Little Ears

It hadn’t been a good day.

For the normally organized and industrious mother of the family, a frustrating and unproductive day.

Impatience was bubbling perilously close to the surface.

She dropped a plate.

Which then shattered into a quadrillion pieces.

Spreading itself over the entire kitchen floor.

It was at that moment that the frustration finally broke through.

“Oh, damn it all anyway!”

Her husband looked up from the paper he was reading at the dining room table and blinked in surprise.

Maybe I should explain that this really wasn’t her usual form of expression.

Back to my story . . .

He glanced meaningfully at the little three-year-old girl playing happily on the floor at his feet, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. “Ummm . . .” he said, “. . . darn it?! Dang it?!”

The little girl looked up. “No, Daddy,” she said. “Damn it!”

Little ears.

Always turned on when you least want them to be.

90

It's my Dad's 90th birthday today!

We're off to celebrate.

But first, a memory from eighty years ago exactly . . .

Grandpa Stringam and his seven sons. Dad is the little guy in the front.

My Grandma Stringam had a great sense of humour.

It didn’t emerge often.

But when it did . . .

It was my Dad’s 10^th birthday.

Preparations had been ongoing in the family kitchen for most of the day and for Dad, forbidden the hallowed hall, the anticipation was palpable.

Finally, he was called in and settled in the place of honour at the family table.

The meal commenced.

Amid much laughter and badinage, it continued.

Finished.

And the much-anticipated cake was finally brought out.

It was one of Grandma Stringam’s triumphs. A great, tall, beautifully-frosted tower of perfection.

Grandma set it in front of Dad and, for the first time in his life, handed him the knife.

Ooh, the excitement! The responsibility! The trepidation . . .

Dad carefully poked the blade of the knife into the mound of frosting. Slid it down to the surface of the cake itself. Watched as the blade bit into the soft deliciousness.

And it was there that things came to a sudden, inexplicable halt.

Literally.

The knife simply wouldn’t go any further.

It  . . . stopped.

Dad pushed a bit harder. No progress.

Cakes were harder to cut than he had anticipated. He exerted all the pressure of his ten-year-old arm.

Nothing.

His mother, standing beside him, said, “Maybe you need to try another knife.” She duly handed him a long knife with a serrated edge.

Dad set the first one down and reached for the second.

Tentatively, he poked the blade through the frosting and into the cake. Again the knife stopped just past the surface.

This time, though, as he sawed the blade back toward himself, something unexpected came with it.

A tiny strand of something white and . . . fluffy.

Dad reached for it. Rolled it between his fingers.

Cotton.

He frowned. What was cotton doing in his cake?

He sawed the blade once more. More cotton.

He glanced suspiciously at his mother.

Who was grinning hugely.

Oh.

Grandma had baked his perfect cake, then cut the top off, hollowed it out and filled it with cotton. Carefully reassembling it, she had frosted it and set it before her brand-new ten-year-old.

Now, laughing heartily, she went back into the kitchen and returned with the inside. Just as carefully frosted and decorated.

Fortunately, this one cut – and ate – easily.

Ten-year-old birthdays.

So exciting. So memorable.

For so many reasons . . .

P.S. Happy Birthday, Daddy! I love you!

Changing Channels

My granddaughter (hereinafter known as Little One, or LO, for short) has the occasional use of her mother’s Ipad.

On long trips or when she has been particularly active and needs some quiet time.

Said Ipad has several movies installed. Good movies. Deemed by her mother and/or me to be suitable for a child her age.

Those of us closeted with her regularly hear most of The Princess and the Frog, Wreck It Ralph, Frozen, Big Hero Six, Toy Story (1,2,and 3), Up, WallE, Brave, Monsters, Inc., and many others.

And I do mean ‘most of’.

Because LO will watch a movie closely from the opening credits through to . . . well, let me illustrate.

On a recent trip to take care of errands, she was absorbed in the colourful antics of a little, dark-haired girl with ‘race car driver’ in her genetic code; and a large, lovable troll of a man whose job was to wreck things. The movie was rolling rapidly toward its usual conclusion.

Okay, I admit it, I was absorbed as well.

And, quite suddenly, I was transported to the Deep South as Louisiana jazz filled the car.

I looked at her. “Why did you change it?”

She lifted her head and said, matter-of-factly, “It was getting scary.”

“Oh.” I said nothing more and let myself get carried into the current story: Young woman with dreams and grit and young man with charm and a penchant to idleness on a course toward things life-changing and dark and . . .

“Oooh. Scary.” And once again the program changed. This time to a couple of current enemies and future best friends on their first day of college.

See? ‘Most of’.

But she was happily engrossed and I have a strict policy of ‘never disturb a happily engrossed child’, so I left her alone.

That evening, Husby and I were watching the news just before turning in for the night. And I can think of nothing more likely to induce nightmares than a recap of yet another day in our often-scary global situation.

And, just for a moment, I found myself wishing I could just change the program.

Okay, I know that nothing is accomplished if one simply turns away from unpleasant situations or tasks.

And that if the good stop trying, the bad have free rein.

But, just for a time I wished I could do what LO does. Turn to another program when things get scary. Or better yet, make the scary things disappear entirely.

The children obviously have the right idea.

Prairie Cannon

Oh, the treasures one can discover on a ranch first settled by a Colonel from the Boer War . . .

The Stringam ranch lies in a crook of the south fork of the Milk River, near the Alberta/Montana border. A spot of ground dominated by towering cliffs, a large hill and a (usually) meandering stream. To Colonel Mackie, the man who first settled it, a patch of waving grass and peace after a season of bloody turmoil in Southern Africa.

Years later, it became home to the Stringams, a family of eleven.

Of which my Dad was the youngest.

Enough background . . .

A favourite diversion during the hot summer days for a young boy growing up on the prairies was a swim in the ‘milky’ water of the river. And that’s what he and a friend were doing on the day they discovered the cannon.

Yes. You hear me correctly. A cannon.

One minute, they were splashing around happily. The next, staring at a long chunk of iron sticking out of the water at the edge of the stream.

Oh, they weren’t entirely sure that that was what they had discovered. In fact, after they lugged the thirty-five pounds of iron home, no one could agree with their excited assumption. Most sided with Grampa, who stated that it must have been something used to drill wells.

I mean, how on earth would cannon from the Boer war end up in the middle of the Alberta prairies?

The interesting artifact ended up sitting next to the garage. Neatly nestled with the rest of the ‘we-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it’ junk.

For some time, it sat there.

Then Grampa, intent on installing a new door in the garage, decided it was just what he needed as a counterweight. Wired up and tied, it worked perfectly.

And then someone happened onto the ranch who knew about firearms and things ‘army’. Seeing Grampa’s counterweight, he became very excited.

It was then the family discovered that the remarkable hunk of iron was indeed, as Dad and his friend had first thought, a cannon.

The man had the cannon cut down and proceeded to examine it eagerly. And closely. He found, after he had cleaned out the silt, that it still contained pieces of metal and black powder.

All ready for business.

Yes. The Stringams had a loaded cannon serving as a door prop.

There’s something you don’t see every day . . .

The friend took the cannon home, cleaned it up properly and constructed a base for it.

It served as a feature in his home for a number of years, but finally found its way back to my Dad.

Who donated it to The Fort Museum in Fort Macleod, Alberta.

Where it sits to this day.

A little piece of history toted from Southern Africa to Southern Alberta.

In business...

Colonel Mackie

The original Ranch House. Really had nothing to do with this story, but I like it.

The Heir's Hairs

Don't let the
boy-scout outfit fool you.

By request: The further adventures of Uncle and Nephew . . .

Influencing the young and innocent. Even in families, it's not always a good thing . . .

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children. If anyone asks him if he is related to Owen (his eldest brother) he tells them: Distantly. He's at one end of the family and I'm at the other.

When my Dad was nine, said eldest brother lived close by with his family. A wife and their eldest son, two-year-old Brian.
Brian adored his much older uncle.
He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.
Usually a good thing.
Occasionally . . . not.
My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.
Brian loved to go along.
Just because.
It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.
All was well.
One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.
She combed the unruly locks into submission.
"Ouch!" Brian  said.
"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."
"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"
"Almost through."
"Ouch!"
Brian glared at his mom. "If you do that again, I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"
"I'm going to say 'Sunny Beach'."
"What?" she asked again.
"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.
Light dawned an her mouth popped open in horror."You mean 'Son of a . . .'" She gripped his small shoulder. "Where did you hear that?!"
He stared at her, not understanding her panic.
She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"
"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"
Two things resulted from that haircut.
1.  Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2.  "Unca Mark' received a bistering lecture on language and its proper uses.
Oh! And . . .
3.  I just realized that, when it came to cursing and getting after . . . erm . . . someone (see here), my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on.

Saying No to the Cookie

Cookie Monsters

Cookies. 
The ultimate in snack foods. 
That perfect balance of sugars, grains, fats, and deliciousness.
And the most unique and perfect forum for getting small, semi-disguised chunks of chocolate into your mouth.
Chocolate that you can savor, but dismiss as insignificant when tallying your calorie count at day's end.
Or at least I can.
I love cookies.
And I make the mistake of baking them on a regular basis.
Call me a glutton for punishment.
Or just a glutton.
My six children have been raised on my cookies. Mostly with some form of chocolate as a noteworthy ingredient. 
They love those small handfuls of pure perfection as much as I do.

Bliss.
But life, and reality, tend to sneak up on you and smack you soundly, just when you aren't paying attention. And so it was with my cookie consumption.
I was going merrily along, enjoying my cookie-filled life until, one day, I drug my favorite and freshly-laundered jeans out of the drawer . . . and couldn't do them up.
Now I know this has happened to many of us, and certainly is nothing new, but it was a first time for me.
And it made me . . . unhappy.
To make matters worse, which we all try to do far too often, I decided to step on the scale.

I should note here, that the person who invented the scale, and non-stretchy clothes, was a nasty, evil individual.
But I digress . . .
I had to make some changes.
Or buy a new wardrobe.
Finances won. Losing weight was in order. And the first thing to go was my mostly-cookie diet.
I baked one last batch . . . and started eating them as though they constituted my last meal on earth.
Finally, heroically, I put the lid on the still-half-full cookie jar and left the room.
But they . . . called to me.
Cookies do that.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I answered that call.
I went back into the kitchen and discovered that my beloved cookie jar . . . was empty.
At first, dismay.
Then, relief.
"Who ate all the cookies?"
From somewhere in the house, my daughter, Tiana's voice, "Tristan!"
Then my son Tristan's voice, "Sorry!"
Me. "Thank you Tristan! I just couldn't leave the silly things alone!"
A pause, then my daughter's voice again, "Tiana!"
The cookie doesn't fall far from the tree.

EmBAREassed

I like to swim.

It’s the one exercise during which nothing hurts.

And at my age, that’s an enormous plus.

I don’t go as often as I used to, but still try to make it three times a week.

And work hard while I’m there.

It’s a matter of efficiency . . .

I also have a rather distinctive swimming suit. Made it myself.

It’s . . . modest. Something really, really necessary as I age and my body slowly succumbs to gravity and certain parts need more and more control to keep them . . . controlled.

A few days ago, I was working my hardest. Plowing through the water like a determined hippo. (And those things can move! Just FYI.)

I noticed the lifeguard, occasionally. Guarding life.

When I finished and showered, and was donning footwear and packing up in the front foyer, I noticed said lifeguard coming toward me at flank speed.

He obviously had something to say.

To me.

Immediately, my mind leapt to different scenarios: He wanted to hire me to teach swimming. He was so amazed at my prowess that he wanted to sign me up for the upcoming swim meet – senior’s class. He wanted me to take the job as coach and trainer for the local swim team. He . . .

“Um, Ma’am? Are you the one who was wearing the blue-striped swimsuit?”

He wanted me to make him one of my special, discloses nothing, swimsuits! I smiled. “Yes?”

“You have a big hole in the backside of your suit.”
Oh.

Hay!

Farm kids have all the fun.

Except when they don’t.

Maybe I should explain.

In my day, hay on the farm was cut by machine. Bound into bales – also by machine. Gathered into neat stacks in the hay loft or hay shed.

And left there smelling warm and fragrant.

For some reason, it always made me think of baled sunshine.

We kids would spend hours lugging said bales around and constructing intricate forts and ‘hidy-holes’.

Many a day was passed dreaming dreams from inside a dark, sweet-smelling stronghold.

Heaven.

In my Dad’s day, hay on the farm was cut by horse-powered mower. Gathered using a horse-drawn rake. Moved using a great hay sling. And piled into massive mounds of loose, fragrant wonderfulness.

Sheds on either side of the large barn housed the farm animals. But much of the barn itself was given over to an immense pile of newly-gathered hay. A perfect place for a young boy to spend hours working . . . on his imagination.

Building a fort was quite a different prospect in these circumstances. All one had to do was put one’s head against the wall of the hay pile and . . . push. The soft, loose hay gave way and one could burrow through much like Bugs Bunny on his way to Miami Beach (See here).

Ten-year-old Dad made a positive warren of the place.

When a boy finds something really, really fun, he generally wants to share it with a friend or companion.

Or, barring either of those, a young nephew will serve almost as well.

Enter four-year-old Brian, son of Dad’s eldest brother. Sweet, malleable, totally trusting, eager. A perfect companion for an adventurous devil-may-care farm kid.

Dad drew him into the barn and showed the small boy how to push his way into the hay. Brian thought it was greatest trick ever and started in with enthusiasm.

And that’s when the whole plan came to grief.

Because little Brian suffered from asthma and was allergic to the timothy in the hay.

Oops.

Within seconds, his eyes were swollen nearly shut, he was coughing and sneezing and – well, let’s just say it - was one thoroughly miserable little adventurer.

Fortunately Dad recognized that all was not as it should be and managed to drag his companion from the hay and hurry him to his mother where Brian was soon made comfortable somewhere far, far from the nasty old timothy.

Dad felt bad. Bad enough that he never again invited Brian back to his magical little hay-strewn world in the barn.

But not bad enough that he didn’t get him into trouble in other ways.

Remind me to tell you about it . .  .

Putting the 'Bat' in Bathtime

This

plus this

                                                                                                            

equals this.

Bathtime.

For the youngest member of a family of 11 and in the year 1931, this meant much heating of water at the kitchen stove.

Hauling of said water to the washroom.

Filling of the washtub.

Then relaxing in deliciously hot water.

The best part of the week for my dad.

On this particular occasion, though, Dad’s bathtime would include something unexpected.

And definitely unwanted.

A visitor.

As he was sitting back, enjoying his few moments of bliss, something small flew in through the open transom over the door.

It did a couple of circuits around the room as the little boy in the bathtub watched, wide-eyed.

Finally, it lit on the sheer curtains on the small window high up on the outside wall and folded its wings.

Resolving into something small . . . and furry.

A bat.

The two regarded each other for a few breathless moments.

Then, eyes glued to his visitor, dad did the “quickest washing job of my life”, wrapped a towel around his little, naked body and found the nearest far-away place.

One of his older brothers went back in to take care of the unusual – and totally unwanted – bathtime visitor, and all was well.

From then on, however, when Dad took his bath, his preparations included filling the tub.

And closing the transom.

Then keeping his eyes carefully trained upward as he performed a quick wash.

And got out of the room.

Hmmm.

I wonder if the introduction of a bat into bathtime would shorten the length of some of my teenagers’ showers.

Just a thought . . .

Signed

Two small boys were patients in the same hospital room.

One of them was my Dad, Mark.

Age: eight.

He had been admitted to hospital for the sole purpose of having his appendix removed. He wasn’t particularly uncomfortable at the time, but the doctor had so decreed.

And removed it must be.

The day of his surgery arrived.

In those days, a folder containing a chart and/or other pertinent information was hung at the foot of every bed in the hospital. Doctor’s orders and observations were recorded there. Nurse’s actions and observations, ditto.

As of that morning, Mark’s folder contained a singly-worded sign.

“FASTING”.

Yikes. Mark, the active and usually well-fed small boy was being denied food.

Don’t you wonder why it’s called fasting?

At no other interval does time move more slowly.

Just a thought . . .

Mark knew what the word meant. But his appetite wasn’t about to be denied that easily.

Grabbing a pen, he made a tiny, little change.

Then, satisfied with his ingenuity, he sat back on his bed and waited for lunch to arrive.

Promptly at noon, an attendant appeared with Mark’s roommate’s tray.

She set it down and started back toward the doorway.

Mark sat up. “Wait! Where’s mine?”

She looked at him. “You’re fasting.”

“No, I’m not. Look!” Mark slid down to the end of the bed and held up his chart.

The woman took it and peered closely.

At the ‘FASTING’ sign.

The one which now read ‘FeASTING’.

She levelled a look at the grinning boy, then turned on one squeaky rubber-soled white shoe and left.

Mark didn’t get his lunch and he duly reported to the operation theatre for his little procedure.

Without anyone acknowledging his inventiveness.

Sigh.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Some days later, his mother received the bill for his hospital stay.

Itemized carefully in the list was a charge for $3.25 for ‘One Sign’.

Oops.

I guess someone noticed after all . . . 

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.