That Smile

Dad has been story-telling.

Surely the best of times . . .

College Boy.

Christmas, 1946. Our newly-minted college boy was back from school in Guelph, Ontario for his first Christmas break.

His home town of Lethbridge, Alberta, was in a justifiably holiday mood.

Parties.

Get-togethers.

Dances.

A gathering had been organized at the new church hall.

College boy decided it would be fun to go.

Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he began to wonder if going had been a mistake. None of the people he knew were there.

Oh, there were plenty of girls.

Beautiful girls. Most of them, the younger sisters of his friends who had, surprisingly, sprouted during his absence.

He didn’t recognize any of them.

Standing there, uncertainly, he was approached by the mother of one of said friends. “Mark!” she said. “Go and dance with my daughter!”

“All right,” he said, smiling. “Happy to!”

She moved off and Dad turned back to the large group in front of him.

Now I should point out here, that this girl was well-known to my dad. He just hadn’t seen her for a while and in his absence, she had grown up.

The nerve of her.

He studied the faces of the girls on the dance floor and milling the hall.

They smiled at him encouragingly, but recognition was no closer.

Hmm.

Finally, not wanting to embarrass himself by approaching the girl’s mother, he wandered over to a group of boys and asked them. The girl was immediately pointed out.

Dad dutifully walked over to her and asked her to dance.

Whew! Mission accomplished.

She was a pretty girl.

Fun.

Vivacious.

Dad enjoyed dancing with her.

Feeling just a bit proud of his success, he moved with her around the floor. Then he spotted the girl’s mother in the crowd.

With a large, satisfied smile on her face as she watched the two of them.

A ‘hundred-watt’ smile.

Now, as a mother myself, I can understand that smile. Her daughter was dancing with a nice, handsome young man from a solid family, who was studying to be a doctor.

A rosy future looked tantalizingly close.

And distinctly possible.

I've used it myself. Most of the time, I'm sad to admit, it’s a relationship killer.

Sigh.

This particular relationship wasn't meant to be.

Though they enjoyed the evening, the two of them never really hit it off.

Soon Dad was back at school and once more hard at work.

The young girl went back to her life.

Dad doesn't remember much about her.

She was pretty. Fun. Sweet.

And her mother had a really scary smile.

See what I mean?

The Nutella Protocol

Happy world Nutella day!
I love Nutella.
For many reasons.
This is the main one . . .

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

Two years ago . . .

My Husby has been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

To say the least . . .

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into emergency.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess.

And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

It kept his motor running.

Gentlemen, raise your spoons!

Taken the day before he went into hospital.

Birdbrained Birdbaths

What we wanted.

What we got.

Debbie and I had spent the morning dreaming about the big ‘B’.

Boys.

All of whom were fascinating and none of whom were interested.

Sigh.

We were drooling over yet another male lead in a long line-up of romantic movies.

This one was a Western. My personal favourite.

Mmmmm . . .

Suddenly, Debbie jumped up and shut off the TV right in the middle of blood and blue shadows under the midnight sun.

Who does that?!

“I want to do something,” she announced.

I glowered at her and briefly considered pointing out that we were doing something. Her whole demeanour suggested . . . action. Which probably meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to get off the couch.

Ugh.

“I want to build a birdbath.”

I stared. Had I heard her correctly?

“I’m serious!” Her voice started to gain in pitch and enthusiasm. “I saw one in a magazine article. It was made of cement and had an all ‘dignified and harmonious-with-nature’ theme. It started with a little pool up top, then looping around with a waterfall plunging down to iridescent bubbles at the bottom!” In her eagerness, she began to pace.

I hated it when she did that.

“We could make a little thatched roof to limit weather-ly interference.” She spun around to face me. “So what do you think?!”

I should point out here that her asking me that was merely a magnanimous gesture. We were doing it. She just wanted me to feel included.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. Let’s get this over with . . .

Pulling her little brother’s wagon, the two of us walked downtown to the hardware store. Then followed a frenzied rush to grab anything she thought would help. And the expenditure of two months of allowance.

As we toted her baggage home, she talked endlessly about the indelible impression her creation would make. About how the town gentry would stroll past, abandoning their normally impartial opinions in their excitement over this brush with the . . . wet and bird-like.

Yeah, she dreamt big that Debbie.

What followed could only be considered inhumane – which is really ironic, considering we were creating something to benefit nature.

Because I was a farm girl – with muscles - I hauled cement. Mixed Cement. Formed cement in a great hole which I had also helped dig.

Then I collapsed.

Debbie looked at the mass of grey glop in the bottom of our hole and then at her exhausted friend.

“It’s perfect!” she said.

I, too, looked into the hole. At the plop of cement in the bottom. Seriously?

Debbie got the garden hose and filled the little indent in the top of her creation. “See? Perfect!”

I blinked. Then turned to look at the paraphernalia strewn about. “What about . . .?” I got no further.

“Perfect!” Debbie nodded decisively, then gathered everything else up and packed it away.

After that, when the weather cooperated, Debbie happily filled her birdbath. Her beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing work of art.

Well, to her . . .

Debbie’s family moved away from Milk River decades ago.

But I think her birdbath sits there to this day.

A monument to what can be accomplished by the lazy and unmotivated. Or of an afternoon spent with a friend.

Take your pick.

Every week, Delores of Under the Porch Light offers a six-word challenge. Okay, yes, I know I've exceeded that, but I'm playing catch-up.

This (and last) week's words? Cement, harmonious, dignified, frenzied, baggage, looping, interference, plunging, magnanimous,

gentry, brush, indelible, impartial, thatched, glower, birdbath, inhumane, iridescent, Blood and blue shadows under the Midnight sun.

Whew!

Go ahead and see what her other friends have done!

Cattle SHOW

Dad (Right) and one of his classmates, Grant.
Oh, and their dates for the Little Royal.
You probably can't see it, but they are standing just outside of . . . well, read on . . . 

Dad was a veterinarian.

He received his education at the University of Guelph in Ontario, Canada.

It was an . . . interesting three years.

For everyone involved . . .

In the spring of each year, everyone in the area geared up for the much-anticipated Little Royal Agricultural Show. There were numerous displays put on by all three colleges in the area: The Vets (My Dad’s group) from Guelph Veterinary College, the Aggies from the Ontario Agriculture College, and the Mac Hall girls from the MacDonald Institute for Women.

There was also a show of livestock right on the campus.

Being a Hereford enthusiast, Dad chose to show a Hereford cow. Two of his classmates chose similarly and the three of them spent most of their evenings working with their animals, gentling and training them.

A week before the show, they decided that their animals had worked hard enough to have earned a little R and R (Rousing and riotous fun).

Because . . . Dad. I'm sure I don't need any further explanation . . .

The quiet, gentle animals were led out into the compound.

All was well.

The boys led them around the campus.

Still good.

Finally, they led the cows up the stairs and into the humans’ residence. Happily, the animals trotted along behind.

The three men and their ‘exhibits’ circled the hall to loud acclaim, (Okay, there was a lot of shouting and laughter, I’m going to call it ‘acclaim’.) and started back toward the door.

Which suddenly became blocked.

By the Dean of Men.

Oops.

For a moment, the three boys and their Dean simply stared at each other. Then, without a word, the Dean backed away and let them out onto the porch.

After a quick couple of pictures there (What event doesn't need to be recorded – or proved?), the cows were meekly led back to their barn and re-in-stalled. So to speak.

For a week, Dad walked about gingerly, expecting at any moment to be called onto the Dean’s carpet.

Nothing happened.

I guess because the cows didn't leave anything on the dorm carpet, the Dean was happy to overlook the whole episode.

Then, too, he probably knew my dad . . .

Grampa Waits For Me

Some of the grandkids were over for the weekend.

This is what Connie Francis would be singing in this situation . . .

(To the tune of "Where the Boys Are')

Where the toys are, grandpa waits for me!
A smilin' face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly.
Where the toys are, Grandpa’s love will be!
He's sittin’ in his re-clin-er and I know he's waitin' there for me.

In the world of billions of people I think he looks just fine.
Then I'll eat his treats and play his games and tell the world he's mine.

Till we get there I wait impatiently.
Where the toys are, where the toys are,
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me.

Till we get there, I wait impatiently.
Where the toys are, where the toys are,
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me!

Conquering Dad Mountain

My Daddy and me

My Dad and I had a trick.

Something that only Daddy and I could do.

It was my favourite thing in the world.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Dad was strong.

And tall.

He could take my hands and hold me steady while I walked up his body.

I know this sounds like something out of Cirque Du Soleil, but it’s true.

I would lift my feet and plant them on his legs, then walk up till I reached his chest.

Then - and this is the exciting part - I would flip over and start again.

It was immensely fun.

For a four-year-old, hugely entertaining.

And didn’t happen nearly enough.

Dad would come in the door and be greeted by, “Daddy! Daddy! Pick me up!”

Obligingly, he would take my hands and let me use him as an acrobatic frame for my . . . acrobatics.

Again and again.

Then smile and set me down and go on with his duties.

I would happily return to mine.

This went on for years.

Years.

Then one day, I think I must have been about nine, Dad uttered the fateful words, “Sorry, honey, you’re just too heavy for me!”

I stared at him, aghast.

How could this be?

He was still taller than me.

Stronger than me.

Broader than . . . you get the picture.

How could I possibly be too heavy for him?

But, sadly, it was true.

And, just like that, my 'Daddy’s-Frame' climbing days were over.

Sigh.

Last night, I was watching one of our youngest granddaughters climb up her daddy.

Giggling happily as she did so.

And suddenly, I was remembering.

Being four-years-old again.

Holding my Daddy’s hands.

Using his help and his frame to do my acrobatics.

Daddy is nearly ninety. Frail and shrunken.

Climbing for each of us is in the past.

But we have the memory.

Bread For Chocolate

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.
Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.
The subject of bread came up.
And the best places to get the least-expensive.
“We never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter told me. “That’s far too expensive!”
“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”
I stared at him.
Okay. I admit it. It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.
We’re a homemade kind of family.
So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.
Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.
Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.
Moving on . . .
As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.
(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)
We were in the Red and White grocery store in Milk River.
Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.
I was perusing the candy display.
Also important.
Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.
“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”
I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.
Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?
 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.
There were, maybe, six aisles.
With the bakery being two aisles away.
I could do it if I scurried.
“Okay!” I shouted.
Then scurried.
There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.
‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.
I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.
“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.
Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”
Sigh.
I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.
Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.
Whew.
Mom started toward the front of the store.
It was now or never.
“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”
Chocolate bars were ten cents.
Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .
“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”
. . . stupid bread.

Old Age is LOOMing

I come from a long line of ‘workers’.

The enthusiastically employed, I’ll call them.

People who believed in hard work and industry. That idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

My grandma Stringam is one of the first and foremost in that long line.

The things she managed to accomplish in her lifetime are varied . . . and astounding.

Raising eleven children would probably be considered a good life’s work. But she didn’t stop there. She served her family and entire community as nurse, midwife, secretary, teacher, general aide, social leader and counsellor.

Her husband passed away in 1959 at the age of 83 after a battle with cancer.

Grandma was 74 at the time and had worked many long years.

Most of us (ie. me) would have relaxed and coasted gently into our sunset years.

But Grandma decided that what she needed was a new interest.

She had dabbled in crafts most of her life. When time allowed.

Now she became serious about mastering them.

Especially weaving.

She purchased a large, floor loom.

And spent many of her waking hours (and a few of her sleeping ones, I’m sure) seated at that loom.

Creating amazing works of art.

Which she then fashioned into other works of art.

Every one of her numerous grandchildren received something from the talented hands of their grandmother.

I received several. Each carefully crafted and beautiful.

At the age of 75, Grandma, who was also serving as the Work Director for her church, was asked to travel to Salt Lake City to do a demonstration on weaving. She packed up her loom, 68 articles to display, her daughter and a long-time friend. And did it.

The demonstration.

At 75.

Grandma is one of my heroes.

Her example gives me the courage to try new things.

This week, I took up playing the cello.

It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.

And just never . . . did.

It really doesn’t sound like much yet. A lot of tortured strings and almost notes.

And my daughter says my ‘cello-playing’ face is quite . . . amusing.

But I’ll persevere.

Who knows. Maybe I’ll be asked to demonstrate somewhere when I’m 75.

I’ve got 15 years.

Better get to work . . .

Coffin Crimes

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.

Husby has a scar on his chin.

A long scar from a large wound.

A wound that took several stitches to close.

And I gave it to him.

Well, me and a coffin.

You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.

Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.

An almost endless round of ‘ing’.

For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.

Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.

After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.

Ugh.

At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.

Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.

Back to my story . . .

Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.

Hefted the coffin.

And started in.

And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.

Literally.

Husby, on the front end, tripped.

Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.

Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.

And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.

A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.

The bedroom of several more.

And at least ten living rooms.

A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.

When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.

And blood was dripping through his fingers.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.

“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.

Ewwww.

A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.

And a sexy scar.

Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.

Sigh.

P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

Another Horse

The Depression gave us many sad stories.

But there are also stories of service and sacrifice that are truly inspiring . . .

My Grampa Stringam was a rancher.

He also served as an MLA in the provincial legislature.

It kept him busy.

And gave him a much broader scope in which to help those in need.

One morning, he announced to Grandma that he was heading over to the neighbours.

When Grandma asked why, he told her that the neighbour had a horse to sell.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know we needed another horse.”

Her response? A cryptic, “We don’t.”

Grampa disappeared, returning some time later. Without the horse.

When Grandma asked him if his business had been concluded satisfactorily, he nodded and smiled.

Fixing him with her best frown, she asked him what was going on.

His smiled widened. “I bought the neighbour’s horse.”

“But why? When you admitted that we didn’t need another.”

“Well, his wife needs medical help and he needs the money to pay for it.”

Enough said.

There is a codicil . . .

Grampa paid the man for the horse.

A fair sum for the times.

The man’s wife got the medical help she needed.

And all was well.

But there is one other point to this story.

An important one.

Grampa never did go and get the horse he had paid for.

Grandma was right.

He didn’t need another horse.

A Little Truth

These are truths I’ve come to know

As through Life I’ve chanced to go.

A better time you will have too.

If, from these facts, you do accrue . . .

The first: you cannot baptize cats,

Don’t argue, just accept the fact.

If Mom and Dad, a spat have shared,

Never let Mom brush your hair.

If Sister hits, then don’t hit back,

You will get blamed for the attack.

Though with faith he seems imbued,

Don’t trust your dog to watch your food.

Unless you want a style with ‘flair’,

Don’t sneeze while someone cuts your hair.

When holding cats, to avoid the welts,

Leave the vacuum somewhere else.

If brother is a three-year-old,

A tomato’s not for him to hold.

White shorts look good, but people stare

At polka-dotted underwear.

And when you‘re sad as sad can be,

The best place is on Gramma’s knee.

And as I’ve aged, my wisdom’s grown,

My chickens from the nest have flown.

But as an elder, I’ve learned more,

Take heed, here’s what you have in store.

Raising teenagers, you’ll agree,

S’like nailing jelly to a tree.

Those wrinkles, although clearly there.

Are painless. Just so you’re aware.

Those oaks that you see standing ‘round,

Were once a nut that held its ground.

If jogging’s what you like to do,

Then laugh. You’ll jog the inside, too.

And cereal somewhat kills the joy,

When picked for fibre. Not the toy.

So there. That’s it. It’s all I’ve got.

I know it’s really not a lot.

But if you want to silly be.

Try these, and you’ll be just like me.

I.D. Please

Okay, they look a little funny, but we love them.

A couple of years ago, our youngest daughter and her daughter moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.

They had been away for far too long.

It was cause for celebration.

So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.

I should probably explain here that, at that time, when all of our kids and their families gathered, we numbered twenty-five people.

Twelve of whom were under the age of ten.

Organized confusion.

Generally, the parents and very youngest members gathered in the front room upstairs to chat.

The oldest of the grandkids fled to the basement.

Where the toys were.

Now these kids were used to being together.

And treated each other like siblings.

Getting along fabulously for the most part.

With occasional bouts of tears and irritation . . .

It was a fairly normal evening.

Adults – visiting.

Kids downstairs – playing.

Someone started to cry.

Our six-year old came running up the stairs.

“Someone’s crying!” he announced. Needlessly, I might point out.

I looked at him. “Who is crying?”

Now, my daughter’s daughter hadn't been around for some time. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, this little girl was not.

He handled the confusion well.

“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”

Ah. Identification complete.

Maybe we should put that on her birth certificate.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

The work is getting done. Guess who's in charge.

Husby is getting older.

As am I.

He has been at the same organization for over thirty years.

He knows the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

But in his organization, a new wave of up-and-comers are . . . up and coming.

They’ve not changed any of the policies. Yet.

But they are beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

There are always new and improved ways to do things. I have no problem with that.

What I do have a problem with is the way they regard my Husby.

Suddenly this man who has been a main cog in the great machine is being regarded as a bit rusty.

Out of date.

Useless.

The fact that he has personally schooled and guided every single one of these young people means nothing once they’ve gotten their momentum.

And they’ve definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

I see it happening all around me. Older people who were once at the forefront of their fields of expertise are being sidelined. Disregarded.

Ignored.

Those who, though they may have fallen a bit behind in the technological side, could still be viewed (and utilized) as a source of wisdom and knowledge.

And experience.

Husby and I were speaking of it this morning. The lack of . . . respect.

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

All of this is my long-winded way of telling a story.

Which I’m ready to begin. Finally . . .

During its heyday, the Stringam ranch was a hub of activity and a great source of employment.

Cowhands came and went. Learned a little or a lot.

But left better than when they had ridden in.

And a large part of that was due to my Dad’s example.

He led, choosing to work with the men rather than give orders and watch from the sidelines. He counselled. Disciplined. Instructed. Corrected. Instructed again.

And the men respectfully listened.

Oh, there was the occasional man who didn’t like the discipline that the Stringam ranch demanded. But even they learned to show respect during their short stay.

Most of those men went on to lives of industry. Some to direct their own enterprises.

All speak of my Dad with respect and affection.

One man had come to my parents fresh out of high school and had then stayed a number of years under the tutelage of my Dad. In his quiet way, he soaked up everything he could learn.

Then he married and finally left to begin his own ranching enterprise.

The bond of friendship has remained strong.

A few weeks ago, he called my Dad at Dad’s room in the local senior’s lodge. The man, and his son who was now running their family ranch, had a difficulty and needed some advice.

Who did they turn to?

My dad is nearly ninety.

His days of directing the affairs of a large ranch, riding the range and commanding crews of hired men are long behind him.

But the respect for his knowledge and expertise and the genuine affection go on.

Is this being taught today?

Do we look at the elderly people around us (and they are growing in number) and see someone who is merely old? Redundant? Stupid?

Or do we see the person that they were. A person full of life and new ideas. Contender and driving force and world changer of their generation. A person who could still be a fund of knowledge and experience.

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.

And a pity.

P.S. About the picture. The guy in charge is the one kneeling on the ground, holding the calf.

A Sobering Truth

Picturesque.
And deadly.

Branding time was an opportunity to celebrate.

The calf crop – the ranch’s major source of income - had mostly passed the first difficult months and was growing well.

The warm, summer months had arrived.

One got the chance to spend a day or two in company with one’s friends and peers. For the mostly solitary riders, a rare treat. On many ranches, it was a time to kick up one’s heels.

So to speak.

Now the Stringam Ranch, where I was raised, was a liquor-free zone.

But on many ranches, the alcohol was flowing even before the last animal was branded.

Happy cowboys.

Semi-tame animals.

Sharp knives.

An open fire.

Red-hot irons.

And liquor.

Who doesn’t see any sources of concern here?

One particular tale of woe, told to us by our dad, stayed with me forever.

Let me tell you about it . . .

The branding was nearly finished for the day.

One of the hands had produced a bottle of something code-named ‘Hair of the Dog’.

It was . . . strong. And its effects pretty much instantaneous.

Said bottle made a couple of rounds.

By the end of the second pass, the boys were (to quote something ‘ranch-y’) feeling their oats.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a literal blur.

The last animal was branded.

Who, what or where, by this point no one really knew.

Or cared.

Someone shouted, “Let ‘em go!”

The corral gate was swung open.

I should probably mention that these cows and calves had been cooped up all day.

They were hungry, tired, stressed and sore.

The great outdoors looked just like that. Great.

En masse, they poured through that opening, heedless of anything that may be in the way.

The boss of the outfit suddenly remembered, through a slight haze, that there had been a cow noticed earlier. A cow with a horn that had curved the wrong way and was now threatening to actually grow into the animal’s head.

Easily fixed with a couple of lassos and a small saw.

But now that cow, along with her fellows, was making her way as quickly as possible toward the G.O. (see above).

He leaped aboard his trusty steed (which immediately proved itself to be anything but trusty) and gave it the spurs.

The animal, lacking somewhat in dignified communicative skills, resorted to the less dignified.

It began to buck.

Now, normally, this would have resulted in a few strong words with maybe a dusting in the prairie soil. But in this particular instance, location was everything.

Because the animal chose to express itself under the crossbar of the corral gate.

That first leap mortally injured the rancher.

Now the man had lived a rough life. Worked rough. Played rough. And drank rough.

But no one deserves a rough death.

A sadly sobering truth.

I don’t know what the effect was on those boys who witnessed the event.

But for me, even listening to it third-hand made me vow never to mix alcohol and any form of ranch work.

I know most of you won’t be toting a branding iron any time soon.

So, just FYI . . .

When branding?

Leave the liquor in the bunkhouse. 

Child-Proofing for Amateurs

Mom lied to her kids.

Okay, yes, she had a good reason.

And no, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, the ranch house and buildings were nestled snugly in the bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

A river that, at certain times of the year, turned into a rushing, deadly torrent.

A river to which my older sister was drawn like a baby to an IPhone.

After several hair-raising episodes in which my mom, my sister and wet, cold, muddy, slightly deadly and totally unsympathetic river water featured strongly, Mom decided to get more pro-active.

What better way to police than to make the kids want to police themselves?!

Genius!

And by the way, this is where the lying comes into play . . .

Using her not unspectacular story-telling abilities, Mom described the octopus that lived in the milky waters of the great Milk River and waited patiently for little kids – its favourite snack – to show up by themselves on the river bank.

Little kids that, without parental accompaniment, were fair game. The octopus would then be able to seize and drag them down to the ‘depths’.

Her dramatic portrayal lost nothing in the telling and she soon had my sister shivering with fear.

Or what Mom mistakenly thought was fear.

The next day, Mom, happily secure in the fact that her daughter would never, ever again go near the octopus-infested waters of the Milk River, turned her back for a moment.

Only to discover that her daughter had, once again, disappeared.

And taken her 18 month-old brother with her.

Sigh.

Mom sprinted, out of habit, to the river.

And there she found her two little ones.

Happily clambering about the slippery slopes, looking into the dark water for a glimpse of the octopus that lived there.

I think we all learn a lesson from this.

Don’t waste your most lurid story-telling skills on a child with more imagination than you.

Now picture it with a frown.
And a little more child unfriendly...

Hidden Treasures

Mom (seated in the light-coloured dress)
And her parents. And her eight brothers...

My Mom had eight brothers.
And each of them had a sister.
Most of the time, this was a good thing.
They played together.
Worked together.
And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, the boys 'protected' her.
It was a good balance.
Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.
Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.
Cooking, cleaning, dishes.
Laundry.
Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.
Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.
You never knew what you would find . . .
There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.
You cleaned your plate at mealtime.
Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.
Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.
If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.
Or get creative.
Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, took the second option.
He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.
Just inside of him.
What to do?
Hmmm.
No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table and his parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.
His options were definitely limited.
But he would think of something . . .
When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.
Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.
Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.
Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes and that while he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear.He was wearing trousers. And they had . . . pockets.
What followed was inevitable.
Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.
Clever.
And, as I said, entertaining.
And that was just the laundry.
Imagine what he could do with such things as chores.
Livestock.
But that is another story.

My Fixer

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds. Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog. Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet. He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy, injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all.