I Know What You Did This Weekend

Two of our granddaughters stayed with us for the weekend.

While their mother, a professional face-painter, was facepaint-er-ing.
It was a wonderful weekend.
We learned:

1. Little sisters shouldn't sit on big sisters when both are trying to go to sleep.
2. Big sisters shouldn't sit on little sisters . . . ever.
3. Play-dough doesn't taste very good. But keep eating.
4. Whatever Sister is playing with is infinitely better than what I have.
5. Clothes are for spreading all over the floor.
6. Especially clean ones.
7. Sigh.
8. One can sit through any boring church meeting if there is food and/or things to colour.
9. One should never, ever colour one's sister.
10. Even if she would look better.
11. Water in a bathtub is only the beginning.
12. Fireplace ashes can make one's hands . . . and clothes . . . remarkably black.
13. Hot dogs and ice cream make anything better.
14. Especially ice cream.
15. As long as Grampa doesn't try to steal it.
16. Stories with Gramma must be followed by stories with Grampa.
17. Because he can do the voices.
18. Rocking mooses can buck you off.
19. Rocking stools can do the same.
20. When Grampa is holding the remote, we watch what he's watching.
21. Even if it is boring.
22. One can hide from Gramma for incredible amounts of time if one is quiet.
23. Or falls asleep.
24. If Grampa says something a two-year-old doesn't want to hear, one can just stare straight ahead.
25. For hours.
26. Almost six-year-olds know e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
27. And are happy to share it.
28. Especially if it means they don't have to eat their supper.
29. Toys are lots of fun to get out.
30. But not so much fun to put away.
31. Climbing is acceptable only if one doesn't fall.
32. See #13.
33. One should always know where one's head is in proximity to anything.
34. Tables. Chairs. Walls. Doors. Sisters. 
35. See #13.
36. Again.
37. One can do all the things in a pretty church dress that one can do in jeans and a T-shirt.
38. Until Gramma catches you.
39. If one kicks her foot just right, one can project one's shoe great distances.
40. And even hit one's sister.
41. In the eye.
42. Gramma doesn't like it when one sneezes and then rubs one's hand across one's face.
43. But do it anyway.
44. Socks are made for hiding, especially when one is getting dressed for Church.
45. Shoes, ditto.
46. Grampas are good for playing ponies
47. Or Troll-Under-The Bridge.
48. Grammas are good for dancing.
49. Both are good for cuddling.
50. But they get tired fast.

Weekend's over. I'm going back to bed.

Any Boys?

Stringams. And one addition.
The boy, second from the right is Graham. The son of one of Dad's college buddies.
He was staying with us for the summer.
Poor kid.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the town of Milk River.

And nine from the nearest neighbor.

Admittedly, it took many, many people to keep the homestead wheels turning.

People we associated with on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis.

Many people employed there had families who lived with them on the ranch.

And these families had kids that we Stringam kids played with.

So none of us really lacked for company.

But when Dad received notice that someone, maybe one of his old classmates or a friend from his bachelor days, was stopping by with his family for a visit, it was a cause for some excitement.

My first question was, inevitably, “Are there any girls my age?”

Because we lived so far from civilization, visits usually lasted for days rather than hours. Thus, if there happened to be peers in the anticipated company, I was set for a very good time indeed.

Usually I was answered with a non-committal, “ I'm not sure. I think they have a couple of kids. They might be around your age.”

I would scoff quietly. How could my parents not know the most important fact, like whether there were any possible playmates in the crowd of eagerly awaited arrivals?

I've said it before. Parents are weird.

Inevitably the guests would arrive.

Most of the time, their kids were pretty close in age to at least some of us.

And after five minutes, it didn't matter. We all played together anyway.

Time moved forward and things . . . changed.

Oh, we still had guests stopping by the ranch and said guests still stayed for a few days with us.

And brought their kids with them.

But now that I was twelve, my interest in their children was slightly different.

Now, when a visit was announced, my question was, “Is there anyone my age?”

Notice the slight difference?

I’ll say it again. “Is there anyone my age?”

This is significant.

Because I was no longer looking for girls to play with. Now I was looking for boys to flirt with.

And I thought I was being subtle about it.

Mmmm. Boys.

But looking back, I remember Dad’s grin whenever he told me, “I think they have a couple of sons. Probably a little older than you.”

He could read me like a book.

Probably a good thing I was never a gambler.

Or that there were boys in the poker pot.

Future Father

Big Brother

Our third son, Duffy, was two-and-a-half when our first daughter was born.

He stuck to the baby and I like glue.

That doesn't mean he learned anything . . .

At the tender age of three, Duffy was enrolled in the Sunbeam class in our church.

With eight little girls.

Boys were obviously something new.

Moving on . . .

The scheduled lesson was all about babies.

A precious gift from God.

It was a beautiful lesson.

My four-month-old baby, Caitlin was invited into the class.

I came with her.

Sort of like show-and-tell.

But interactive.

And noisy.

Okay, just like show-and-tell.

After the little girls got tired of cooing over the real baby, their teacher (the mother of five girls, herself) brought out a large basket.

Filled with everything 'baby'.

There were dolls by the dozen.

Clothes.

Blankets.

Bottles.

Instantaneous heaven for the budding little mothers in the class.

Duffy was a boy.

And, though his older brother liked cuddling dolls, Duffy was more comfortable with trucks and things 'boy'.

He was handed a baby doll.

Naked.

And a blanket.

He dangled his doll by one foot and looked at the little girls around him.

All had at least one (some had purloined two) little babies wrapped warmly and tucked tenderly into their arms.

Most were singing softly.

And rocking.

Duffy stared at them, then held up his baby.

Still by one foot.

Okay. He could handle this.

He spread his blanket out on the floor.

Then dropped the doll onto one corner and proceeded to roll it up like a sausage in a piece of burlap.

He then jammed the resulting package under one arm like a satchel.

Done.

The teacher handed him a bottle.

There's more?

He took the bottle and looked at it.

I should mention here that I nursed my babies.

Duffy had never seen a bottle before.

I can still see his little aggrieved face.

What an earth was he supposed to do with this?

Finally, he pulled out his little, blanket-wrapped bundle, grabbed a corner of said blanket and gave it a pull.

The doll flipped out, spun in the air for a moment, then clattered to the floor.

Duffy again grabbed it by the foot.

This time, he examined it minutely.

Ah. There was a tiny hole in one butt cheek.

Perfect for the strange little bottle he had been handed.

He stuck the nozzle of the bottle into the little hole and beamed happily at me.

All was well.

My son, father to future generations . . .

There is a codicil.

Despite this obviously rocky start, Duffy has proved to be an excellent and loving father.

Gifted with working with children of special needs.

I guess he was watching after all.

Delores of Under the Porch Light has issued her challenge.

Six little words: Minute, aggrieved, instantaneous, burlap, satchel, purloined

Use them or lose them.

I chose use.

Join us!

When Things Start Out Bad . . .

Our second son, he of the six foot eight inches in height, has been a pillar (pun totally intended) of the local city police force for most of a decade.

But, the experiences he has gathered over all of those years, serving as one of Edmonton's finest, still haven't been able to erase the experiences of his early days of training.

Case in point:

Each new officer must demonstrate his ability to continue to work under the most trying and difficult of circumstances.

Scenarios are crafted especially to create such a premise.

One of these is designed to demonstrate how well the new officer can function after being sprayed in the face with pepper spray.

The recruit stands to one side of the exercise yard and receives, directly in the face, a full dose of pepper spray.

That would be where a lessor man, ie. me, would just lay down and die.

But this is only the beginning.

Once sprayed, the officer, nearly blind and almost incapable of breathing, must call for backup and subdue and handcuff not one, but two suspects. Then finally, he may find his way to the sink at the far side of the yard to receive the blessed spray of water to clear eyes and air passages.

It is a gruelling, trying five minutes.

And ends with said recruits silent and contemplative as they sit blinking brilliantly reddened eyes, and breathing blessed pure air.

Fortunately for them, with the completion of this test, that particular day of training is over.

Family members are allowed to come and pick them up.

My son performed well.

He thinks.

Certainly he received a passing grade.

One can only assume what must happen if a recruit receives a failing grade . . .

Moving on . . .

As he sat there, blinking and sniffing, his new wife (of less than a month) arrived to take him home.

With much sympathetic cooing, she tucked him into a corner of the couch.

With a cool compress for his poor eyes.

And a warm, snuggly blanket.

Then she made him a batch of her famous cookies.

Remember where I said that his more recent experiences haven't erased those of his early training?

Well, I didn't say they were all bad.

Those Who Mourn

The peace and freedom we enjoy in our country comes at great cost.

Paid by the precious few who place themselves in harm’s way so that we don’t have to.

But all of the sacrifices aren’t made solely by those on the front lines of the world’s conflicts.

Their families who stand firmly behind them - missing them, praying for them - pay just as high a price . . .

One of my dad’s best friends growing up was a boy named Bernard.

He was a good boy, though rather heedless and daring.

Often the instigator of mischievous deeds and pranks.

As Bernard grew older, his independent, free-spirited view of life wasn’t always understood by everyone.

In particular his father.

When Bernard was sixteen, he and his father weren’t quite seeing eye-to-eye.

That fact, coupled with the additional incentive of a country fighting a righteous war, sent young Bernard to the recruitment center.

He was a tall lad. Easily passing for the eighteen he claimed.

When his father discovered what he had done, he had the option (and the power) to march in, relate a few home truths, and bring his underage boy home. But, after some thought, Bernard’s father decided that his boy needed some discipline. And what better way to get it than by enlisting in the forces?

Bernard went through his training with little trouble. In no time, he was on his way to the battle front, eager to get into the fray.

He charged into battle with the same heedless enthusiasm that had marked his life so far.

But this wasn’t the schoolyard games he was used to.

This was war.

And on his third day, like so many others, he paid the ultimate sacrifice.

His father never recovered from the blow.

Blaming himself for failing to retrieve an underage boy, he mourned his son throughout the remainder of his life.

A tragedy in so many ways.

On this Remembrance Day, let us honour all of the men and women who made and are making our lives possible.

 Let us remember the sacrifice of those who fought and fight still.

And those who mourn them.

Make Do

Mom and Aunt Grace. Even on holidays...

A friend told me a story.

A true one.

About his grandfather during the food rationing days of the Second World War.

The friend's grandmother had been to the grocery store and purchased, among other things, a new tin of pepper.

Which she set on the table.

Her husband picked it up and studied it for a moment. He looked at her and said, “This pepper is half peas!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” she said. “I thought I looked at it!”

I should explain, here, that, during the war, creative ways of extending food were discovered and explored. They called it ersatz. I'm not sure where the name came from, but it was expressive. Many different readily available foodstuffs were dried and powdered and added to other foods not so easily come by. Corn meal, for example, was widely used.

The use of dried peas, though not as usual, was not unheard of.

Back to my friend's story . . .

Another can of pepper was procured the next day.

Again, the grandfather picked up the little tin.

“Huh,” he said. “This one is half peas, too.”

His wife snorted in disgust. “Well, there's only one kind left,” she said. “I'll try that one tomorrow.”

She did.

She proudly set the third little tin on the table in front of her husband and proceeded to get his dinner.

He picked up the tin and peered at it closely. “Yep,” he said. “Half peas.”

“What?! I looked at it! Where does it say . . .” her voice trailed off.

Her husband was pointing at the 'Pepper' part of the label. “Here,” he said. “See? P-E-P-P-E-R. Half of the letters are p's.”

Oh. P's. Not peas.

She didn't upend the tin over him or anything drastic like that.

I know I would have been tempted.

But I'm sure they had pepper to last until the turn of the century.

This story reminded me of my Mom.

She was raised during the Depression years and knew very well the days of rationing and going without.

She learned very early to 'make do”.

And to purchase things quickly, when they became available.

Her parents bought a large, twenty-five pound tin of peanut butter, for example. Oil on peanut butter rises. The first two-thirds of the container were edible. The last third had to be run through a meat grinder to make it spreadable.

But they ate it.

Several large cans of cherry jam appeared at the local grocery.

Her Dad quickly snapped one up.

At first, cherry jam was a treat.

Served at every meal, it became a bit tiresome.

Still, it disappeared.

In her own home, Mom tried to practise what she had been taught throughout her life.

Waste not want not, she often told us.

Some of her attempts were successful.

Others . . . not so much.

When there was no milk cow on the place, she tried to extend the life of the milk container in the fridge by added powdered milk to it.

Fooling no one.

She tried purchasing the cheapest brand of peanut butter.

Unfortunately, her children hadn't been raised during the Depression and were finer-mouthed than their parents.

The cheaper peanut butter languished on the shelf.

Finally, in desperation, she bought the favourite kind. Which disappeared in a flash.

Coining the phrase, “I'm going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

She made her own roast beef sandwich spread by running cold roast beef through the meat grinder, along with some pickles. Then mixing in some mayonnaise.

That one was a hit. We kids loved sandwiches spread with beef and pickle hash.

I'm sure that, through the years, Mom saved our family a boatload of money with her careful ways.

Unfortunately, my children were even finer-mouthed than we had been.

One day, one of my kids saw her adding water to the ketchup.

I had seen her do that before. It made the ketchup a bit runnier, but still tasted okay.

The child was horrified and told all of his siblings.

And she became, forever, the grandma who put water in the ketchup.

The lesson in frugality and making do was completely lost.

Pity.

P.S. I've been known to put water in the ketchup, too. Don' tell my kids . . .

Clock Watcher

I have a thing about time.

I am a clock-watcher.

I have to know the time at any given moment.

Day or night.

I didn't realize just how bad I was until I was in hospital after the birth of our third son.

He was born at 9:30 in the evening and I was so keyed up that I couldn't sleep.

All night long.

I'm sure you've heard people say, “It was the longest night of my life.”

Well, that night was.

I kept listening for stirrings that would indicate the coming of day.

But in a hospital, in a maternity ward, there are constant stirrings.

Sigh.

From that day to this, I have made sure that I have some sort of time-keeper handy.

Always.

Moving on . . .

For all of his life, Dad was a rancher.

He was good at it.

After retirement, he poured his energy and meticulous nature into the making of clocks.

Beautiful, inlaid, hand-crafted, gently-chiming clocks.

Which he then sold.

Usually to me.

At one time, I had six of them.

They, together with my tall grandfather's clock, adorned various parts of my living room.

Even their ticking was noticeable.

When they collectively chimed the quarter hours and then the hours, it was pretty nearly deafening.

I loved it.

Had gotten so accustomed to it that I often don't even notice.

Sort of like living next to a set of very busy train tracks.

Sort of.

Oh, I had comments.

“It sounds like a clock shop in here!”

“I feel like I'm in some sort of creepy movie!”

Okay, I'm not sure that the person who made that last statement was totally talking about the clocks.

Ahem . . .

And my favourite, “Could someone please tell me the correct time. I think it just chimed forty-two in here!”

Hey. Love me, love my clocks.

Get over it.

Details

My first purchase in walnut and purple heart

One of the newest in walnut and maple

More details in Rocky Mountain Juniper

There is a codicil:

Daddy is now 89. Over the past year, failing health has forced many changes. The first was the giving up of his beloved workroom. There will be no more clocks from those gifted hands.

Suddenly, my collection has taken on a whole new meaning.

Pointy and Sharp

He sees a work of art. I see a cutting  . . . thing.

My Husby plays with knives.

Really.

I guess you could call him a genuine aficionado.

When he sees a knife, he has to examine it.

Check out what steel it's made of.

Feel its balance.

Grade the overall quality of its construction.

Yep. Aficionado.

Several years ago, he and our second son, who inherited all of his father's love of knives, took a knife-making course.

This merely served to up the ante, so to speak.

Now the two of them are constantly examining and purchasing bits of steel that could be used in the creation process.

We have a forge in our back yard.

My garage is stacked with pieces of specialized woods and animal horns that would be 'absolutely perfect' for a particular knife handle.

And all the tools used in the cutting, grinding and polishing of fine steel sit where a normal person would park their car.

Sigh.

It keeps him happy.

And did I mention that we have very fine knives in our kitchen?

Well, we do.

Every shape and size imaginable.

They are S.H.A.R.P.

Each knife in my kitchen has a specific purpose.

My Husby would be happy to elucidate.

At great length.

I wouldn't be listening.

Because I use only two.

A small, paring knife that he purchased for me in Corsica . . .

I should point out, here, that most people buy souvenirs when they travel. My Husby is the same. Except that said souvenirs invariably consist of something sharp and pointy.

With excellent steel, good balance and a really, really interesting handle.

He bought the first on our honeymoon. 

And continued.

Moving on . . .

My second knife is an ordinary-looking blade.

Just the right size for me.

Both are wrong.

Oh, they are good knives.

Do an excellent job.

Look nice.

But as my Husby is so fond of pointing out, they are not the right knife for whatever job I am requiring of them.

Invariably, when he comes into the kitchen when I am cooking, the first words out of his mouth are, “You're using the wrong knife.”

To which he is rewarded with a heated glare.

Let's face it, he's a brave man to say such things when his wife has something razor sharp and very pointy in one hand.

I have often told him so.

He just laughs.

But I will have the last laugh.

And I tell him that on his gravestone, it will read, “She used the wrong knife!”

No jury would convict me.

Just FYI. 

☺

Demon of a Cleaner

See? Don't you wish you had one?

DMom’s kitchen and dining room floors were amazing.

Gleaming, shining clean.

Perfect for sliding about in one’s socks.

And the most exciting thing about her clean floors was the little demon that came out to clean them.

Let me tell you about it.

Once a week, Mom would move all of the kitchen and dining room chairs into the living room.

Which was an adventure itself. (See here. Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .)

And while my brother and I were thus engaged, she would get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floors.

And I do mean scrub.

Never, in the history of the world, were there cleaner floors.

I know, because I spent a lot of time down on them.

Ahem . . .

Following the scrubbing, Mom would bring out the wax.

And this was about the time that my brother and I would abandon our chair play and lay at the edge of the floor to watch.

Because after the wax was applied, the ‘demon’ came out.

It was green.

And had a rounded, wide head and a long, stiff tail.

And, if you looked carefully, little white eyes.

That stared at you.

It also had three sets of interchangeable little pads that snapped on and off.

Dark and ‘bristly’, Steel wooley, or white, soft and ‘puffy’.

It was the latter that created the longed-for shine.

Mom would turn the demon over, snap on the soft pads and then flip it back and hit the switch.

Instantly the wide, white pads would begin to spin.

This was the best part.

As she polished, Mom would move the demon closer and closer to George and I.

Closer.

Closer.

Bravely, we would hold our ground. Daring each other to be the last to head, shrieking, for the nearest couch.

I should point out, here, that I never won.

George has nerves of steel.

Brothers. Pfff . . .

There is a codicil:

Years later, when I was newly married with waxable floors, and my Mom had graduated to kitchen carpeting, I inherited the ‘demon’.

It still had the interchangeable pads.

And still achieved an amazing shine.

And still terrorized small children.

Full circle.

Neither a Borrower...

I love ancestor stories . . .

1854.

The Council House was being built in Manti, Utah, using volunteer labour.

And borrowed tools.

My GGGrandfather Stringam was one of those labourers.

With one of those borrowed tools.

In this instance, a hammer, lent to him by his friend, Augustus Dodge.

GGGrandfather, together with the rest of the crew, was busily laying flooring on the upper level of the mostly-finished building when the call came for lunch.

Setting the hammer down, he happily answered said call.

When he returned, he discovered that everyone had not left when he did, but had continued working.

And the entire floor had been finished.

In dismay, he looked over the beautiful job, knowing that, somewhere under those boards, was the hammer he had borrowed.

Yeah. I know. That happens to things I borrow, too.

Sigh.

Back to my story . . .

He found Augustus and told him his dilemma. He added, “If you’re around when that building is demolished, I guess you can claim your hammer.”

Moving ahead . . .

In 1910, fifty-plus years and a new century later, the Council House was scheduled for removal to make way for a spanking new library.

GGGrandfather, now an elderly man, heard the exciting announcement and went to observe the proceedings.

When the time came for the floor in the upper story to be removed, he was on hand to personally examine the space under every board as it was pulled up.

And finally, there it was.

Augustus Dodge’s borrowed hammer. Safe and sound.

There's a lesson in this.

Always return what you borrow.

Even it it's centuries later.

P.S. I wonder what the fine would be on that 'library book'?!

Heaven, Gustatory

 “‘Tis feasible,” my mother said,

“One day you won’t approach with dread,

The culinary preparation needed.”

“To keep your family fine and strong,

Health’s maintenance. And life prolong!”

I sighed and knew, this once, she should be heeded.

And so she set the gadgets up,

She showed me teaspoon, timer, cup,

And joyfully, she started my instruction.

And while I watched in blank dismay,

Components hybrid on display,

I feared I’d never manage reproduction.

My poor family ached long-term

Gelatinous stews that made them squirm,

And casseroles known only by their toppings.

But still my mother laboured on,

Her lines of duty, clearly drawn,

From morn till night. Without. Ever. Stopping.

Her daughter must be well prepared,

No defeat would be declared.

And suitors would not ever find her wanting.

From soup to nuts and all between,

She taught me her divine cuisine,

And introduced aromas rich and haunting.

And I learned to cook, I truly did.

Discovered secrets ever hid,

Explored the states of ‘Heaven, Gustatory’,

And though I’ll never famous be,

My friends and all my family

Are satisfied. And that, to me, is glory.

Each week, our friend of 'Porch Light' fame,

With praise and glory to her name,

Issues challenges all great and mighty.

With glee writ large upon her face,

She takes us to her happy place

And tasks her minions, aged from nine to ninety.

This weeks challenge? 

Gelatinous, feasible, hybrid, squirm, maintenance, casserole

Go ahead. Try it. It's fun!

Chalkboard Aftermath

Well, it was fun for me . . .

My friend, Cathy's dad had a wonderful job.

Magical.

He got to sneak into the schools after everyone had left.

Wander at will through the empty hallways and classrooms.

And clean.

Oh, man, it was the coolest!

And sometimes, wonder of wonders, he let Cathy and I and some of his other kids (12 in all ) . . . help.

There were times when we got to race the huge, soft dry-mops up and down the hallways.

And I do mean race.

Empty the garbage cans.

Snoop.

Did you know that the teacher's lounge of the sixties smelled like cigarette smoke?

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

And, best of all, he let us clean the brushes.

In the sixties, whiteboards were black.

And pieces of chalk were used instead of today's dry-erase felts.

These pieces of chalk marked the blackboards very effectively.

There were only a couple of drawbacks.

They had the ability to squeak against the board at decibels that could shatter glass.

And they left a lot of chalk dust.

A lot.

Especially when someone tried to clean said chalk from said blackboard.

The thick, black-felt erasers used to accomplish this quickly became saturated with the fine, white dust.

Then they had to be cleaned.

Now a normal person would simply take the vacuum to them.

A normal person.

Cathy and I were ten.

I should point out here that there is nothing normal about a 10-year-old.

Back to my story . . .

Cathy and I would collect the brushes.

Cart them outside.

And bang them together.

Imagine, if you will, a cloud of fine, white dust.

With two little girls somewhere near the center of it.

Giggling.

You get it, right?!

What on earth could be more fun?

The fact that the dust merely got relocated and that the two little girls then had to, themselves, be cleaned, never even entered our minds.

For a brief, wonderful while, we were the center of our very own little dust storm.

I can still remember how it smelled.

And, as it collected on our tongues, just how it tasted.

Magic.

There is an unexpected codicil: Fifteen years later, I was expecting my third child. Another boy.

I craved something. In fact, I could almost taste it. It took forever to figure out what that taste was.

Then it hit me.

Chalk.

I was craving chalk.

And not the light, cheap stuff that had become common.

No.

I was craving the good stuff.

The stuff that Cathy and I used to clean out of those brushes and catch in our mouths all those years ago.

The doctor told me I was lacking in minerals and gave me some pills to swallow.

Sigh.

I wish he would have simply given me some brushes to clean . . .

First Romance

Grade Twelve English 30.

My favourite class of all time.

What could possibly be better than reading books and stories and then talking about them?

Or of writing your own?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Our teacher was a veteran of many, many years. She had taught each of my three elder siblings and survived.

And now it was my turn.

Most of the time, I was fairly quiet in her class - choosing mostly to listen as the conversations went on around me. Keeping my opinions to myself, except when they could be submitted in a written format.

My grades were good.

We were working our way through a thick volume of short stories. Some exciting. Some bizarre. Some sweet and romantic.

It was during this last that I came to grief.

Let me explain . . .

We were reading a story about a man who saw a beautiful hand-made doll in the window of a local shop.

The doll affected him greatly.

It seemed to 'speak' to him.

He purchased it and tried to find out more about it and the person who had made it.

He discovered that the doll and others like it were made locally and that a woman usually brought them in to the shop a few at a time.

He tracked down the woman.

She was not the artist.

Instead, she kept the real doll-maker a virtual prisoner, and forced her to keep making dolls, which were then sold.

The imprisoned doll-maker was justifiably sad and put all of the love she would have given her unborn children into her dolls. Which was why they were so beautiful.

The man fell in love with the captive doll-maker, stole her away and married her.

And they lived happily ever after.

Okay, I admit it, when I read this story, I discovered that I'm a romantic.

I loved it.

Loved the 'happily ever after' ending.

I was excited for the discussion to start . . .

“How many of you liked this story?” the teacher asked.

My hand shot up.

Then slowly lowered as I realized that I was the only person in the class who had raised one.

“This story was drivel!” the teacher said. “Absolute tripe!” She stomped around the front of the class. “Stupid romantic nonsense! Waste of good print! Waste of time!”

She added several more derisive comments, then stopped and stared at me.

My hand was back on my desk.

“Well, I thought it was romantic!” One of the other girls tried to come to my aid.

The teacher snorted. “Hmph! Don't know why it was included in this book! Maybe as an example of lousy writing!”

The class was silent.

“Asinine garbage! Should be torn out of the book!” She glared around. “Any other thoughts?”

Let me put it this way . . . the discussion following this story didn't take up much time.

The story was given a brief technical reckoning, then dismissed.

And the class moved on to the next story.

I moved with them, reading and responding to my assignments.

Suspense.

Mystery.

Humour.

But I never forgot my first romantic story.

I read and re-read it.

Loving it more each time.

Mmmm.

Romance.

I still think I was right.

Times Table Trouncing

Me: Bottom right.
My Nemesis: Top Left.
Argh! 

I tried.

I really did.

I just wasn't . . . quite/ever . . . good enough.

Maybe I should explain.

Our grade five teacher, Mrs. Herbst, she of the blue hair, was a stickler for math.

And math facts.

Actually, she was a stickler for most school work, but especially for anything to do with numbers.

She devised many and various methods for teaching said facts.

Exercises.

Tests.

Quizzes. (Not to be confused with tests. Quizzes were shorter in length and supposedly carried less weight. And were jumped on you without notice. Yikes! Just FYI.)

Games . . .

And this is where our story starts . . .

Our class sat in desks in several long rows.

Mrs. Herbst would call the names of the front students in the two outside rows.

“Kathy and Margaret, please pay attention.”

Actually, I must confess that I don't know if those two girls were ever actually pitted against each other in Mrs. Herbst's devious little exercise, but they were two of the smartest girls in the class and I thought this sounded good.

Moving on . . .

The girls would take a deep breath and sit up, ready for what was coming.

“Seven times six!” Mrs. Herbst would bark out crisply.

“Forty-two!” Both girls would shout out together, nearly in unison.

The teacher would nod and smile.

And call out the names of the students seated just behind the first two.

“Five times nine!”

“Forty-Five!”

Slowly, she would work her way around the room.

Getting closer and closer to me.

And Kenny.

“Six times eight!”

“Forty-eight!”

“Four times nine!”

“Thirty-six!”

“Five times six!”

“Thirty!”

Finally, she would be looking at the students seated directly in front of her in the two center rows.

One of whom was almost purple with anticipation.

Okay. Me. I was almost purple with  . . . you get the picture.

The other was Kenny.

Mrs. Herbst would inhale.

My heart would stop.

“Nine times nine!”

“Eighty one!” Kenny would say, softly, before she had even finished the last word.

And just as I was drawing a breath, ready to shout.

“Rats!” I would say.

I knew the answer! I did!

That rotten Kenny beat me again!

I would sit back in my chair and glare, narrow-eyed, at the tall young man seated just opposite.

Next time, Kenny. Next time.

Selective Sharing

You want me to what???

Our family spends lot of time together.

Visiting.

In fact, if I were to pick a favourite activity, it would be that one.

My eldest daughter, Caitlin, and her family were over.

We were having a comfortable gab-fest after a hearty and satisfying dinner together.

Don't I sound like an advertisement for something?

Moving on . . .

Her Baby Daughter, nearly two, was busy playing at our feet.

She managed to put a toy train together.

All by herself.

“Oh, good job!” Caitlin told her. “Fist bumps!”

Baby Daughter grinned, doubled up her hand into a tiny fist and punched Mom gently on her knuckles.

“Yeah!” Caitlin said. “Now go and give Grampa fist bumps!”

I should mention, here, that our grandkids adore their Grampa. He plays with them.

Constantly.

Ponies. Troll under the bridge. Pirates.

But fist bumps?

The grin disappeared.

Baby Daughter gave her Grampa a sidelong glance, then, simply tipped full-length onto the couch and lay there.

Her attitude said it all.

'I . . . would rather . . . die!'

“Hey!” Grampa said. “I want fist bumps!”

His only response was a giggle.

“Hey!”

More giggles.

He never got his fist bumps.

I guess you have to be selective about what you share . . .

Hockey For Idiots

The Arena

Ice hockey season, that time feverishly awaited by millions, is firing up.

We have ice hockey in our family.

Both Husby and I have played.

But it's probably not what you think.

It has everything to do with ice.

But nothing to do with sticks, skates, thrown gloves, or referees. (Although we could probably use one or two of those latter.)

And it has everything to do with food.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Waiting for your order in a restaurant can be excruciating.

Especially if you're hungry.

And let's face it – if you're sitting in a restaurant, ordering food, you're probably hungry.

Moving on . . .

There are many things to keep you occupied while you wait.

Studying the other diners.

Visiting with your dinner companion/s.

Reading the dessert menu.

I should point out, here, that whoever designs the dessert menus is a certified genius. Everything – everything – looks and sounds stickily, creamily, chocolately, divinely delicious. Mouth-watering descriptions merely add to the pictured perfection of chocolate upon chocolate upon chocolate.

With caramel.

And whipped cream.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes . . . waiting for food.

My Husby uses the time to watch the people.

But when he starts to receive a few too many irritated, uncomfortable glances, or when his reputation precedes him and we have been seated in a non-viewing zone, he must come up with some other form of entertainment.

That's how he invented 'ice' hockey.

In this activity, one uses the chunks of ice from one's glass and tries to flick them, using finger and/or thumb at one's dinner companion.

Ie. Me.

Whereupon (good word) said companion retaliates.

Because who wants to sit there and merely become a target?

We try to keep the mess to a minimum.

But don't always succeed.

Case in point . . .

We were waiting for pizza.

It was taking a long time.

Something about the cows needing to be brought in so they could be milked so the lengthy process of turning the milk into cheese for toppings could begin.

It.

Was.

Taking.

A.

Looong.

Time.

Husby was bored.

He got a chunk of ice out of his glass and flicked it in my direction.

I caught it and flicked it back.

He returned fire.

This went on for some time.

He simply couldn't get it past my ultra deft defence.

Finally, he stopped and sat there, frowning at me.

I grinned back at him.

Ha!

Then he raised his eyebrows in challenge.

Uh-oh.

He picked up his glass, which, by now contained only ice chunks and . . . upended it onto the table.

Then he fired every single piece – using both hands – at me.

It was an onslaught.

A deluge.

“Excuse me, folks, here's your pizza.”

An embarrassment.

We looked up.

The waiter was standing there, holding our pizza and staring at us.

He looked . . . frightened.

“Oh,” I said.

Grant grinned. “Put it here,” he said, swiping a spot clean.

The waiter gingerly set the hot pan down on the wet table, then beat a hasty retreat.

The pizza was great.

There's nothing like pizza after you've worked up an appetite playing a good game of ice hockey.

Especially when it's served with a large dollop of embarrassment.

Nothing.