And Then There Were Trees

Notice the trees. Please.

When I was fourteen, Dad decided to combine the best of all worlds.

He sold the old family ranch twenty miles from the town of Milk River and bought a new spread.

Somewhat closer.

Situated immediately adjacent to the town – and I do mean immediately – it retained all the charm of living in the country.

Within walking distance of everything ‘town’.

Perfect.

There was just one drawback.

The ranch grew from the ashes of the old town slaughter house.

Quite literally.

The slaughter house had burned to the ground and the town butcher had taken it as a sign that it was time to retire.

Dad was only too happy to help him out and bought the almost bare patch of ground.

Oh, there was pasture. Plenty of it.

But no buildings to speak of.

My parents had to start from scratch.

After several months of construction, corrals, barns, outbuildings, quonset and finally, home, appeared.

But that was just the first part.

Now, I should point out, here, that the town of Milk River lies nestled in a crook of the actual Milk River on the prairies.

The rolling, grassy, windswept, breathtakingly beautiful, treeless prairies.

Our recently vacated old ranch had been planted, sometime in the thirties, with acres of trees. Trees that stood tall and straight and looked like they had been there forever. Tress so lush and beautiful that is was rather difficult to see the ranch house.

Though this new place had many, many amenities, its treeless state was achingly obvious.

Mom set out to do something about it.

And roped us kids into helping.

Sigh.

We planted trees.

Acres of them.

And then, if that weren’t enough, we watered trees.

Acres of them.

Oh, we used the garden hose – for as far as it would reach. Then we used a little water tank on wheels.

It was aching, back-breaking work.

But who is going to sneak away to happier pursuits when one’s mother is out there, sweating beneath yet another bucket of water?

No one could be that heartless.

Okay, well, Dad would have had something to say about it if we disappeared . . .

We hand-fed those trees the entire time we lived there.

Then dad, he of the itchy feet, bought another ranch, this time near Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

One that was, mercifully, well treed.

Happily, we packed our buckets and moved.

But we often drive past the old place, whose trees are now nearly fifty years old.

Trees that stand tall and straight and look like they’ve been there forever. Tress so lush and beautiful that is was rather difficult to see the ranch house.

I guess we gave them a good start.

And, really, that’s all that matters.

Here Comes Trouble

A poem. Because it's been . . . you know . . . hours since my last one!

My Sister. She only looks tough.

In youth, I was a daring sort,

A heedless, reckless charge-right-in.

In games, activities and sports,

In all events, through thick or thin.

My sister, she of softer mien,

Would often follow where I led.

On dusty trails or tracks unseen,

The paths where ‘Angels fear to tread’ . . .

Upon Montana’s ski slopes there,

A smooth trail beckoned through the woods.

A path, the incandescent air,

Promised everything that’s good.

But I’m a cowgirl to my toes,

Even up upon the mountain side,

I had one speed and t’wasn’t slow.

My sister’s caution, I’d deride.

Spectacular and fast, my run,

I made a final, breathless stop.

Then waited for my Chris to come,

And happily scanned the mountain top.

She didn’t show, I’m sure you’ve guessed.

She’d fallen, twisted up her knee.

And now her holiday was messed

Cause she’d been trying to catch me.

One summer, as we headed home,

Bedecked in prairie dust and grime,

From checking through the herds that roam,

(And it was nearing supper time).

The lot fell to my sister there,

To man the gate so we’d get through.

She finished the small task with flair,

Re-mount was all she had to do.

But as she slipped her foot into

The stirrup, something went awry,

Impatient me had spurred my horse

And off t’ward home this goose did fly.

My sister’s horse did start to run

And spilled her owner in the dirt

A badly injured knee (not fun),

And for my Sis, a world of hurt.

The message that I’ve tried to frame

In my telescopic, silly way,

Is: We all know the one to blame

And who the piper is we pay.

If adventure’s what you crave,

If, into sports, you plow headfirst,

Remember: Though they may seem brave,

Avoid the cowgirls. They’re the worst!

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues instructions to her followers.

To Avoid Boredom and/or Writer's Block: Use Words.

You know what? It works!

This week's words?

Telescopic, injured, frame, smooth, incandescent, spectacular

Try it and see what I mean!

Sister Dishes

My older sister and me.
Oh, and George.
And part of Dad
And a little bit of Jerry and Blair.

The food had been, as per Mom’s usual standard, delicious.

The conversation had flowed, eddying around such topics as - the day. School. Ranch work. Friends. Town politics.

I was sitting in a contented stupor.

Well fed.

My favourite people in the world around me.

Life was better than fabulous.

“Chris and Diane,” Mom said, smiling at us. “You girls are on dishes tonight.”

And, just like that, my euphoric bubble burst. I could almost hear the ‘snap’ of its passing.

We looked at each other.

“Okay!” Chris said, bouncing to her feet.

Have I mentioned that my older sister is one of those people who is always willing and cheerful?

She is.

Most of the time, I liked it.

Just not tonight.

My reaction to Mom’s announcement was anything but enthusiastic. “Dishes?! Mooom!”

Okay, I admit that my reaction was purely for selfish reasons. I was in the middle of a good book and my plan had been to drop straight back into it after supper.

But Mom’s word was law and I dragged myself to my feet and helped my perky sister scrape and stack the mountain of dishes.

We did fine to that point.

Now here is where the differences between her way of accomplishing the task, and mine, met.

And clashed.

When she washed, Chris liked to leave the tap on just a tiny trickle. Then she could wash, rinse the item by passing it through the stream, and set the dish into the draining board.

I, on the other hand, preferred the ‘turn-the-tap-on’ method.

Wherein one would turn on the tap each time one was ready to rinse.

In my opinion, it wasted less water.

Here is where I admit that Mom simply put some rinse water into the second sink and . . . dipped.

But who wanted to do it Mom’s way?

I was washing. So I got to choose.

Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Why don’t you just leave it on a trickle?” Chris asked. “It saves time.”

Already feeling disgruntled, I mumbled, “I prefer it this way!”

Big sigh from older sister.

Wash. Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Diane, this is really starting to bug me! Just leave the tap on!”

“Fine!” I turned on the tap and let it trickle.

Chris smiled and continued to dry dishes.

I washed something. Then, out of habit, turned the tap, forgetting that it was already on.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Another dish.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Right.”

Another dish.

This time, I turned the tap a little more forcefully than usual.

Not a problem if it wasn’t already on.

Which it was.

The water splashed out, soaking every available surface.

And my sister.

“Diane!”

Oops. “Umm . . . sorry?”

“Ugh. Get out of here and just let me do it!” She reached for the wash cloth and, just like that, I was out of a job.

I stood there for a moment and watched her.

Then I shrugged and went to find my book.

Sisters.

Pffff.                                              

Sweet and Spiky

C'mon. Give us a snuggle.

Porcupines. Not so cute and cuddly any more.

Or ever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On a ranch, though I've heard that their meat - like pork - is quite sweet and tasty, porcupines serve no useful purpose.

Actually, anywhere, they really don’t accomplish much that could be considered ‘good’.

Herbivores, they nibble new trees to death. Devour plant life and generally make nuisances of themselves in a ‘shredding the garden’ way.

They also intimidate the livestock.

It is this last that is the most aggravating.

Because said livestock have to then be rescued.

Sigh.

My dad and a hired man, Dale, were checking the herd.

It was winter.

Now I should probably explain, because it will be pertinent later, that in Southern Alberta, in winter, snow falls.

It just doesn’t stay where it fell.

On average, parts of Southern Alberta have 13 to 14 windless days in the year.

13 to 14.

I probably don’t need to point out that that leaves 351 to 352 windy days.

Now you know why snow doesn’t stay where it’s put.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, Dad and Dale came across a cow with a face full of porcupine quills.

Ouch.

She had obviously allowed curiosity to overcome her sense. Wait. I’m talking about a cow here. She had obviously let her curiosity have free rein and discovered the folly of sniffing porcupines.

The quills had been embedded both in and outside her mouth, making grazing impossible. The poor animal was standing there. Sore. Hungry. And downright miserable.

Dad and Dale removed the quills, then decided to hunt down the culprit.

It’s a rancher thing.

They found him a short distance away, happily sunning himself in the branches of a chokecherry bush.

Breaking off branches of the bush, Dad and Dale closed in for the ‘kill’. Or at least the ‘drive the varmint to the nearest far-away place’.

Here’s where the blown snow comes in. The wind had deposited most of a recent snowfall into those same bushes. Dad found himself chest-deep in the stuff as he approached.

But thinking he’d simply knock the critter off its branch and scare it away, he really wasn’t concerned.

Big mistake.

Did you know that porcupines, far from being the shy, retiring animals they appear, are actually quite aggressive?

Make a note of it.

The porcupine hit the snow and, moving astonishingly easily over the great drifts, immediately turned and headed straight for dad’s face.

Which was, in baseball speak, right in the ‘strike zone’.

Unable to move in the chest-deep snow, Dad watched in horror as the angry little monster came right for him.

He closed his eyes.

Then heard the ‘whump’ of something striking a soft body. And the even more welcome sound of said soft body landing some distance away. Far out of the face prickling ‘oh-my-heck-this-is-going-to-hurt’ zone.

He opened his eyes.

Dale had swooped in at the last minute and hit the ball out of the park.

So to speak.

The disgruntled porcupine, realizing that it was no match for two branch-wielding opponents, tossed one last glare in their general direction and headed, quite literally, for the hills.

Mission accomplished.

Porcupine troubles?

Grab a branch and follow me!

Therapeutic Thwimming

Okay, it was scary.

But it turned out all right . . .

Our family have always been swimmers.

Our children are introduced to the water soon after they arrive.

And spend copious amounts of time there.

When we take a holiday, our choice of hotel is always based on whether or not it has a pool.

On to my story . . .

We were in Great Falls with my Husby's eldest brother and his family.

We had a favourite hotel there.

With *gasp* two pools.

The main pool was popular.

And usually busy.

We had decided to gather beside the smaller pool.

Adults, visiting.

Kids, playing.

Because we grown-ups hadn't planned on swimming, my Husby put on his suit under protest.

But I insisted.

At least one adult needed to be prepared.

We went down.

And spent a pleasant half-hour talking and laughing.

Now I should explain, here, that this smaller pool had one major draw-back.

It really wasn't made with children in mind.

It was roughly circular in shape.

And was shallow at the outer edges.

And deep in the middle.

I know. Weird.

Moving on . . .

Our oldest boy, aged four, was playing happily with his cousins in the shallows.

The kids were shouting and giggling and generally making 'happy' sounds and our oldest nephew, aged six, was keeping up a continuous dialogue of, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!”

His parents had tuned him out.

Something I simply couldn't do.

And for which I am eternally grateful.

“Mom!” he shouted.

I turned and looked at him.

“Mark's down there!” he said, pointing toward the centre of the pool.

My Husby looked at me.

“Get him!” I shouted.

He jumped in and an instant later, came up with our little boy.

For a few seconds, Mark coughed and gasped.

Then cried.

And just like that, our swim was over for the day.

We left the next morning, everyone well and happy, and completely unaware of the psychological damage that had been done.

A few days later, we took our family down to the river to our favourite swimming hole.

Though the water came no higher than his ankles, Mark refused to put one foot into the river.

Odd.

Later, we went to the local swimming pool for what had always been our favourite Saturday evening activity.

Mark, our fish, clung to the ladder and screamed.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

For the next few months, every time we tried to go swimming, it was the same.

People splashing around.

Mark sitting as far from the water as he could get.

Hmmmm.

A year passed.

Without much change.

Then our family moved to Edmonton.

Within hours of getting settled, my Husby discovered the local rec centre.

And their 'wave pool'.

Sounded intriguing.

What on earth was a wave pool?

We packed up the kids and went to investigate.

It turned out that a wave pool was just that.

A pool.

With waves.

For fifteen minutes, the water was calm.

Smooth.

Then a horn would blow and the waves would start.

Small, at first, then growing in size until they were . . . significant.

Mark had been paddling in the ankle-deep water at the shallow end.

A big step for him.

The horn sounded.

He looked up.

And stared at the wall of water coming toward him.

Okay, it wasn't a wall.

Maybe more of a . . . fence?

Well, maybe a median.

But it was definitely coming toward him.

We watched as he considered his options.

Then, to our surprise, he dropped to his knees and . . . let the wave roll over him.

And just like that, his fear was gone.

Our fish was back.

There is a codicil:

Mark is married now, and the father of four.

Several times a week, he takes his family swimming.

It is their favourite activity.

Every time they appear with wet hair and faces glowing with exercise and happiness, I give thanks for the disaster that wasn't.

And for the therapeutic properties of waves.

Aaahh! Therapy!

To Catch A Thief

Grandpa: George Lewis Stringam

Throughout his life, my Grandpa Stringam, a rancher, politician, husband, father and friend, was known for two things.

His business savvy.

And his kindness.

This is one of my favourite stories about him . . .

Grandpa used to rent harvested fields at the end of the season to feed out his cattle. Most of the crop had been removed. But there was always something left for an animal that was good at gleaning.

He usually tried to get fields that were close to water, so his animals would both be fed and watered, then every two or three days, he would ride out to check the herd and make sure they were cared for.

On one particular patch of ground, the owners had erected a small hut – not much more than a shack – for when they were in the fields during harvest. The rest of the year, the hut remained empty. But one day when Grandpa was riding, he discovered that a small family – father, mother, small son – had taken up residence.

Soon afterward, he noticed that one of his steers near the straw stack beside the hut had grown quite fat and was ready for slaughter. He determined to drive it home later that day.

But when he got back, the steer was gone.

He searched for a while, even checking the river to see if it may have slipped under the ice, but found nothing.

Finally, he called at the hut.

The man told him – in rather sharp tones – that he hadn’t seen the steer and hoped he’d never see it.

Grandpa was surprised at his answer and couldn’t imagine why the man would speak to him in such a manner.

As he returned to his horse near the straw stack, he noticed a leg of an animal in the straw. Kicking around, he discovered a second leg. Both were the same colour as the missing steer.

Mounting his horse, he immediately rode to the nearest RNWMP detachment at Standoff, Alberta.

Returning with the officer, the two of them searched through the straw stack until they found two more legs and a branded hide.

It was definitely the steer Grandpa had been missing.

They went to the hut but received no answer to their knock. Finally, the policeman announced loudly that he was entering.

After a short search, the meat from the slaughtered animal was found under the floorboards.

The officer took the man into custody and instructed Grandpa to meet them in Standoff.

When Grandpa arrived, the man, his wife and son and most of their worldly goods were there in the outer office. The police had laid charges and the man had been remanded until the next sitting of the court in Fort MacLeod.

Sometime in January.

This was a few days before Christmas.

It was at this time Grandpa discovered the desperate situation of the young family. Newly arrived from England, they had been unable to find work. Family living in the area had not been able to help and they were perilously near starvation.

Grandpa was shocked. Muttering that he never would have pressed charges if he’d known the circumstances, he stared at the little family, trying to decide what could be done.

Finally, he packed the woman, her son and belongings into his car and toted the entire entourage back to his house.

And there they stayed. The woman helped out wherever she could and the son played with my dad and uncles and aunts.

When the man came to trial, he pleaded guilty, but was – at my Grandpa’s suggestion – sentenced to time served and allowed to leave. The little family made their way to Toronto.

It was years before the rest of the family knew why the woman and her son had come to stay. Grandpa had told them only that they needed some help.

And he had provided it.

No Ordinary Insurance Agent

Dad was making a trip into town to see Mr. Hovan.

His insurance agent.

My brother, George, and I fought over who would be the first in the car.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering what there could possibly be at an insurance agent's office that would interest two children, aged six and four, respectively.

It would be a legitimate question.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mr. Hovan had an office in the old railroad station in Milk River.

It was an unremarkable place.

Slat-covered windows.

Certificate and picture-hung walls.

Creaky, wood floors.

Heavy, smooth oak chairs with arms.

Tall, wooden filing cabinets.

Stacks of folders and papers.

Bookcases.

And in one corner, a very serviceable desk, piled high with paperwork.

It smelled of old building. Dust, books and paper.

On the surface, there really was nothing that would entrance and amaze anyone.

But Mr. Hovan's office held a secret.

A very special secret hidden deep in the very bottom drawer of that oh, so serviceable desk and accessible only upon reports/illustrations of exemplary behaviour.

A whole heap of magic.

In shiny, brown wrappers.

Hershey bars.

But we couldn't ask for them.

Oh, no.

We had to wait patiently and quietly, seated in those hard wooden chairs, while Dad conducted his business.

Trying hard to look anywhere but at that drawer.

Then, if we had been 'good', we would be invited over.

The much-anticipated drawer opened.

And the treasure revealed.

Only then could we avail ourselves of the treat.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Perfection.

Between you and I, Dad didn't visit his insurance agent nearly enough.

Well worth the wait.

A Failing Grade

Quick! Take a picture!

In Southern Alberta, in the sixties, the country roads were more a suggestion than an actual fact.

Sketchy at best.

When conditions were dry, they stretched, bare and passable for miles.

And miles.

When conditions were wet, Heaven help you.

Gravel was non-existent.

Drivers used such words to describe them as: Greasy. Slick. A blooming nightmare.

And *&*()+}|?@#$%^&!!!

The county employed men and machinery to maintain said roads.

Actually catching sight of one was right up there with spotting a unicorn.

Definitely something to pass on to your children.

“Kids, there was a time when I saw . . . the road grader!!!”

“Oooooh!”

But occasionally, their presence (rather than the lack of it), would be felt.

Let me explain . . .

My next older brother, George was driving our Dad’s late-model truck.

I used to know the make, model and year.

Now all I can remember is: It was yellow.

Moving on . . .

He was heading out to see friends.

Or just coming back from seeing some friends.

Both activities took him along the same stretch of road.

He topped a rise.

And there, completely blocking the entire road, was a pile of gravel.

A large pile of gravel.

Pushed there by the road grader.

Or dropped there by a passing gravel truck.

Then abandoned while the mastermind took a much-needed coffee break.

Or nap.

Stopping was out of the question.

George was left with two choices.

And two seconds in which to make one.

Hit the gravel.

Or hit the ditch.

He chose the gravel.

WHUMP!

The truck engine instantly began to make loud, distinctly un-muffled noises.

Remember “*&*()+}|?@#$%^&!!!”?

Well, that would apply here.

He stopped and got out.

The manifold had been neatly and surgically separated from the rest of the muffler system.

“*&*()+}|?@#$%^&!!!” again.

Fortunately, that was the extent of the damage and George was able to drive home without further incident.

To face the Wrath of Dad.

After a few minutes in which:

1. George’s driving was severely called into question.

2. A diatribe against the roads and road maintenance in general.

 An appointment was made to get the muffler replaced. I went with Dad to facilitate this final decision.

We were driving down the main street of Milk River.

Now, normally, Milk River is a quiet place.

Conversations while standing on the street corner are entirely possible.

And frequent.

There was one going on as we passed.

Between, believe it or not, several of George’s friends.

Dad and I smiled and waved.

Then Dad shifted the truck into neutral and floored the gas pedal.

The truck made a loud, distinctive and courageous ‘BLAAAAAT’ that echoed off the buildings and shattered glass.

Okay, I’m making up the ‘shattered glass’ thing, but the rest is true.

The whole street turned to look.

Dad grinned.

Put the truck back into gear.

And proceeded.

I stared at him.

This was the Dad who, very recently, had been berating my brother for - and I quote - ‘horsing around causing vehicle damage’.

Dad obviously knew what he was talking about.

The acorn definitely hadn't fallen very far from that tree.

Family Light

In our corner of the world, in winter, the nights are very long.

For a period of time, the street lights are coming on when the school children are just getting home.

And don't shut off until said children are safely back in class the next morning.

One does everything in the dark.

Early morning walks.

Paper routes.

Extra curricular activities.

Chores.

You might think that it would be aggravating; having so few hours of sunlight during our 'waking' part of the day.

But I love it.

For a few months, Life seems to slow down.

Family comes home earlier.

And stays longer.

But I have one memory that makes the darkness . . . special.

Let me tell you about it . . .

On the ranch, meals were served like clockwork.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared with amazing regularity.

And an equal amount of delicious-ness.

During winter, at least two of those meals were prepared and served with stars in the sky.

With the modern conveniences of electricity, this was not a handicap.

Mom worked with every imaginable electronic gadget.

In a brilliantly lit kitchen.

As the rest of the house darkened with the fading sunlight, the kitchen remained a beacon.

Calling to all of us.

As suppertime neared, I would shut off the lamp in my bedroom and, without stopping to turn on any more lights, walk quickly along the dark hallway.

And that's the part I remember most clearly.

Seeing the light flooding out of every doorway leading into the kitchen.

Moving from the dark into a world of light, fragrance, warmth.

And family.

Mom orchestrating and/or supervising numerous pots and kettles and children.

The rest of the kids gathering or already seated.

An evening of great food and wonderful company ahead of me.

Mom is gone, now.

My siblings scattered throughout North America.

But whenever I come from a darkened hallway into a lighted kitchen, I feel that same anticipation.

That same joy I first felt over fifty years ago - and that time and life experiences cannot fade.

Stepping from darkness into light.

The light that is family.

My Un-Spanking



Daddy and Me

It's winter.
I'm dreaming of spring . . .

Spring had finally arrived at the ranch.
Let me describe it to you . . .
The snow has melted away. Even the drifts which filled the ditches have finally succumbed to the encroaching sun.
Everywhere on the prairie one can see the signs of spring. New green in the prairie grasses and in the occasional and solitary trees. An infrequent blossom. The smells, in the prairie wind, of things growing . Scurrying animals. Birdsong.
And knee-deep mud in the barnyard.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
It is a wonderful time. A time of anticipation. Of wonder.
For a four-year-old who had been cooped up in the house since time immemorial, it is a wondrous opportunity for freedom.
And I took it.
Anxious to put a new accomplishment (that Mom and I had been labouring over) into practice, I disdained my ugly, black gumboots and stuck my feet into my brand new running shoes and triumphantly tied the laces.
I was free!
I dashed out of the house and into the spring sunshine.
The day was filled with endless possibilities for exploring. There was the ice-house. The riverbank. The blacksmith shop. The feed sheds. Hayloft. Pig sty. Chicken coop.
Okay, maybe not the chicken coop.
All my usual haunts.
But today, my first day of freedom, I chose . . . where else would a horse nut go? . . . the horse barn.
Where I would find the . . . ummm . . . horses.
It started out all right. I walked down the hard-packed driveway to the grass of the foreman's house.
So far, so good.
From there, I crossed to the fence. Still fine. I climbed the fence and looked across the barnyard to the tempting building just over there . . .
I jumped down.
And that is where everything fell apart. I watched my feet disappear into the morass that the barnyard had become.
For a stunned moment, I stared down. What had happened?
I tried to lift one foot. It didn't move.
I tried again. Same result.
Panic threatened. Was I going to be stuck here for the rest of my life? I was perilously close to tears.
Then I saw my dad. He of the strong arms and wisely gum booted feet.
He worked his way over to me. I can still remember the sucking sound of his boots as he pulled them from the mud.
Ssss-thook. Ssss-thook.
My saviour.
He plucked me from the mud and set me back on the fence.
Then he frowned and looked at my feet.
“Where are your boots?”
I, too, looked down.
Muddy socks and pants, but no shoes. Huh. Maybe my lace-tying wasn't as good as I thought.
I looked at the mud.
Dad sighed and felt down into the mud that had so recently held me, and found, first one, then the other shoe.
He stood up and held them out.
“Are these your new shoes?”
I nodded silently.
“Where are your boots?” Boots that would have been vastly easier to clean, by the way.
I looked towards the house.
Dad sighed. “You take these and head to the house. I'm going to come later and give you a spanking.”
My eyes got big. I stared at him. A spanking?!
I should point out here that I had never had a spanking from my dad.
But I could imagine it. Unspeakable pain and torment.
I grabbed my shoes, jumped down from the fence and lit out for the house at my best 'four-year-old-I'm-in-trouble' pace.
I threw the shoes down in the front entry and headed for the closet in my room.
Dad never gave me my spanking.
I guess he thought that I'd been punished enough when I spent the entire morning in my closet, hiding from him.
Or maybe he simply forgot.
And I never again tried to wear anything but my gumboots into the barnyard.
I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

Rolling Down the Highway

Okay. How can we complicate this . . .

My Dad went to veterinarian college in Guelph, Ontario.

Some time during the Dark Ages.

Okay, yes, he tells me that my time periods are a little off.

But I'm writing this story.

Dark Ages, it is.

Moving on . . .

Sometime during his years there, he had occasion to hitch-hike to Toronto.

It was his first time.

And it was an adventure.

Let me explain . . .

A gentleman stopped to pick him up.

A pleasant fellow.

Travelling salesman.

They visited for a while.

Then the driver decided it was time for a smoke break.

Or at least for a smoke. Why bother to actually make it a 'break'.

Better to just keep on driving.

In today's world of pre-assembled cigarettes, this wouldn't have been a problem.

But in the Dark Ages, people 'rolled their own'.

Seriously.

They got out a little piece of speciality paper.

Carefully shook a tiny bit of loose tobacco onto said paper.

Spread out said tobacco.

Rolled everything up.

Licked the edge of the paper.

And stuck it down.

Voila!

Cigarette.

Now, imagine doing all of that while hurtling at sixty miles per hour down the highway.

Talk about distracted driving . . .

The driver could easily accomplish it, though, with a little help from his hitch-hiker/new buddy.

“Here, son, could you please take the wheel?”

Dad stared at him. Was he serious?

“Please?”

Apparently, he was.

Gingerly, Dad reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

“Good.” The man let go and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, without compromising speed at all.

Except when Dad started to weave a little.

Then he slowed . . . slightly.

Finally, the job was done.

“Thank you,” the man said, taking a drag from his new cigarette. He once more took control of the wheel.

Dad sat back, relieved in both body and spirit.

A short time later, he was duly delivered at his destination.

Slightly smokier and a tiny bit wiser than normal, but safe.

Dad never took up smoking.

He said it was too dangerous.

Now you know why.

Rainy Days and Sunshine

Something for Everyone!

My Husby's father was a wonderful man.

Generous

Cheerful.

Loving.

Devoted to his numerous offspring and grand-offspring.

Who, in turn, loved him and anxiously awaited any opportunity to go for a visit.

I must admit here that seeing and visiting with their Grampa wasn't their only reason for wanting to spend time at his house.

No.

Their motives were a bit more . . . self-serving.

Because Grampa had treats.

Really yummy treats.

He had learned over the years to put a little something away for, as he called it, a 'rainy day'.

And 'rainy days' were much sought after and appreciated.

Especially by the younger set.

Inevitably, when visiting Grampa's house, after the initial excitement of greeting and getting everyone inside and settled, Grampa would say, “Well, I think I'll just go and see if I have anything for a 'rainy day'.

Which meant that he did.

Yummy-ness was forthcoming.

Moving ahead several years . . .

My Husby learned many things from his father.

One of which was, to the joy and delight of his children and grandchildren, the stashing away of 'rainy days'.

He does this religiously.

Religiously.

And, as a result, generally grows more than it diminishes.

His present stash consists of two huge cardboard boxes and several bags, taking up the entire space under his desk.

Several fancy wooden chests of 'treasure'.

And a shelf full of boxed chocolates.

Do you fancy a treat?

You're invited.

Rainy Days for everyone.

And I do mean everyone.

Please?

For Bread Dough Days

A poem.

Because . . .

The water's there. The yeast is, too.

The sugar, eggs and oil.

A pinch of salt. Some scoops of flour.

A spot of manual toil.

Then there it sits. A work of art.

A dough that's fine and ready.

Just waiting for the final touch.

The hand that's firm and steady.

It starts to rise. Increase and grow.

Progressing, moving on.

Then nears the top. Success so close,

Then, suddenly, it's gone.

That hand so sure that works with care

Deflates all it's achieved.

And in a blink all progress seems

Impossible to believe.

Again it tries.Again it grows.

E'en lighter than before.

Again that hand, again the push,

The dough is flat once more.

A third time tries. A third time grows.

Now tasty and perfected.

Achieves at last it's sought-for goal,

No flaws or faults detected.

At times I feel much like this dough.

My progress interrupted.

When wiser hands press me to my knees,

All dreams and goals disrupted.

But praying hard, I realize

Though setbacks are in store,

I rise each time, a better me

Than e're I was before.