When Cool Isn't Cool

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.

1965.

I had just realized that boys didn't have cooties.

I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.

The two went together.

Perhaps I should explain . . .

Grade five.

The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.

Times tables proved important.

Story writing, more intense and personal.

Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.

And boys became . . . interesting.

The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.

“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”

It was signed, 'Paul'.

What???!

A boy?!

Wanted to go to a movie with me?!

What should I say?

What should I do?

What should I wear?!

Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.

He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.

And that was it.

My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the week, actually.

Saturday was a long time coming.

I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.

The popular, cool boys.

And way out of my league.

But his group adopted me as one of their own.

For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.

Back to my story . . .

I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.

For about a month.

Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.

And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.

Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.

Who took me back in without so much as a frown.

For half a morning, I complained bitingly.

Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .

You can see where this is going.

“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”

Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”

I sprinted to join them.

Didn't even look back.

Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.

I know what you are thinking.

Fickle non-friend.

And you're not wrong.

Ahem . . .

This went on for some time.

Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.

Then my popularity waned.

And died.

And do you know what?

My old group again took me back.

Without even a sideways glance.

This time, I stayed.

We went through grade six together.

Then Junior High.

Then Senior high.

And we had fun.

I discovered that it all comes back to math.

♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.

♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.

I learned my lesson.

P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.

Life is the true leveller.

Biology

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teachers notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lots of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not.

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

Country's Child

To my friends:
Diane has the plague.
Don't worry, it's not contagious through internet contact. I don't think . . .
I'll be up an about soon.
But for the time being, a repost of my favourite story.
Enjoy!

Me. (Missing from the photo: the Chicken)

Harvest.
A mellow time.
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season.
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets.
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
On the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good.
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water.
It was every parent’s dream for their small child.
Not.
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations.
Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end.
Not a good thing for a four-year-old.
Mischief happens.
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country.
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away.
Hmmm. This was fun!
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient.
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial.
It was genius.
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . .
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED!
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went.
By the time it and its contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!”
Not very inventive, true, but effective.
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details?
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly.
My family still laughs.
There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo.
Fun!
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them.
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain.
It moved closer.
I moved closer.
It looked over the fence.
I looked at it.
Its beak opened.
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . .
You get the picture.

Unforgettable

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw.

He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

Best Friend

I have a friend.

A best friend.

Or BFF, if you prefer.

She is fiercely loyal.

Supportive.

Encouraging.

Kind.

Fun.

Believes in me.

And I nearly missed out on gaining that friendship.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Many, many years ago, our family had just come through a very difficult experience.

Very difficult.

We were wounded and aching.

This woman, a single mom, called me to see if I was interested in babysitting for her.

She had two adorable little tow-headed girls.

I turned her down, with the excuse that I needed some time to heal.

I asked her to give me a year.

She was disappointed.

But understanding.

She gave me my time.

One year later, to the day, she called again.

This time, though still feeling less-than-whole, I accepted.

Reluctantly.

And her two happy little girls arrived.

Immediately, they mixed seamlessly in with my own kids.

Played the same games.

Ate the same food.

Watched the same programs.

Fought over the same toys.

Became two more members of the family.

Meanwhile, their hardworking and dependable mom gave me an insight into the life of a single parent.

Work.

Joy in her children.

And loneliness.

More and more, we invited her and her girls to spend time with our family.

We became friends.

Best friends.

That was over twenty-five years ago.

We were with her when she began to date her future husband.

Who became my Husby's best friend.

We were with them when they married.

And had two more little girls.

We are best friends still.

I often think about her request to babysit.

Given when I was feeling selfish and sorry for myself.

And how nearly I turned her down.

I might have missed this.

Catching Claustrophobedience

Mom and I were visiting at my Auntie's house.

An innocent enough activity.

And from it, I got claustrophobia.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mom and Auntie were in the kitchen chatting over cups of tea and home baked goodies.

My cousin and I had already done the rounds of the dessert tray.

Several times.

And had retired upstairs to more important matters.

Play.

One of the bedrooms upstairs had no furniture in it.

Or at least, I can't remember any.

But it did hold a large carpet.

Rolled into a neat bundle.

It looked like a hot dog.

Let's face it. In my world, everything resembled food.

Moving on . . .

Suddenly, I got a marvellous idea.

“Let's play 'Hot Dog'!” I told my cousin.

“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, as though she knew exactly what I was talking about.

Which she didn't.

I unrolled the carpet and lay down at the edge.

“Okay. Now roll me up,” I commanded.

She did.

Cool!

Fun!

Neat!

Wait . . . I can't breathe!!!

I began to scream.

Okay, I could probably still breathe.

The ability to scream would indicate this.

My cousin, understandably concerned, stared at me.

Or at the rug that contained me.

I struggled mightily (I should probably point out that it didn't occur to me to simply - unroll) and finally, managed to extricate myself.

I headed for the nearest safe place.

My Mom.

I burst into the kitchen, every white-blonde hair standing on end and eyes like saucers.

“Mom! I nearly died!!!”

Okay, so melodrama and me were close, personal friends.

Mom set down her teacup and looked at me. “What?”

“I nearly died! I couldn't breathe!”

Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“We were playing 'Hot Dog',” I told her.

She stared at me. “Hot Dog?”

“Yeah with the carpet. And I was the hot dog. And I rolled up . . .”

Suddenly, Mom understood. “Oh.” She gave me a stern look. “Diane, don't do that again!”

I admit that I often disobeyed my Mom.

Often quite deliberately.

But this time, I listened.

I like to think it was because I discovered the joy of obedience.

But, actually, I think it's because I discovered claustrophobia.

Obedience would have been more fun.

The Real Woman

Mom being Mom

My Mom was amazing.

She was the force behind:

Meals appearing at clockwork intervals.

Soiled clothes in hampers being replaced by clean, folded clothes in neat stacks in drawers.

Floors scoured to a mirror finish.

Dirty dishes disappearing from the table.

Clean dishes appearing.

Yummy snacks, (ie. Puddings, cakes, pies, pastries) showing up with amazing regularity.

Gardens stretching, lush and weed-free for miles.

Lawns being mowed.

Pets fed and cared for.

Kids travelling to and from school.

Deadlines met.

Bills paid on time.

New, hand-made outfits appearing.

Hired men cared for.

Doctor's appointments kept.

Sewing and other women's clubs attended.

Bedtime routines honoured.

Sicknesses nursed.

Arguments refereed.

Church attended.

In fact, she was the driving force behind every facet of our daily life.

Always there.

To me . . . just Mom.

When I was four, she bought me a pair of skates.

Sat me on our front step and strapped them on my feet.

Then took me across the yard to the ice-covered street and taught me how to skate.

Once I got my balance, she skated along behind me for a while.

Encouraging, instructing and safe-guarding.

Finally, when she was sure of me, she struck out on her own.

Swooping and spinning across the ice like a bird.

I stopped and watched.

Mom?

This was the woman who spent her days 'looking after'.

Tending.

Feeding.

Supplying.

For the first time in my four years, I realized that there was more to my Mom than what I had always seen.

Here was a woman who had been talented enough to skate competitively.

I later discovered that she had also been invited to play ball professionally.

Offered a scholarship to university.

And many other opportunities.

All of which she set aside for my Dad.

My siblings.

And me.

I watched her as she spun in a tight circle.

Going faster and faster.

Coming to a final, breathless halt.

And skating smoothly away.

Backwards.

Wow.

My Mom.

She skated past me.

“Mom?”

She spun and looked at me.

“I'm hungry.”

She smiled. “Time to go in, dear?”

I nodded.

Immediately, she stopped and reached for my hand, helping me carefully back across the yard to our front step.

Mom was just 'Mom' again.

But just for an instant, I had caught sight of something else.

Someone else.

The woman inside.

That day.

Cowlights

One of a series of cartoons from the
'What I Saw at the Calgary Stampede' collection
By Calgary Herald cartoonist, Stewart Cameron

Cows.

I know you’ve seen them.

Quietly standing in the ranchers’ fields, peacefully grazing or happily chewing their cud.

Gentle. Calm. Maternal.

Okay, here is where I debunk the myth.

Because – and I know this will be shock to some – All Cows Are Not Created Equal.

Oh, there are many who are exactly as they appear. Tranquil. Easily managed.

But then there are some . . .

Maybe a story will illustrate.

My grandfather, George Stringam, and a group of men had gathered together a herd of cattle for shipping. These animals were from several different herds. None knew each other. (Yes, cows can tell.) And all were ‘feeling their oats’.

So to speak.

They had chased each other around the pens and corrals of the train terminal and finally managed to break down one of the fences.

Oops. I think Bossy did it!

Moving on . . .

One of the critters managed to escape through the newly-created exit.

And she was headed for the nearest far-away place and didn’t care who knew.

By this time, it was growing dark and all of the men were using lanterns to help them see to sort out the mess.

One of the ranchers, intent on stopping this determined animal stepped in front of her.

Yes, you heard that correctly.

His thinking was that if he swung the lantern in front of her, the cow would just naturally turn and head back to the corral.

Seems like a sound theory to me.

Of course it didn’t work.

The cow skimmed past him.

Closely.

In fact, so closely that one of her horns snagged said lantern.

The last they saw of her was a light going over a distant hill.

Do the words, “Follow me! I’ll light the way!” come to mind?

Don’t do it.

To Gramma's House

Gramma and Grampa Stringam

Beginning with Remembrance Day, going through Thanksgiving and into Christmas, the season of ‘family’ and ‘togetherness’ is upon us.

The best part of the year.

However, in 1912, ‘going to visit the family’ took on a whole new meaning.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Gramma and Grampa Stringam, with their (then) three children, moved to southern Alberta in 1910, leaving their extended family behind them in Utah.

They settled in Glenwood and started to farm.

Outwardly, all was well.

Inwardly, one of them missed her mother.

Finally, after two years of pining and tears, the decision was made for an extended visit.

Gramma and her (by then) four children packed up and, kissing Grampa goodbye, boarded the train for Salt Lake.

The trip there was fairly uneventful, the highlight - seeing the sprinkler system in the Salt Lake depot.

But what came afterward . . . wasn’t.

Uneventful, that is.

Gramma and the kids climbed aboard another train for Salina and then the mail stagecoach from there over the mountain to Thurber and Teasdale.

A short hop by today’s automobile.

A considerably healthy prospect for the white-top mail buggy of the early 1900’s.

In the rain.

On one particularly steep pass, soaked through and tired, the team of horses gave out. Despite considerable encouragement, they refused to move one more step up the mountain, choosing, in typical balky-horse fashion, to back up instead.

They succeeded in backing the coach until they, quite literally, ran out of mountain. When the driver finally got them stopped, the vehicle’s wheels were hanging right out over the edge of the canyon.

Gramma and the kids were frantically extricated and gratefully took shelter under a large spruce, where they turned, as they had been taught, to prayer.

While they were thus engaged, the driver tried – unsuccessfully - to remedy the situation. The wagon remained hanging over the edge of the cliff.

A rather precarious position.

Meanwhile the little family under the tree had finished praying. And it was as that exact moment that a second white-topped buggy came up over the hill.

A buggy that was empty, save for the driver, a local real estate agent. Who, to the little family huddled under the tree, suddenly took on the aspect of a saviour.

The man stopped and surveyed the situation, then climbed down and, using a knife, cut the traces holding the horses to the buggy and led the animals to safety.

The mail man thanked him, threw his mail bags over one horse and mounted the other, and rode on over the mountain, abandoning his little group of paying passengers without a backward look.

On the side of a mountain. In the rain.

Don’t you hate days like that?

Fortunately, the real estate man was very kind and loaded Gramma and her kids into his buggy and delivered them safely to the nearest village.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.

Let’s face it. After this experience, most events would pale by comparison.

Gramma and her brood got their visit.

And, for generations to come, a story to tell.

Rock That Planning

Yorkshire Pudding.
A solid piece of our history.

My Husby is a Planner.

Really.

It is a legitimate occupation.

He plans . . . stuff. Has built his career doing it.

Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.

It has been a varied and unusual career.

And he is very good at what he does.

Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.

That never turns out well.

Moving on . . .

Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.

They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.

A fun and exacting job.

It required spending many months in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.

At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.

Doing what had become their favourite pastime.

Eating.

One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.

With all of the trimmings.

One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.

With gravy.

Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.

In all its glory.

I love it.

But this particular pudding had been baked too long.

Or left uncovered.

Or simply neglected.

It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.

Its owner poked at it morosely.

“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”

Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile. All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display. Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.

A short time later, they had the cover off the resident large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).

They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.

One of the designers studied the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly created an official-looking label.

When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one, ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.

Nothing more was said.

In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.

Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call from the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.

“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Well, that is odd.”

There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”

“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”

“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”

Notice the clever prevarication? (Ooo. Good word!)

Back to my story . . .

“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”

Need something planned?

A building? A display?

A prank?

I know someone you can call.

The Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an iron-er.

A Demon iron-er.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine.

No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing. Everything had to be done just so.

I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron.

She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there that's a women's size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

A Little Religious Education

Dinnertime is family time.

And sometimes, you learn a lot.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had been steadily working our way through husby’s homemade beef stew.

With yummy thick slices of bread.

The conversation – revolved.

Three-year-old Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as G6) had finished and was waiting, somewhat patiently, for the rest to follow.

So she could be excused.

Suddenly, she remembered something exciting.

She had just received a new set of scriptures.

And in them, right there in the front, was a picture of Jesus.

This was news that simply couldn’t wait.

She had to show us.

She scrambled down from her chair and ran to fetch her book.

Opening it to the correct page, she proudly displayed the picture for everyone.

The conversation went something like this . . .

G6: “Look! It’s Jesus! Jesus. Everyone! Jesus!”

Daddy: “What’s Jesus’ last name?”

G6: Blank look.

Grandma: “What’s Jesus’ last name, Sweetie?”

G6: Blinking and blank look.

Grandma (speaking slowly in her best this-is-a-hint voice): “Jesus C-h-r-i-s-t . . .”

G6 (light dawns): “Oh!” Big smile. “Amen!”

So just in case you’re wondering about that elusive last name . . .

Now you know.

The picture.

Memories

Yep. Back then, the brain . . . worked.

The summer I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, volunteered to run a summer day camp for the kids in Milk River.

We had a marvelous time.

Games. Treats. Crafts. Treats. Contests. Treats. Activities. More treats.

I was ten.

Anything to do with food took priority.

Hmm. Still does in fact.

Moving on . . .

Chris put heart and soul into the program.

There were no parameters laid out, so she had to come up with the guidelines and curriculum herself.

She did a wonderful job.

Part way through the summer, she decided that it would be fun if she got all of the kids involved in performing a play.

And not just any play.

The Wizard of Oz.

A fairly ambitious undertaking for a seventeen year old girl and her group of pre-teens.

First, she had to come up with a script.

That was all right, because our family had the story on an LP.

LP.

Go ahead. Google it. We'll wait . . .

And that's where I came in.

I had one talent as a child.

I could memorize.

If I listened to it once, I could pretty much give a detailed description.

If I listened to it a lot?

I could recite it.

With voice inflections and sound effects.

And that was what I did.

For three days, I recited and Chris wrote.

The entire hour-and-a-half of 'The Wizard of Oz'.

As it had been recorded.

We had our script . . .

I should mention here that we never got to perform our play.

We simply ran out of time.

But we learned something important.

If you wanted anything remembered, let Diane listen to it ad infinitum for a couple of days and it was there forever.

Word perfect.

This skill stayed with me for a while.

In fact, I played the lead some years later in 'The Rented Christmas', and memorized the entire play.

To the point that I served as the prompter.

On stage.

My point in telling you all of this is simply to reminisce.

And to lament.

I've been trying to figure out what I watched last night on TV.

I know it was a good movie. And that I enjoyed it immensely.

I can't - for the life of me – remember.

Oh, for just a portion of that bygone talent!

Sigh.

Served With Love

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner last night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

Not steamed. Boiled.

I kid you not.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And you know something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

You're a Winner!

My first official household job when I became a newly minted teenager was the vacuuming.

Ugh.

Mom would drag out her antiquated upright vacuum, wheel it over to where I was sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, and say, cheerfully, “Diane! You've just won a trip!”

There, she would pause significantly, smiling widely at me.

I knew what was coming.

Which made it distinctly un-funny.

Finally, she would add, “Around the house with the vacuum!”

Sigh.

I hated vacuuming.

And her vacuum, whatever it's glowing attributes in its younger days, was distinctly past its prime.

In fact, it hardly had any suction at all.

Vacuuming with a machine that hardly sucks really sucks.

So to speak.

Dutifully, and after a significant number of follow-up 'encouragements', I would drag myself out of my comfy chair, grasp the handle of my nemesis, and start in.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Stupid vacuum.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Look at that! It won't even pick up that piece of lint.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Have I mentioned that I hate vacuuming?

Brrrrrrrrr.

And so it went.

Every Saturday, there was a half hour or so of my life that I'd never get back.

Sigh.

I learned a few things:

1.  Running an upright vacuum with a spinning brush over an area rug usually resulted in the disastrous ingestion of said rug.

2. Kind of funny to watch, but not so good for either the rug or the vacuum.

3. If you stood with a foot at either edge of said rug you could hold it down.

4. Genius.

5. SPINNING BRUSHES ARE NOT TO BE TAMPERED WITH.

Hmm. I think on that last point, I will elucidate:

One day, the wretched vacuum quit sucking altogether.

For several minutes, I ran it back and forth over the same piece of lint.

Nothing.

Without shutting it off, I tipped it up to see if the problem was something obvious.

It was! Right . . . there.

Now, just because a vacuum had quit sucking, doesn't necessarily mean that it has stopped working.

I poked one finger towards the problem.

ZZZZZTTTT!

Ow.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I dropped the vacuum and did the dance of pain, clutching my injured right pointer finger in my left hand.

Finally, I spread my hand, palm up and gazed at it.

Looked okay from here.

I turned it over.

My fingernail was black.

I kid you not.

Black.

The spinning vacuum brush had ripped it free of my finger in one quick, easy movement. Leaving it attached only by the outer edges.

And it had filled instantly with blood.

Ick.

And it hurt.

Ouch.

Sometime later, an incessant noise intruded upon my pain and I realized, belatedly, that the vacuum was still running.

Not that it was doing any good.

I switched it off and ran to find my mom.

My black fingernail was with me for a long time.

A long time.

A reminder that vacuuming was not to be taken lightly.

Or at least that vacuums were to be treated with respect.

After that, whenever I needed to see the inner workings, not only was the beast switched off.

But it was also unplugged.

A lesson harshly taught.

But a lesson nonetheless.

P.S. I still hate vacuuming.
Just FYI.

Mission Possible

“Ummm . . . hello?” I moved out of the hallway cautiously. The reception area looked deserted, but I knew from past experience . . .

“Good morning, Jim!” The slow, distinct, whispered words were coming from someplace ahead. And below.

“Umm . . . my name’s not . . .”

“You will find a document on the desk. Read it.”

I moved slowly toward said desk, still glancing carefully all about. In the very center of the spotlessly clean surface was a large, brown envelope. I hesitated, then reached for it. It was light. Thin. Obviously not filled with copious notes smuggled out in an ongoing industrial espionage heist. I slid out a single sheet of paper. A photograph.

And stared at it.

The whisper continued. “The person caught on camera here is a fairly normal, mundane woman from a rather boring branch of the civil service.”

Normal? I had my doubts.

“Not usually prone to riveting drama or hijinks; or galvanized to action by spectacular messages sent from unseen forces.”

What?

“Your assignment should you choose to accept it is to contact her. Set up an assignation. A meeting. Get to know her. I’m thinking maybe dinner.”

I wondered if I looked as surprised as I felt.

“And see where it takes you.”

Ummm . . .

“As always, should you or any member of your FedEx team be frightened off, or if the answer is no, the receptionist will disavow any knowledge of this transaction. Good luck, Jim.”

“Oh, and leave any packages you may be carrying on the desk. She’ll sign for them later.”

Each week, Our favourite blogger, Delores of Under the Porch Light, extends greetings.

And a list of words.

She only does this to friends.

I shudder to think of what she does to enemies . . .

Moving on . . .

This week's list? 

industrial, copious, galvanized, branch, riveting, camera

Take that, Delores!

We love you!

Later

This'll be my sweetie and me in another 20 years...

Now you have a Love that is loyal and true,

And perfect in every way.

But knowing all that, now I put it to you . . .

What in the world would you say?

From the time that we met as she walked down the street,

Just a’singing her favourite song,

Every moment together was perfect and sweet,

Put it mildly, we two got along.

Daily we’d treasure our moments together

And the years have gone past in a blur,

But lately, I’ve found that there’s one sort of weather,

I’m finding it hard to endure.

Now I’m not nasty or mean and I try to be kind,

I’ve given her arms that are strong.

It’s been fifty-five years, I’m mos’ deaf and near blind,

And I’m needing a different song!

I admit that I liked it when our Love was first new,

But more and more often, I find,

That ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’,

Is driving me out of my mind!

Sweethearts.

And to make the ear worm complete: Manfred Mann.