Water, Water Everywhere

Me and my first 4-H calf.
I'm the nerd in the glasses and cowboy hat.

Twelve was an important age in the Stringam family.

That anxiously awaited, feverishly anticipated time when one was finally considered a grown up.

And, at long last, able to join the 4-H Calf Club.

Well, it was a highlight in our family.

Moving on . . .

Yep. 4-H. No end of excitement.

First, there was the all-important choosing of the calf, which enlisted years and years of experience and an eye for perfection. ("Umm . . . I want the red and white one over there! Nooo . . . I mean the red and white one over there . . . Wait! I want that one! He's cute!")

Then there was the twice daily ritual of feeding said calf. (Accomplished for the first day by me, and thereafter by my brother, George. For the entire six calves and six years I was in 4-H.)

There were the monthly meetings where we were expected to hand in our record books. (A concise documentation of our calf's daily diet, inevitable weight gain, and any other pertinent information. Frantically estimated and scribbled before/during the meeting.)

Then, twice a year, there were the 'calf tours'. (Where we exclaimed, more or less knowledgeably over each other's calves. And then, more importantly, had a wonderful dinner at one of the homes. Usually one of the families of Hungarian descent. The best cooks in the entire world. Mmmmm.)

And finally, at the end of the year, we loaded our now-enormous darlings into trucks and headed into Lethbridge for the final show and sale.

The reward and culmination of a year of my brother's hard work.

Beyond exciting.

Three days of meeting new people (i.e. boys).

Flirting.

Walking along the midway and eating 'fair' food. (Taste - amazing. Nutrition - negligible.)

Attending the dance.

Sleeping in the dorms.

Oh, yes. And grooming and showing and selling our calves.

Waving good-bye.

And then, way beyond exciting, the annual club trip where the club members, together with their families, would embark on a journey to . . . somewhere wonderful.

And exciting.

We toured all over Alberta and into Montana and Washington and saw . . . stuff.

One trip, in particular, stands out.

And in my usual long-winded way, I've finally worked myself around to it . . .

We had travelled into Washington State, planning to camp at a brand-new and ultra modern campground, which, according to the pamphlet, was home to an enormous swimming pool and other amazing features.

It was the hottest day of the year.

And air conditioning hadn't been invented yet.

Our caravan of ten or so vehicles pulled into the campsite and ground to a dusty and exhausted halt.

There were trees.

Tables. 

And water hydrants.

But little else.

Apparently, the pictures in the brightly-coloured pamphlet had been artist's imaginative renderings of amenities that would 'some day' be part of the campground.

Us kids gathered around the giant hole that would one day be a swimming pool and said a silent farewell to the fun we could have had there.

Our parents started to set up camp.

It was hot.

One of the dads hooked a garden hose up to a hydrant and started to spray the dust off a table.

Another Dad filled a pitcher to add to the radiator of his over-heated truck.

They looked at each other.

Hose, squirting cool water.

Pitcher, filled with equally cool water.

Hottest day of the year. (I know. I already said that. But it really was.)

Pool that only existed on paper.

It was a no-brainer.

The fight was on.

By the time it ended, Every. Single. Person. in the campsite was soaked.

More than soaked.

If you were moving. You were a target.

Let me rephrase that.

If you were breathing, you were a target.

A group of moms were sitting in a safe (i.e. dry) place, watching the fun and laughing uproariously (real word - I looked it up) thinking that their age and authority made them exempt.

Oh, the folly.

My brother, George, spotted them and immediately noted two things:

1. They were dry.

2. This was unacceptable.

He filled a bucket with water and waited for them to notice him.

They saw him standing there and, staring in disbelief, slowly got to their feet.

"George?!"

"George!"

"No, George!"

Begging availed them nothing.

In a moment, they were as soaked as the rest of us.

The fight lasted most of the afternoon, and, by the time it was finished, everyone was wet, cool, and happily exhausted.

Much the same condition we would have been in if the pool really had existed.

I don't remember much else about that particular trip.

Everything else paled when compared to "The Water Fight'.

4-H.

Six years of experiences.

Of growing up.

I miss those times.

D and D

It will always be ‘That Night’.

The night my friends and I learned first-hand that drinking and driving don’t go together.

It could have been so much worse . . .

Lethbridge, Alberta is a city of about 50,000. Forty-nine miles north of Milk River.

For the kids of my home town, it was the ‘big city’.

The place for movies and fun on the evenings when two-movie-a-week Milk River had rolled up its sidewalks.

In the hands of a steady, careful driver, it took a good part of an hour to get there.

And some planning ahead if one wanted to get to a particular movie on time.

Me and a group of my friends had stuffed ourselves into a car belonging to a friend of a friend.

And I do mean ‘stuffed’.

I’m not sure how many people were in there.

Let’s just say that, if we’d had seatbelts, there would not have been a sufficient number.

Moving on . . .

We made the trip and arrived at our movie with plenty of time to spare.

Happily, we got in line for tickets.

It was then that our driver/car-owner announced he wasn’t interested in seeing, to quote him, “Some stupid movie”.

Instead, he would wait until we were finished.

In the bar across the street.

We watched him go.

Not really worried. Thinking he would be responsible and ensure he was in condition to take us all safely back to Milk River on that long, dark highway home.

We enjoyed the movie and emerged into the cool evening air some two hours later.

One of the boys went into the bar and emerged with our driver.

One of them was not walking very steadily.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you which one.

Our driver had spent his time trying to drink everyone else in the bar ‘under the table’.

Whatever that means.

I think he had won.

“Rrrready t’go?” he slurred at us.

I don’t know about the others, but my little teen-aged heart stopped right there.

My date put his arm around our driver. “Buddy,” he said soothingly, “I’d better drive.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?! I can drive!!! SSS’MY car!!!”

“Bud, you’re drunk. You can’t even see the steering wheel!”

“SSS’MY car!!! Ssstealin’ my car!!!”

“No, Bud, we’re not stealing your car. You can sit right next to me and we’ll all get home safely.”

“SSS’MY car!!!”

“Yes, it’s your car, and you can sit next to me . . .”

“No onesdrivin’ MY CAR!!!”

This went on for some time.

I hurried to a nearby phone booth (google it) and called home.

Getting my sleepy father out of bed.

“Daddy! Our driver’s drunk!” I wailed over the phone.

He was awake immediately. “Don’t let him drive!”

“We’re trying not to, but he’s so angry!”

“Don’t let him drive! Do you think you can convince him? Do I need to come and get you?”

I looked over at my friends, grouped around my date, who was still trying to talk to his friend. My date was saying something and the driver was shaking his head forcibly, nearly sending himself tumbling with the simply action.

“I don’t knooow!”

As I stood there, my date propped up his friend and stood back. The friend/driver nearly fell over – saved at the last moment when someone grabbed his arm.

Finally, to everyone’s relief, he nodded.

“I think they’ve convinced him,” I said. “We’re on our way.”

Happily, everyone piled into the car, with my date behind the steering wheel and our would-be driver beside him.

We left the brightly-lighted city and started out along the dark highway.

We didn’t get far.

“I ssshould be drivin’! SSSS’MY car!!!”

My date looked over at his friend. “You’re too drunk, Buddy,” he said. “I’ll get us all home safely.”

“SSS’MY CAR!!!”

He grabbed the wheel.

The car swerved sharply and my date took his foot off the accelerator and finally regained control as the boy sitting on the other side of the ‘driver’ wrestled him back into the middle of the seat.

“SSS’MY CAR! SSSSTEALIN’ MY CAR!!!”

“No we’re not stealing anything!”

“I’m Drivin’!” Again the driver reached for the wheel.

My date pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine, pocketing the key. “Let’s walk this off,” he suggested. He slid out of the car and pulled the ‘driver’ out behind him. “C’mon Buddy, let’s walk this off.”

The two of them went around the car to the ditch and started walking up and down, my date talking quietly and the ‘driver’ shouting more and more incoherently.

Lights appeared behind us.

Grew brighter.

A pick-up truck.

One we all knew very well.

Another friend and his date pulled over in front of us.

“Trouble?” he asked.

I went over to them. “Our driver’s drunk,” I said.

“Do any of you want to come with us?” he asked.

Relief flooded over me. “Well, I do!” I said. I went back to the other car. My date was till walking up and down with his friend, talking softly and soothingly. “Does anyone want to catch a ride?” I asked.

One other person scrambled out of the car. “I do,” they said.

“I’m going with Dennis!” I called to my date.

He waved. “Do!” he said.

I climbed into the truck and made room for the other person.

For a few seconds, we watched my date continue to walk and talk, trying to convince our agitated ‘driver’ that he really was in no condition to drive.

Then we drove off, the car and my other friends disappearing into the darkness behind us.

I felt like I was abandoning them.

Half an hour later, I was walking through my front door.

My relieved parents met me as I came in.

“What happened?” Dad asked.

I told them.

They shook their heads. “Thank the Lord you had enough sense to keep him from driving,” Mom said.

“Well, they were still trying when I left,” I said. “I don’t know what happened after that.”

Later, one of my other friends called to say that they had all gotten home safely. My date had managed to calm the ‘driver’ enough to get him back into the car. And the rest of them were able to keep him from grabbing the wheel.

We learned two things that night:

1. If there’s any possibility you’re going to be the driver . . .

2. Don’t be stupid.

My Crutch(es)

Gramma and Grampa Berg

It was a magical time. 

Gramma Berg was staying over. 

For days and days. 

And she could always be counted on for a snuggle, or a story, or a song, or a treat.
In that order.
Gramma moved slowly. The result of having a shattered kneecap. I only knew that she couldn't get away from me.
Oh, and that she had crutches.
I loved those crutches. It didn't occur to my four-year-old intellect that they were a necessary part of Gramma’s mobility. I saw only that they were just right for me. 

I would put the little bar (intended as a hand hold) under my arms and, with the top half of each crutch weaving far over my head, hop from one end of the house to the other. Then back. Then back again.
All day.
Sometimes I would mix it up a little and hold up the left leg instead of the right. Either was exciting. 

And daring.

Okay, I was four. My life to date hadn't been filled with momentous events. 

But I digress . . .
There was one problem with my fascination for Gramma’s crutches. She needed them. And I usually had them.

Somewhere else.
Something had to be done.
My Dad, always excited at the prospect of a new engineering task, saw an opportunity. He would make new crutches. My size. Happily, he spent many hours in the blacksmith shop, designing, measuring, cutting. Crafting. Finally, voila! Crutches. Perfect four-year-old size. 

Excited, he brought them to the house. 

Unfortunately, it was nap time and I was blotto on the couch.
Not one to let such a minor thing as a sleeping child thwart him, Dad stood me up and thrust the crutches under my arms.
I can picture it now. Small, skinny, white-haired child – literally - asleep on her feet. Head lolling to one side. A tiny snore. (Okay, my imagination’s good. I admit it.) Her dad holds her up with one hand while trying to brace the crutches under her arms with the other. For this story, a Dad with three hands would probably be advisable. She folds like cooked spaghetti. He tries again. Same result. Finally, defeated, he lays her back on the couch and braces the crutches against it for her to find when she is a bit more . . . conscious.
Which she does.
From then on, my crutches and me were inseparable. They were even tied behind when I went riding. I almost forgot how to walk. Strangers to the ranch would shake their heads sadly at the little crippled child making her way across the barnyard. Then nod and acknowledge that she sure had learned how to move quickly, poor little mite. I felt guilty for the deception. 

Well, a little. 

A real little.
Okay, not at all.
I certainly learned to manoeuvre those little crutches. The only thing I never mastered was walking while lifting both feet at the same time. And, believe me, I tried.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Gramma was delighted to have her crutches back. She could get around once more. She could be portable, helpful, useful. All the qualities she found so satisfying. 

She could even challenge me to a race.

I won.

Me. Age four. With some friends.

Pioneer Stock

My mom was a writer.

A prolific writer.

She passed away nearly 14 years ago and I'm just scratching the surface of all she left us.

Here is a poem I discovered yesterday tucked away in one of her journals . . .

Thank you, Mom!

Fresh, clear air from East to West

And room to come and go,

To watch the prairie grasses wave,

And feel the cool winds blow.

To hear the Whisper through the trees,

And watch the morning light,

The little prairie creatures stir,

The ducks and geese take flight.

To see the lazy shadows play

Across the hills at dawn,

And watch the golden sun rays touch

A mother and her fawn.

To look out o’er the rolling hills,

As far as the eye can see.

And not a thing to mar the view,

Not road, nor fence, nor tree.

And far across the plains we find

At the edge of the prairie.

A ridge of snow-capped mountains rise

In Splendid majesty.

When winter sheds his frosty coat,

And north winds cease to blow,

We see the fragile prairie flowers

Peek through the melting snow.

When all the lights of the Milky Way

Play eternal melodies,

A million winking stars above

Join the Heavenly Symphony.

And, stealing ‘cross the rolling land,

A whispering, gentle breeze,

A haunting, trembling Rhapsody,

Stirs leaves in all the trees.

When the moon begins to float,

Across the balmy night,

Caressing all the troubled world,

With it’s glorious, heavenly light.

We see the prairie antelope

Crest the hill at night,

A silhouette against the sky,

As he pauses in his flight.

As the frogs croak out a lullaby,

And all the Prairie sleeps,

A purple Shadow treads the Trail

Where the Wiley Coyote creeps.

The tattoo of the horses’ feet,

As the stage coach rolls along,

The sweat and grime and clouds of dust,

The crack of the whip at dawn.

And bounding o’er a craggy ridge,

The mocking laugh of Raiders,

We hear the loaded wagons roll,

Stinging, cursing Whiskey traders.

When a fevered child cries out,

There is no way to go,

To drive the faithful horses through

The shocking drifts of snow.

Sit anxiously throughout the night,

Clutched ln fear and dread.

No way to call a Doctor, or

Take the infant in the sled.

To rise with the sun and milk the cow,

And tend the nervous teams,

To pause a bit and watch the flocks

Fly on to other streams.

To eat a slice of thick, dark bread,

Rich butter and some jam,

Bowls of steaming porridge, and,

A slice of home-cured ham.

Hitch the team up to the plow,

And with the help of God,

Glean a frugal living from

The brown unwilling Sod.

O’er Silver Willow, Sage, and, Brush,

We hear the prairie call,

The pioneers of this land are there,

Their silent footsteps fall.

We share so much with those who’ve passed

Their hope, their faith, their tears,

The courage to rise again and again,

Our parent pioneers.

Depths of Winter

A poem (Based on a joke my Dad likes to tell).

For Tuesday.

Because . . .

He went out as the morning sun,

Made new snow glisten bright.

The world was still, the air was cold

The storm passed with the night.

He carefully prepared his mount

With blankets and with tack,

The snow had stopped, the wind had died

He had cattle now to check.

The two of them moved carefully

Into the world of white.

Their breath streamed out behind them

Making clouds in morning light.

But it wasn’t long before he stopped

And looked about him there.

Then pulled his ‘cell phone from his coat

And dialled his wife with care.

“Hi, Hon!” he said with chatt’ring teeth,

Just thought I’d give a call,

To let you know I’m heading back,

Things don’t look good at all.”

“The snow out here’s too deep,” he said.

“It’s cold and wet, I’ve found.

It’s reached the tops of both my boots

It’s hard to get around.”

His puzzled wife said to her man.

“Your boot tops aren’t tall.

“I don’t see how a drift that deep

Could hamper you at all.”

Her husband frowned, “They don’t,” he said.

“Well, they don’t bother me.

But this poor horse I’m sitting on.

He simply cannot see.”

Dad in winter . . .

Just Because You Loved Him

Okay, he's cute!

Our family was at the movies.

We had popcorn and treats.

Soft drinks.

And the quickest route to the bathroom mapped into our heads.

We were ready.

Erik was four and a little more than eager.

The theater darkened slowly.

Expectation grew.

They don't do this any more, but in times past, every step to the opening of a movie served to heighten the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Slowly lowered lights.

Projector springing to life.

Train of white light beamed on the still-closed curtains.

Said curtains slowly drawing back.

Pictures suddenly appearing.

Sound.

It was inspired.

Everyone in the theater was transfixed.

Hands which only recently had been scrabbling (Grandpa's word) through the popcorn hung suspended, unmoving.

The audience waited, barely breathing, for the first signs of Movie.

And then it finally came, restoring breath and life to those watching.

And they were truly prepared to be entertained. Even bewitched.

Our movie that night was ET. The story about the little Extra Terrestrial.

It began . . .

Cute little kids and family interaction.

ET was introduced.

Erik crawled into my lap and announced in what he fondly believed was a whisper, “I don't like him. He's scary!”

Not scary enough that he wanted to leave, however.

He watched as the children in the movie befriended the helpless, stranded little alien.

Adopted him.

Loved him.

(Spoiler alert . . .)

He cried when ET 'died'.

And cried, again, when he came back to life.

At the end of the movie, he sighed happily and followed the rest of us out of the theater.

On the way home, as usual, we talked about the film and Erik posed the question, “Why was ET so much cuter at the end of the movie than at the beginning?”

I stared at him. “He was just the same, sweetie.”

“No. He was cuter at the end.”

We thought about it. How could something that really never changed in looks get 'better' looking?

And then it hit me. “Because, at the end, you loved him, sweetie.”

“Oh. Right.”

And it was true. The ugly little alien remained ugly until we got to know him.

Loved him.

And then we saw his beauty.

Truth comes best from a four-year-old.

Wreaking Hammock

From this . . .

But everyone had one!

Well, almost everyone.

Okay, he had seen one.

And wanted it . . .

It was summertime on the ranch. The perfect season of cloudless blue skies, soft, sage-soaked breezes, warm, golden sunshine and scented, star-studded nights.

And what better way to enjoy one’s occasional leisure hours than by swinging – relaxed, semi-conscious and blissful - in one’s very own hammock.

To ten-year-old Mark, the concept seemed heaven-sent.

There was just one catch.

He didn’t possess a hammock.

And his parents did not appear to be forthcoming with one.

Sigh.

But Mark was a kid of the prairies. What he didn’t possess, he made.

Or made do.

His dad was changing out the old canvas on the binder. Hmmm . . .

Mark studied the discarded heap of coarse material carefully. Then he scooped it up and carted it to the trees. Specifically to the two tall trees he had picked as being the biggest and most hammock-support-like.

Sometime later, following a maximum of grunting, sweating and words sometimes thought but seldom said, Mark was looking at a brand new hammock.

His brand new hammock.

His pride of accomplishment over spilled its banks.

Handsprings anyone?

A party was called for.

A celebration.

A . . .

Mark would have to settle for talking his mother into allowing him to sleep out on his new acquisition.

It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her.

Happily, he gathered blankets and gear for his amazing outdoor adventure and in short order was perched atop his newest and best acquisition.

Snuggled down and shivering with delight, he waited for the sun to go down.

Then to come up again.

Which it did.

Mark blinked sleepily at the newly-risen sun. It was then he realized that his mouth felt . . . funny.

Sliding out of his hammock, he ran to the house and the nearest mirror.

Where he received a distinct shock. His upper lip was swollen like a balloon.

With no idea what could possibly have happened, he ran for his mother. Who took one look at his face and said, calmly, “Looks like a bug bit you, son.”

A bug bit him?! His face was three times its normal size and ‘a bug bit him’?!

Frantically, he raced back to the mirror and minutely studied his poor abused outside. How was he going to go through life looking like this?!

In case you're worried, I'll tell you that the swelling did go down. Fairly quickly in fact. With only one side effect. Mark now regarded hammocks with a degree of suspicion.

I mean – no one ever told him that they could come with uninvited and totally unexpected ‘guests’.

Overly friendly guests.

His was a hammock for one.

One.

Maybe someone should have explained that to the bug.

. . . to this.

Happy Pi(e) Day!

March 14.
3.14
Pi.
What better way to celebrate that with PIE?!
Okay, yes, I know, it's a bit of a reach, but that's what the Tolleys do.
Reach.
And eat pie.
My daughter and I spent much of yesterday making 58 of the little beauties.
You're all invited. Everyone's welcome.
See you later?

What better way to celebrate than with pie?!

Why Wake the Teacher...

My Dad was big on responsibility . . .

Like lots of dads.

And he tried to teach it to his kids . . .

Like lots of dads.

With more or less success . . .

Like lots of . . . you get the picture.

From my earliest memories, my Dad has been a finisher. Any task he was given or that he assigned himself was always completed with exactness.

It was a good example for us to follow.

Most of the time.

At one point, when I was little, Dad had been assigned to teach a class in our church congregation.

He took it very seriously.

Not only did it give him the opportunity to share his thoughts and beliefs with a group of young people, but it also provided a captive audience.

Something else he loved.

Moving on . . .

Every Sunday, one could find my Dad.

Perched on a too-small folding chair, expounding to his group of enthusiastic excited resigned youngsters.

He was always well-prepared and ready. Eager to share what he had learned.

But my Dad was also the county's only veterinarian.

At certain times of the year, he was the epitome (great word, right?) of busy.

Still, he would show up for his class on Sunday morning, ready to instruct . . .

It was spring.

Calving season.

Dad hadn't seen his bed for days.

Mom drove to church because he didn't trust his blurred vision and slow reflexes.

But he could still teach!

He collected his manual and scriptures and took his seat, facing his little congregation.

He began.

A few minutes later, he jumped.

And . . . woke himself up.

Not a good sign.

He peeked at his audience.

For the first time, ever, they were looking at him.

All of them.

And paying attention.

In fact, one could probably say they were riveted.

Dad felt his face grow hot.

He glanced down at his lesson.

What on earth had he been saying? He had no idea.

Dad taught us two things that day.

1. Neither wind, snow, sleet, or lack of sleep should keep anyone from carrying through with their responsibilities.
2. Lessons are much more interesting when the teacher is asleep.

Don't you dare fall asleep in my class! That's my job . . .

Goodbye, Old Lumpy

This mattress once was new and bright,

But now, it’s not so great.

For under sheets of pristine white

The sleeping spring awaits.

And though the bedding’s crisp and new

When I lay me down to sleep,

The mattress hidden from my view

Should be on a garbage heap.

It’s stained and tattered, bruised and torn,

Its springs are snapped and broken.

And I suffer there till dewey morn.

(Harsh words are often spoken!)

With back in spasm, to sleep I cling,

My dreams are few  . . . and hazy,

Some tears are shed, my hands - I wring.

I’m slowly going crazy.

Tonight, I’ll drink raspberry wine

A quite indulgent habit,

Then into my blankets, serpentine,

I’ll curl up like a rabbit.

‘Cause you know, the time has come, I’m tired

Of sleeping on a cactus.

I’ll, with the morn, at last retire

My meatloaf of a mattress.

My good friend, Delores of Under the Porch Light has done it again.

Presented us with our weekly conundrum of six words and/or phrases designed to challenge - or stupefy.

This week, we have:

Spasm, meatloaf, raspberry wine, clinging, serpentine, indulgent

-and/or-

Under sheets of pristine white

The sleeping spring awaits.

Delores, you're such a tease . . .

Shiny Black (Waterproof) Magic

It started out well.

But magical doesn’t always remain magical.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When Dad was three, his Mom and Dad came home from their monthly Lethbridge shopping trip with something special.

A pair of rubber boots just his size.

Boots that came without any pesky laces.

Overjoyed at being able to don them himself, he quickly did so. Then marched triumphantly around the house.

“Those are for walking in water,” his mother pointed out. Then she pointed out. “Outside.”

Excited at the prospect of being able to step in water without worrying about spoiling precious shoes, Dad hurried to comply.

He stood in the yard for a moment, glancing quickly about, looking for a currently boy-less puddle of water.

In the garden where his mother had been running the sprinkler, he found exactly what he sought. A shiny pool of water just the right size.

Eagerly, he made a dash for it.

For a second, he paused at the edge, letting the anticipation of the moment . . . erm . . . wash over him. Then he stepped into the water.

Oooooo!

He moved further. The water came a little higher on his new rubber boots.

For a time, he kept his eyes on the magical, world-altering foot gear as he splashed around. Then he stopped and watched the ripples slowly still. The pool become calm.

And it was then he noticed that there was a small, blond-haired boy staring back at him out of the water.

He shrieked and spun around, intent on finding either his mother or the nearest far-away place as quickly as possible.

But toddler feet, new boots, mud and water in combination don’t make for graceful, gazelle-like moves.

Hopelessly tangled up, Dad landed backside-first in the puddle. Where his amazing, magical, life-changing boots promptly filled with water.

A few minutes later a nearly hysterical, decidedly soggy, mud and tear-streaked boy appeared at the back door of the house – boots sloshing with water.

I don’t know what his Mom said. I expect something soothing – over the chuckles – as her small son poured out his story.

And his boots.

The Cure

The beautiful Maritime Heritage Centre in Campbell River, BC

Normally, I get sick on boats.

We went whale watching off the coast of Oregon.

It was a beautiful, sunny, calm day.

The sea was 'running smooth', as our captain informed us.

We scurried awkwardly aboard and took up places of advantage to watch for the great denizens of the deep.

The boat put out.

And I immediately turned green.

And stayed that way until we returned to the dock and I once more stood upon terra firma.

We tried once again at Cape Cod.

You can read that story here.

My Husby took me on a cruise on a beautiful tall ship:

We had every every luxury.

Gourmet meals.

Exceptional service.

Deluxe accommodation of every sort.

And I spent the entire week battling nausea.

Until I was standing once more on solid ground.

Sigh.

Recently, we toured the Maritime Heritage Centre in Campbell River, BC.

Took the excellent and informative tour with our guide, Fred.

Poked about through displays of things nautical.

Tried out Captain's wheels.

Tested the rope-tying.

Exclaimed over the ingenuity, creativity and artistic talents of Canada's seafaring people.

And finally clambered all over the only known example of a wooden seiner in its original configuration still in existence, the BCP45.

And I do mean all over.

We wandered about the deck.

Peered into the now remarkably fish-free hold.

Took a turn at the helm.

Sat in the minute kitchen and heard 'fishing' stories.

Climbed down into the engine room and studied the behemoth that gave this tidy little ship power and electricity.

Stared askance (Ooh! Good word!) at the tiny bunking facilities that once were home to a crew of six.

And generally spent a wonderful hour, exploring.

And I realized, as I crossed the walkway back that I had just spent time on an ocean-going vessel and not once did I feel the least bit queasy.

It was a breakthrough!

And as long as every boat I get on is standing perfectly still on supports in the middle of a giant display room, my seasickness and I can permanently part ways.

Yep. Cured!

As you may remember it.

As it looks now...

Younger

Children of newly-weds.

I have a theory.

Holidays make you younger.

Let me explain . . .

My Husby and I were married early.

I was 20. He was 21.

We had our first baby just before our first anniversary.

Our second followed eighteen months later.

And our third two years after our second.

We were . . . busy.

It wasn't until our third son was eleven months old that we were able to take our first vacation.

Okay, it wasn't a real vacation.

It was a conference.

But it was in beautiful Halifax. One of the jewels of Canada's East coast.

And my Husby's ticket was paid for.

All we had to cover were my expenses.

That was as close to a vacation as we were going to get.

For three days, while Husby was at his various meetings, my baby and I spent our time in the comfortable hotel room.

Exploring the many sites of old Halifax.

Or eating.

On the final day of the conference, a gala banquet and ball had been planned.

The hotel supplied us with a baby-sitter.

And I was free to join my Husby for wonderful food and a table full of scintillating (Oooh! Good word!) company.

We ate and talked and laughed.

Partway through the evening, my Husby leaned close and said something to me.

I giggled and kissed his nose.

Then one of the women at the table sighed and said, “I just love newlyweds!”

I smiled at her.

And thought of my almost-one-year-old upstairs with the babysitter.

And my four and three-year-olds at home with gramma.

I had been married five years.

And spent much of that time either pregnant or nursing.

I felt ancient.

And this woman thought I was a newly-wed.

I could draw only one conclusion.

It was because I was on holiday.

It must have been.

Who needs surgery and/or creams to erase the years?

I know of something infinitely more fun.

Here's to holidays!

P.S. Red Skelton (Google it) agrees with me. He once said, when asked his age, "I'm 67 years old. I would be 68 but I lived for a year on Maui!"

Sisters

The morning sun shone through the great cage with the brightly-plumaged macaw perched alertly inside.

Norma was on her knees beneath, scraping with a long-handled shoehorn.

And muttering unintelligibly to herself.

I turned the page of my magazine as she emerged, still talking, “. . . fluff!”

 “And feathers!” I turned another page and glanced at her over my magazine. “Need I remind you that it was your idea to get the smelly old bird in the first place?”

She snorted as she straightened her glasses and glared at me.

I looked at her again. “Was that a snort?”

She suddenly found something very interesting in the pattern of the dining room wallpaper. “No.”

“It was! It was a snort!”

“Well, you called Reginald a smelly old bird!”

“Well, he is!” I dove back into my magazine.

She got to her feet and pushed her glasses up on her nose once more. “Of all the rude, inconsiderate . . .” Whatever else she had to say became muffled as she disappeared into the next room.

I sighed and turned another page. I had long since stopped seeing what was there. I was too interested in baiting my sister.

Soon, Norma was back, still talking. “. . . and you know that I thought he would be some nice cheerful company. And still, you . . .” She stopped and frowned. “Why did I go into the kitchen?”

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows.

She glanced down at her mass of seeds and shredded papers on the otherwise spotless floor. “Oh.” She disappeared once again. “I don’t understand . . .” Once more, her words became a mere thread of sound, muffled by the thick walls. This time, when she emerged, she was carrying the trash can. “. . . know that a bit of cheerful company is always pleasant. Especially when one’s only roommate is one’s little sister. One’s snarky little sister.”

Little sister. The phrase always conjured up the picture of a small child in pigtails. Not the octogenarian of reality. I grinned. “But that’s what makes me so nice,” I said.

She pushed her glasses up and glared at me again, then knelt and started scraping bits of paper and seeds into the garbage. “Nice? Well, I don’t know if I could use the term in describing you.” She got up again and, carrying the trash can, started toward the kitchen once more. “I always thought people who are nice were . . .” What she thought nice people were was again lost through the thick lath and plaster between us.

I turned another page and saw the brightly coloured picture of a woman afloat on a cloud with visions of cars, appliances and tropical locales floating in the air about her. A caption, written boldly below questioned: ‘What are your dreams?’

“. . . and dusters. Don’t forget that we need to take a pile of them with us when we go over to help clean!” Norma was back, still clutching the garbage can. And, inexplicably, a fork. She stopped in the doorway. “Oh. I forgot.” She turned and left, but was back a moment later without the trash can and fork, but carrying a large rag and a bucket of warm, soapy water. “Here, Reginald!” she cooed. “Let’s get things all nice and clean!”

The great bird moved to the side of his cage and looked down on her as she dropped to her knees, dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out carefully and started scrubbing. “Get you - all comfy - and nice . . .” her words took on a rhythm as she cleaned. Finally, satisfied, she dropped the rag into the water and stood up. “There.” She nodded in satisfaction. Leaning close to the bars, she made clicking noises with her tongue. “Who’s the pretty bird? Who’s my little gentleman?”

Reginald tipped his head to one side and regarded her. “Gentleman!” he repeated.

Norma smiled. “That’s right. It’s you!” She bustled off through the doorway.

Reginald looked over at me, then turned slightly, fluffed his feathers, and let go a large, wet glob of something disgusting.

It made a great splat on the still-damp floor.

I smiled and hid behind my magazine.

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light concocts a delightful challenge.

Words (or phrases) that her followers then have to weave into  . . . something.

This week's challenge: Dreams and dusters, Fluff and feathers.

What on earth to do with that?!

Slip on over to Delores' and see what the others have created . . .

Paradise Quashed

Ahh, Holidays. some are good. Some are . . .

Everyone has one.

At least once.

The trip from hell . . . umm . . . the terrible trip.

Ours began innocently enough. Organized, even.

We were going to repeat last year's dream trip to the west coast to visit my parents in Abbotsford, BC. But this year, we would continue out to Vancouver Island to go deep sea fishing with Uncle Bub.

We were . . . excited.

I had bought special toys and games for the kids to play on the way to keep them entertained.

Because the view of the Rocky Mountains out the window wouldn't be enough . . .

The car was packed with food and yummy things.

Our valiant little trailer was hooked on behind.

We were ready.

The trouble started about five hours in.

With a leaky hose.

Cars don't run well if they have a leaky hose.

We stopped in Prince George, BC, to try to get it fixed.

And found out that it was a strange-sized hose.

Of course.

A little duct tape later, we were back on the road. Sort of.

Grant kept having to stop to add water.

Oh, and let out whichever child was next in line in the 'upchuck olympics'.

I should point out here that my Mom was right. Looking out the window during a trip was infinately better than playing toys or games.

Little stomachs obviously don't like toys and games.

An important point.

Moving on . . .

We were able to make it another four hours.

More car trouble.

We decided to take a break in Hope, BC.

A beautiful spot. Actually where the movie 'Rambo – First Blood' was filmed.

We pulled into the campground and carefully looked over the map, choosing a little spot back in the trees.

Isolated and quiet.

Until the trains started coming through.

The first blew its whistle at midnight.

For a few unforgettable moments, we thought we had somehow, inadvertantly, set up our tent trailer right on the tracks.

We hadn't.

We had missed them by about six feet.

Trains in Canada are amazingly regular.

One sleepless night later, we were back on the road.

We limped into Abbotsford. And enjoyed a couple of days of much-needed bliss with my parents.

Then . . . that road again.

The ferry-ride was a little more expensive than we had anticipated.

But then, so was everything else.

We made it to the island.

Paradise.

For about half an hour.

Halfway to Uncle Bub's, the entire undercarriage of our faithful tent trailer gave way, skidding our little marvel along on its belly.

Grant pulled over and we surveyed the damage.

We had two choices.

Abandonment and despair and certain death.

My choice.

Or unhooking the trailer, driving to the nearest town and securing repairs.

My husband's.

Fortunately, we went with his.

One of the kids stayed with me guarding the trailer (because, someone might steal it . . . with no wheels . . . okay, it seemed to make sense at the time . . .) while Husby drove off with everyone else.

We managed to get our trailer fixed, but we were stuck there for two days while the shop made the needed parts to repair it.

And used up every dime of our vacation savings to do it.

Sigh.

Finally, two days late and several dollars short, we limped (remember the car) into Uncle Bub's.

Only to find that the ocean was too rough to go out.

We waited a further two days, scanning the water eagerly each morning.

But the ocean had plans of it's own.

And they didn't include us.

Finally, defeated, we headed home.

The trip back was more of the same. Balky car. Sick kids.

The weather was good.

I have never been so glad to see the lights of home in my life.

We were taught several things on that ill-fated trip.

1. Don't buy toys and games for your kids to play on a trip if everyone is prone to car-sickness.

2. Beautiful scenery doesn't make a cranky car drive better.

3. Always check the campground map carefully and ask the attendant if there are any 'un-noted' features one should be aware of.

4. Your trip will always cost at least 2.74 times what you have saved for it.

5. Stay home.

Fortunately, we learned none of them.