usually, he is finished long before the shrieking hoards are even close to admitting defeat.

And after they leave, he collapses on the couch and takes a nap.

Ah, the price of joy.

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.