Fairly Fraudulent Fair

The criminals are seated second row: Second and fifth from the left.
And they look so innocent . . .

I was so excited.
My cousin/pal, Jody and I were going to have a fair.
During afternoon recess at school. A real fair, with games and prizes.
We had saved our allowances. We had . . . ummm . . . permission . . .
Maybe I should tell you the whole story . . .
Jody was staying with me at the ranch for a few days while her parents were away on holiday.
We had conceived a marvelous scheme while we were supposed to be sleeping.
Just before my dad threatened to separate us for the night.
For the record, I don't know why they are called 'sleep overs'. Nothing resembling sleeping ever takes place. But I digress . . .
Jody and I had come up with this amazing idea. To hold a fair. With different contests and featuring real, bona-fide prizes of toys or candy. It was the best plan ever! Stupendous! The school would be talking about it for years!
Our plans grew and hatched more plans.
Barnum and Bailey would be put to shame! (I didn't know who they were, but whenever a circus was talked about, they were mentioned, so they must be important.)
There was only one hitch in our marvellous plan.
We were eight years old, in grade three, and needed permission to go down town to purchase the necessary candy and prizes.
And my mom refused to give us the necessary legal document.
Pffff . . .
We even provided the statement, already spelled out. All she had to do was sign.
She refused.
Sigh.
For sure, Barnum and Bailey didn't have such complications . . .
We were still puzzling over this difficulty when we got on the bus and sat in front of one of the grade 12 girls. We talked and talked, but no solutions were forthcoming.
The girl leaned over the seat and asked one of us to retrieve a pen she had dropped. I complied, still talking.
She reached out her hand to take the pen.
I paused, looking at her. At her . . . fully-grown hand.
That knew how to write in script.
That couldn't help but fool our teacher.
I smiled.
Later, we skipped happily off the bus, content in the knowledge that the two of us were smarter than our teacher. Than anyone. Than the whole world.
We duly presented the paper, properly signed, to Mrs. Ratcliff. She scanned it.
“Huh. I thought Jody's mom wasn't due home for a few more days.”
“Oh, she's back!” we assured her.
She nodded.
We bounced happily from the room. We had succeeded.
Our fair was underway.
We ran all the way downtown and had a marvelous time blowing our combined $.75 on penny candies and trinkets.
Then, clutching our paper bags of magic, we ran all the way back.
Our fair was a success. We conducted games and races and magnanimously handed out prizes, happily certain we were idolized by every child on the playground.
That everyone wished they were us.
Then, just as the bell rang, Kathy ran up to tell us that we were wanted.
In the principal's office.
We looked at each other. What could possibly have gone wrong? Our plan had been so fool proof.
Slowly, we trudged towards our doom.
“Jody, is your mother home?” The principal was staring at us from under bushy, frowning brows.
I stared at my feet, frozen to the spot.
Jody, just slightly braver than me, managed to shake her head.
“So, where did this note come from?” He waved our masterpiece.
“Ummm . . . Mom signed it before she left?”
The principal shook his head. “I don't think so.”
Sigh. We were caught.
“A girl on Diane's bus signed it.”
“Ah.”
I peeped up at him. Was that a good 'ah'? A 'very clever girls' ah?
He was still frowning.
Obviously not.
I looked at the closet door behind his chair.
Where I knew the strap was kept.
If he made one step towards that closet, I was going to head for the hills.
And I knew where those hills were . . .
He folded his hands together.
“Do you girls know what you did wrong?”
We nodded.
“Do you?”
We nodded again, with a little less certainty.
“This is what is called 'fraud'.”
Fraud? I'd never heard of the word.
“It's like lying.”
Ah. Lying. Now that I knew a lot about . . . from watching my siblings . . . not because I . . . oh, never mind.
“Deceiving someone.”
Another long word I'd never heard of.
“Lying.”
Okay, back on familiar ground.
“You got someone else to sign your mom's name. That is lying. Fraud.”
But she was an adult! my mind screamed. She was big. She could write script.
“You can't have someone else sign in place of your parent unless they are your guardian. Was this girl on the bus your guardian?”
Guardian? I was at sea again, and for someone who had never seen the sea, that was pretty lost. Ummm . . . I'm going to go with 'no'?
“No.”
I was right!
“So what you did was wrong.”
Rats!
Again, my eyes were drawn to that closet door. Not the strap! Not the strap!
He leaned back in his chair.
“I'm going to have to speak to your parents about this.”
I stared at him. Parents? Maybe the strap would be a good idea.
“They will have to take it up with you.”
I thought of my dad finding out. The strap was looking better and better.
“Now I want you to go back to your class and think about this.”
We nodded.
“And never . . . ever . . . bring in a permission form signed by anyone but your parents. And never . . .” his eyes drilled through us . . . “lie to anyone again.”
Again we nodded. Wide-eyed.
Then we escaped.
We were right. The school talked about our fair for weeks afterwards.
They, and we, just didn't remember it for the right reasons.

Age Perks

I’m old.

He’s a little older.

We’re happy.

When we married, nearly 39 years ago, I looked into his hazel eyes and thought, “All I want to do is grow old with you.”

It’s happened.

We’ve had triumphs: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work accomplishments. Good health. Peace and freedom.

We’ve had tragedies: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work setbacks. Health problems. Disharmony and shackles.

But we’ve shouldered on. Through good times and bad.

Just in case you are thinking, “Oh, my word, is she going to wade through an exposition of My Wonderful Life?” let me reassure you.

You’re not far wrong.

Because this is my usual long-winded way of getting to a story . . .

I’ve hit the wonderyears that we affectionately call mid-life.

Where nothing in my physical self seems to behave the way it used to.

The way it should.

My nights are spent vacillating between shedding and/or cocooning in my blankets. At times, both. As some parts freeze and others parboil.

Sigh.

Last night, I discovered one of the joys of growing older with someone else.

You have to know that Husby and I used to leap happily into bed without doing much more than donning PJs, scrubbing teeth and saying prayers.

Now, our evening routine is a litany of age-defying/life-augmenting practices. Ending with my careful application of wrinkle-reducing face creams and his donning of his sleep-apnea mask.

I must admit – we are quite a sight. Darth Vader meets Slime-Faced girl.

I see a horror movie in there somewhere.

Back to my story . . .

Last night, the-play-that-has-consumed-our-lives-since-January opened (more about that in a later post) and I was particularly keyed up.

Awake at 3 AM. Music from the play blasting through my mind. Blankets on. Blankets off. Turn to one side. Turn to the other. Blankets on. Blankets off. Face up. Face down.

You’ve totally been there.

Meanwhile, Husby was peacefully snoozing. His machine breathing quietly.

He rolled over to face me, and my poor overheated self was suddenly enveloped in a soft, cooling breeze.

I looked up at the window, but it was as it had been. Not really doing its part to alleviate anyone’s (ie. my) discomfort.

I turned back to Husby. Then I held out a hand in front of his face.

Ah! The lovely little breeze was emanating from the exhaust port in his mask.

I laid back, smiling, and let the cool air get in its wondrous work.

Soon, I was comfortable and cocooned once more.

You have to know that growing older definitely has its drawbacks.

But growing older with someone else yields definite perks.

Plan accordingly.

Fools and Children

Me and everyone on the ranch who was smarter than me.
(except Dad who was taking the picture. . .)

I was nine! I made it! I could do anything!I was supergirl!
As you may have guessed, nine years old was an important time in my family.
The time when one was moved up to the next level of responsibility.
Now I could do all of the cool things that my older brothers and sister could do. Things I'd been waiting years to do.
Wonderful 'adult' things like . . . mowing the lawn.
Odd, isn't it, how exciting and attractive something looks when someone else is doing it?
And how not-exciting and not-attractive it is when suddenly, it is your responsibility?
By the second time, the thrill of mowing our acres and acres of lawn had begun to pall.
In fact, I hated it.
Maybe if there were such a thing as a riding mower, I could have retained my enthusiasm.
But the fact was that we only had a small, electric mower. And you had to push that little cretin every square foot of the way.
Oh, and watch out for the cord, but I am getting ahead of myself.
My instructions were very specific. Always start at or near the plug-in. Then work away from it in rows.
And rows and rows and rows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorry! Got caught up in the memory . . .
Needless to say, my mind didn't stay focused on what I was doing.
In fact, it rather wandered. A bit.
One bright, sunny summer afternoon, when my horse and I could have been a small dot on the horizon, I was, once more, pushing that wretched mower.
But it wasn't all bad. Part of me - the thinking part - was off riding. Suddenly, I was rudely made aware of just why we are supposed to keep our minds at least in the vicinity of what we are doing.

The mower . . . quit.
Just like that.
Dead.
There were some tell-tale sparks in the lawn, if one cared to look, but other than that, the stupid thing had just suddenly become lifeless.
I narrowed my eyes and began my investigation.
Aha! A cord. That just . . . ended. Snapped off as though it had been . . . cut. I searched around for the other end. There it was! Lying in the grass! Now how do you suppose . . .
The truth hit me like one of Dad's yearling bulls. I had done the unspeakable. The unpardonable.
I HAD MOWED THE CORD.
Soon, if Dad found out, I was going to be as dead as this mower.
I had to fix it.
I grabbed the two ends. Maybe if I just put them back together, they will magically join . . .
I sometimes wonder just how many guardian angels I wore out during my growing up years on the ranch. I think I went through them at an alarming rate.
But they were good at what they did.
There was an enormous explosion and a First-of-July amount of sparklers.
I dropped those two ends like they were hot.
Which they probably were.
And headed for my dad.
He just shook his head and followed me to the scene of the crime. Then he unplugged the live end of the cord (funny that I didn't think of that) and with a few quick strokes and some electrician's tape, mended everything.
Good as new.
I sat there in the un-mown grass and watched him work.
He got to his feet. "Okay, Diane, back to work. And watch the cord a bit more carefully."
I stared up at him.
After that traumatic experience he was going to make me get 'back on the horse'? (Something I would loved to have done, in reality.)
He smiled and turned away.
He was! He actually meant for me to start mowing again!
I looked at the couple of swaths I had completed.
Then at the millions of swaths left to do.
I reached out and tentatively flipped the switch. My trusty little cohort hummed into life.
Sigh.
I started pushing.
Okay. Careful of the cord. Always keep it between you and the plug-in. Be watchful. Be wary . . .
Oooh! Look at that hill. Soon my pony and I will be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And yet another guardian angel sighs as he is called into service.

Not Your Average Grandma

It really wasn’t meant to be an insult.

I thought she’d be flattered.

I was wrong.

My eldest daughter, then aged 22 months, and I were manoeuvring

our stroller through the doctor’s waiting room.

It wasn’t crowded, but a few people had decided to stand, rather than sit.

A very few.

Okay, one woman was standing in the aisle apparently trying to decide if she was staying or leaving.

That’s okay with me; I’ve done the same thing more times than I care to count.

After a moment, she realized that we were behind her, waiting to pass.

“Excuse me!” she said and moved to one side.

“No worries!” I said.

Because that’s what I always say. It’s not original, I know, but it gets the job done.

Moving on . . .

At that moment, my aforementioned daughter looked up and saw this woman. Her little face broke into a sunshine sort of smile. “Gramma!” she crowed, holding out little, soft arms.

The woman stared at her, aghast.

It’s an expressive word – aghast.

It describes the look on the well-bred, perfectly-groomed face . . . ummm . . . perfectly

Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more shocked.

My own smile . . . slipped a bit.

The woman’s head drew back and her upper lip curled slightly. She took in a large, indignant breath. “I AM NOT A GRANDMA!” she said.

Loudly.

Very.

Everyone in the office turned to look at us.

I felt my face grow hot.

Trying to salvage something from the unfortunate exchange, I stuttered out an, “I’m so sorry. She has a very pretty young grandma!”

I didn’t know what else to say.

The woman gave an indignant sniff and marched out of the waiting room.

“Gramma!” my daughter wailed, arms still reaching.

Another sniff as the door was firmly shut.

Crimson with embarrassment, I sank into the nearest chair and bent over my daughter.

To the woman in the doctor’s office: You really were lovely and beautifully dressed and groomed. I’m not quite sure why my daughter’s affectionate greeting hurt you so badly. Although I’m fairly certain you were very near to my own mother in years, I don’t think it was a comment on your age. It must have been your resemblance to one of the kindest, most beautiful women I’ve ever known.

I wish you could have taken it for the extraordinary compliment it was . . .

Bubble Trouble

My brother and me.
I'm the criminal on the right.

Okay. I confess. I stole something. Once.

I have no defense. I did it. I'm guilty.
I was four. Is that an excuse . . .?
Mom and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping. A very exciting time for both of us. 
Well, for me, at any rate. 
We had driven in from the ranch in the family's late-model Chrysler (Dad always drove a Chrysler), which was an adventure in itself.There were no seatbelts. They hadn't been invented yet. Apparently no one had yet seen the wisdom in fastening small, easily-launched bodies into a safe place while hurtling down sketchy gravel roads at 60 miles per hour in a two ton vehicle.
My mom used to hold out her arm when she applied the brakes.
I was safe.
We pulled up to the curb across the street from the grocery store and proceeded inside.
The check-out desk, usually manned by a woman, stood in the center of the store, surrounded by the magical world of the grocery.
Directly behind the desk was a bank of cubicles, in which one could find the most amazing things of all . . . the penny candies.
It was there that I would park myself, after the cart got too full to hold me.
I admit it was difficult to leave the treasures that my mom had been adding to the cart. Treasures like canned peas. Baked beans. Tinned salmon.
The all-important Spam.
But I found comfort in just looking at the myriad possibilities behind that main desk.
A whole family of chocolate. Straws of sweet, flavoured powder. Licorice and JuJubes formed into the most amazing shapes. Wax figures which could be nipped and sucked dry of their wonderful, sweet juices. Lick-M-Aid. Lollipops. Suckers. Bubble gum in two sizes of colourful balls. The choices were truly endless to a four-year-old.
And my mom's purse offered the gateway to this bounty.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran to her. "Mom? Can I have a bubblegum?"
"Not today, dear."
What? What had she said? Had she really used those three words? I stared at her, aghast. Did she realize that her small utterance had shattered my hopes and dreams. Had barred me forever from the bliss that all of that candy represented?

My life was officially over.

At four.
It couldn't be.
"But Moooom!"
"Not today, dear. I don't want you to be eating any candy before dinner."
What kind of excuse was that?
"Just one?" I turned. My eye was caught by the bin full of bright orange bubble gums. The big ones with the little, rough bumps on the surface.
And the total deliciousness inside.
I pointed. "Just a bubble gum? I'll eat my dinner. I promise."
A smile from my long-suffering parent. "No, dear. Not today."
Huh. I pouted for a moment. Then smiled. Well, we'll just see about that.
Mom brought her purchases to the desk and she and the woman behind it were distracted as they added and bagged.
I would just take one gum. No one would ever know. My hand crept into the bin of orange bubble gums, wrapped itself around one tempting morsel and popped it into my mouth.
Ha. Mission accomplished.
I began the wonderfully arduous task of breaking down the hard, candy shell.
Mom finished paying for her groceries and was following the young boy carrying them to our car.
I fell in happily behind her.
The boy set the bags in the trunk, smiled at my mom and me and left.
Mom opened the door for me and I jumped inside. Still chewing.
She got in. And took a deep breath.
Then her head whipped around and she skewered me with a gimlet gaze. "Diane! What do I smell?!"
I froze. How did she know? The gum was in my mouth, completely hidden. I decided then. Moms were definitely magic.
Clever prevarication was in order.
"Ummm. Nothing."
"Diane, did you steal a bubblegum?"
I stared at her. Moms could see through cheeks!
"No."
"Diane!"
My head drooped. "Yes."
She sighed. "Diane, you know that stealing is wrong, don't you."
I lifted my head. Tears were already starting to pool. "Yes."
"What should we do about it?"
Tears started to slide down my cheeks. "I don't know."
Mom opened her purse and reached inside. Then she handed me a penny. "You will have to go back inside and pay for it."
I stared at her in horror. Go inside? Face my victim? Confess my guilt?
"I - I don't want to."
"But you have to."
I sat there, my four-year-old brain working frantically to find another solution.
Any other solution.
Finally, I sighed. Mom was right. I would have to go inside and pay for my ill-gotten bubblegum. I opened the door and got out.
For a moment, I stood there on the curb, wiping my cheeks and staring across the street at the grocery store. Which, incidentally, had assumed gigantic proportions since Mom and I had left.
Suddenly the orange deliciousness in my mouth didn't taste very good. I spit it out into the gutter and looked down at it. It still had bits of the hard candy shell embedded in the softer gum. I hadn't even broken it in.
I sighed and looked at Mom through the window of the car.
She nodded towards the store.
I started across the widest street ever known to man, feet dragging.

At long last, I reached the store and went up the steps.

The door jingled happily. The woman behind the desk turned and looked at me. I approached slowly and tried twice to produce a voice. Finally, "I forgot to pay for a bubblegum," I said, sliding the penny across the counter towards her.
She nodded and looked at me gravely.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "You know it's not right to steal, don't you?"
I nodded.
"Don't do it again."
I shook my head.
"Thank-you for being honest."
Another nod and I was free. I ran back to the car.
Mom didn't lecture. She knew I had learned my lesson.
I still love gum balls. Especially the orange ones with the little rough bumps. But every time I chew one, I remember being four years old.
And learning about being honest.

Learning More Than Learning

Back when kids had it all.

It was my day to help out in one of my grandsons’ classes.

A few hours spent with a group of 6-year-olds.

Inquisitive. Enthusiastic. Happy.

What could be more fun?

The teacher was bustling about the classroom as the kids gradually assembled. As they took off coats. Stowed backpacks and gear.

The bell rang.

“Class!”

The noise slowly subsided as the kids found their seats.

“Class!” she said again.

A few more sat down. Looked at her.

“Everyone’s eyes up here!”

This time, she managed to collect all but one.

“EVERYONE!”

Finally, all eyes were on her.

She proceeded with the day’s instruction.

I was suddenly remembering my own school days.

We assembled in an older building. Dark hallways. Tall ceilings. The smell of decades of chalk dust and wood varnish in the air. Creaky wood floors.

Our teacher, a larger woman, would always approach the classroom from the direction of the staff room. Because of the floors, she could be heard the moment she stepped from the stairwell.

Instantly, there was a commotion as kids found their seats and set out textbook and scribbler.

Because woe be unto anyone who didn’t have their book open and their mind obviously ready to learn when our teacher appeared in the doorway. We didn’t know exactly what would happen, but we knew it would be something earth-shattering. Even the class clown knew to sit down and shut up.

A few days ago, I asked my Dad what he did when he was in school. His reply? “We were expected to be sitting quietly with our hands folded together when the teacher appeared.”

Huh.

Today’s kids have everything necessary to learning.

Why do I feel they are missing something?

A Few Sweet Words

For a few glorious months I exercised horses at the racetrack.

It was a perk to dating a young man whose uncle kept a string of racers.

Picture it: Cool early morning of a summer day. The sky is lightening to a cloudless blue overhead while the horizon glows a clear apricot.

The smell of fresh hay and grain and horses and manure as men and women begin hauling feed and cleaning stalls. Grunted early morning greetings as humans pass.

The metallic ring of tack as saddles and bridles are inspected and fitted.

The snort of a horse. Stamp of hoof.

The track, groomed and dampened by a couple of passes of the rakes and water truck, gives off its own distinctive smells of wet earth and sawdust.

The morning of a perfect race day.

There is a whole production before, during and after the actual running of a horse race. A coordinated and extensive ballet of people and horses, all moving in and amongst each other. Grooming. Inspecting. Saddling. Wrapping. And each with the same goal.

The finish line . . .

It was my duty as second horse-exerciser to also do that most mundane of jobs, the grooming.

And I loved it.

To run the brushes over the sleek coats. To pause and bury one’s face in the neck of one’s horse and just . . . breathe.

Paradise for the horse-lover.

Which I was.

I remember the first horse I readied for a race.

A three-year-old clear bay filly whose complex, hyphenated name escapes me, but who I called, ‘Lemon-Go-Lightly’ after a popular hair-lightener of the day.

Well, it made sense at the time . . .

She was slated for the two o’clock race and I had half an hour to get her ready for it.

I spent most of that time brushing.

And talking.

Yes. Talking.

I told her how beautiful she was. And how fast she would run. And how she’d leave all of the other old nags in her dust. I whispered into her ears and wrapped my arms around her neck and whispered into that as well.

Over and over, I told her how amazing she was and that she’d be running the best race of her life in just a few minutes.

Then I handed her over to the tack team with the words, “Today, she’s going to win!” They stared at me, then proceeded to saddle and wrap and lead my pretty baby out to her rider.

I started grooming another horse, but listened to the familiar sounds of a race being run.

I really wasn’t surprised when she came back - a winner by more than three lengths.

I knew she could do it.

After all, we had discussed it.

What I didn’t expect was her owner following her to the barn.

He stared at me for a moment. Then, “How did you know she was going to win?”

It was my turn to stare.

He went on. “This was her fourth race and she’s never placed above ‘show’. How did you know?”

I should mention here that race people are, quite often, a little superstitious . . .

I blinked. “We discussed it,” I said finally.

“Discussed it?”

“Yeah. While I was grooming her. I told her that she was the world’s fastest runner and that she was my pretty girl and that she was going to win.”

He frowned thoughtfully. Then turned and left.

I shrugged and went on with my tasks.

But later, I noticed that all of his groomers were talking to their horses. Whispering inanities into their ears. Praising them.
Labelling them winners.

P.S. I hear it works on people, too.

Age is Relative

Our good friend, Shirley, was having a wonderful visit with family.

She and her granddaughters had played games.

Shopped.

Explored.

Read stories.

Conquered the slide at the park.

Ate.

And, occasionally, relaxed.

It was during this last that certain . . . revelations . . . were ummm . . . revealed.

Grandma and granddaughters were sitting quietly, cuddling.

The youngest was exploring Grandma’s hand. She compared sizes. Traced the veins and lines. Noted any spots. Then the little fingers worked their way up Grandma’s arm.

The flesh was traced and pushed one way and then the other.

Finally, the little girl had worked her way up to Grandma’s elbow. There, she paused. Finally, the small fingers gripped the skin covering that joint; pulled it out, stretched it.

Jiggled it.

“Gee, Grandma,” the little girl said. “You’re sure a lot older than when I first knew you!”

Feeling young and care-free?

Like the world is your oyster and nothing and no one can take it from you?

Go and visit your grandkids.

They’ll bring back reality.

Sigh.

A Man of His Word

Dad and I were on our way into the big city.

Just the two of us.

Something that happened all too rarely.

We had been chatting happily about the errands that needed to be run and the places we had to go.

The highway was smooth and relatively traffic-and-pothole-free.

We were travelling along at a good clip.

Suddenly in the middle of an amusing anecdote that had to do with newlyweds and cooking mishaps, Dad stopped talking.

I looked over at him.

He was frowning and peering ahead.

I followed his gaze.

There, square in the middle of our lane was a slow-moving vehicle.

I say ‘vehicle’, but I hope you take the word as judiciously as I use it.

The, umm, means-of-transportation was indiscriminate of colour. I think that a rusty red was predominate. The actual seams and closures had long since lost any hope of fitting and fastening and mostly were strung together with baling wire. A cloud of smoke trailed behind in happy blue puffs.  It creaked and groaned with every turn of the patched and bare tires and from the noise the engine was making, a muffler was certainly part of a faint and distant past.

It was - in a word - decrepit.

I was astonished that it could still function. As more than a planter.

What had caught Dad’s attention was the speed at which it was travelling.

Slow.

Okay, it would have had to speed up to be classified as ‘slow’.

Picture a speed slower than slow. But just a hair faster than ‘stop’.

That’s it.

We pulled up behind it and waited to round a small hill so we could see to pass.

“Who’s that?” I asked Dad.

He told me. Obviously someone he knew well.

“But why’s he going so slow?”

Dad looked at the truck. “I don’t think he dares go any faster.”

“Maybe he should get himself something newer.”

“Well, there’s a story,” Dad said. “He bought that truck new in about 1948 and drove it for many years.”

I looked back at it. “I can see that.”

“When it became obvious that he needed something newer, he went and priced out the later models and discovered that they had increased remarkably in price.”

“Okay.”

“And then and there, he stated that, until truck prices came down, he was never buying a new one.” He nodded toward the decrepit vehicle. “I guess we can say he is a man of his word.”

I nodded.

Sometimes being true to your word is a good thing.

And sometimes . . .

Pie With Friends

Home economics for girls and shop class for boys.

The 1960s pigeonhole view of the world.

In Milk River, where I grew up, it was a tradition long set.

And trying to buck convention didn’t work.

Trust me, I tried . . .

They had the wondrous world of power tools to explore as they overhauled engines and built furniture.

We learned the proper use of a skillet, how to clean anything and sewing our sleeves in backwards. (Okay, they really didn’t teach that last – that’s just how I did it.)

Mostly, it was all right.

I mean, I like cooking and cleaning and sewing.

But when you do it at home a lot, there’s really not much excitement to doing it at school, too. Right?

Well, there wasn’t for me.

Every day, when we reported to our Home-Ec lab, it was not without a longing glance at the line of boys heading in the opposite direction.

In Fort Macleod, where Husby grew up, it was the same. The girls went one way.

And the boys the other. But that wasn’t the end of their perks.

Not only did they get to fool around with potentially life-threatening implements, they also got to eat whatever the girls had whipped up.

Can anyone spell n.o.t. f.a.i.r.?

Sigh.

One such day stands out in Husby’s mind . . .

The aromas wafting from the kitchens down the hall had been teasing the young men all afternoon. Causing them to be even less attentive than usual.

I know that’s hard to fathom but stay with me.

Just as they were threatening to fall to the cold cement in a hunger-induced swoon, the door opened and manna from Heaven walked in.

Fine. It was several girls carrying slices of pie.

Sheesh.

There was only one thing wrong.

There weren’t enough pieces of pie to go around.

Rather than start what was sure to be a battle to the death, the teacher announced that each boy could have exactly half of one of the slices.

Numbly, they agreed.

Husby and his good friend, Donny MacLean were handed one of the plates.

Husby, ever the gentleman, told his friend to eat half and then give the rest to him.

Donny nodded happily and Husby turned away, intent on whatever he had been doing when their class had been interrupted.

A few moments later, Donny nudged Husby with the plate.

It was finally his turn.

Eagerly, he reached for his share of the treat. And found himself staring at a gaping, empty shell. He turned and glared at his ‘friend’.

“I saved you half,” Donny said, shrugging.

Pie with friends. Brings a whole new meaning to ‘taking your half out of the middle’ . . .

Colf

April.

Time to think about finals.

Ugh.

Dad's class.

In April, 1947, the veterinarian students at the Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph, Ontario, were hitting the books in preparation for their yearend torture exercise in futility final exams.

But, for some of them, the usual angst and stress were missing.

Due largely to a stick and a ball.

Yes. Dad has been telling stories again . . .

These young men had discovered golf.

Okay, I know that it isn’t always the most relaxing of games.

In fact, I’ve seen golf clubs bent into pretzels by a frustrated player.

But it was exactly what these young men needed.

On the morning of their first test, they reported to the examination hall.

Spent a couple of hours cudgelling their brains.

And left drained.

One of them glanced at the golf course, which immediately bordered the school.

“Hey!” he said.

Dad looked.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

If he was considering throwing himself on his bed and waving bye-bye to consciousness for a couple of hours, then yes. If he was thinking . . .

“Let’s go take in a game of golf!”

Then, no.

“Seriously. Playing nine holes would relax us for a couple of hours and we’ll be fresher to get back to our studies!”

Dad frowned. Maybe it was sign of how fried his brain was - it almost made sense. But he was too tired. He opened his mouth to tell them he was heading back to the dorm. What came out was, “Okay.”

Yep. Tired.

They actually had a great time.

And his friend had been right. They were more prepared to tackle the books afterward.

And the next day.

And the next.

For the entire nine days of final exams.

I wish I could tell you that there was an unforeseen benefit to all of the golfing. Maybe that one or more of them discovered an affinity to the game. Or even went on to become a star in golf heaven.

I’d be wrong.

Mostly they spent their time trying to get their score under 100.

And that was counting only the strokes that connected . . .

So many skills and talents are discovered at college.

Most of them fun.

Not all of them bankable.

More Than Just Lemonade

It’s looking like spring here in Edmonton.

I don’t want to say that too loudly, just in case the powers-that-be are listening . . .

But I just saw the first sign. A lemonade stand. A brother and sister. Little budding entrepreneurs smiling hopefully at everyone who passed.

They were doing a brisk business.

My son, who lives on the West coast, also saw his first stand of the season, though it’s probably not as unique in early April on Vancouver Island as it is here in the frozen north.

Moving on . . .

Said son was lamenting because he wasn’t carrying cash when he spotted the stand and thus wasn’t able to offer any monetary support.

“I hate to not give them anything,” he told me.

I was surprised, not because he isn’t known for his generosity, but because he was so upset about it.

Then he explained:

It turns out that he had been operating a lemonade stand in his distant youth. I’m sure I had something to do with it, though the details are a lot fuzzier for me than for him.

Picture it, if you will. Little eight-year-old dwarfed by the table before him, flanked by paper cups, too-large pitcher of sparkling yellow juice but armed with a big grin and tons of enthusiasm. A large, hand-printed card is prominently displayed. ‘Lemonade: 25¢’.

A construction worker approached and asked for a glass. It was carefully poured and handed over. The man produced a five-dollar bill and passed it to the small boy, who promptly produced his little cash box and started to count.

“Never mind,” the man said. “Keep the change.” Smiling, he left.

Leaving his little server staring at the bill, an incredulous – but happy – smile now covering his face.

That small boy never forgot that act of generosity.

And now, every chance he gets, he pays it forward.

 Lemonade 25¢

37

It was supposed to be:

A) Easy.

B) Efficient.

C) Convenient.

It was:

D) None of the above.

Maybe you’d like to hear about it . . .

When he was eight years old, my Dad’s daily chore was the gathering of the eggs.

The household used many.

And the extras were sold.

It was an important job for a small boy and Dad took it seriously.

Well, most of the time.

One Christmas, after church services, the family was invited over to Dad’s Aunt’s house for Christmas dinner.

The food was plentiful.

The cousins, ditto.

Dad was in small boy heaven, playing.

Five o’clock rolled around. Egg gathering time.

And no, chickens don’t get the Sabbath off . . .

“Mark,” his mother said. “Time to go home and gather the eggs.”

Dad wheedled a bit, knowing that his chances of getting out of the chore were slim to nil. Finally, the two of them agreed that, if he was quick, he could gather the eggs and return for a bit more play time.

Happily, Dad put on his coat and headed out into the frosty air.

Now, I should explain here that his mother was an accomplished seamstress.

And yes, this will be relevant . . .

She had taken one of Dad’s Dad’s old suits and made it smaller for her youngest son. It fit perfectly.

All that remained the original size of the original suit were the pockets.

But Dad never complained. More room to hide/store things.

It was this suit Dad was wearing as he charged out the door.

I should also explain that the chicken coop was nestled snugly half-way between his Aunt’s house and his home.

What could be more efficient that to gather the eggs on his way to his house.

Only one problem needed to be addressed. He had nothing to carry the eggs in.

Then, with small-boy ingenuity, the solution popped into his head.

He had oversized pockets! And pants pockets for any extras.

Genius!

Dad proceeded to stuff the fresh, warm eggs into every available space. By the time he had finished, he had 37 of the little moneymakers somewhere about his person.

Carefully, he waddled home, excited at the prospect of delivering his cargo and returning to his play.

He opened the kitchen door.

The warm air rolled out to envelop him as he stepped forward onto the linoleum.

Disaster rolled out with it.

Frosty shoes refused to grip the shining clean and very warm floor.

Both feet shot out from under him.

There was nowhere to go but down.

Picture it if you will.

37 eggs.

Stuffed into various compartments.

None of which were intended for egg transport.

One egg survived.

One.

Yeah, his mother was fairly disgusted as well.

Let’s just say he never made it back to play with cousins that night.

Fortune Cookie Truth

Excuse me, Sir . . .

Census.

That process, every few years, when the Government gets to perform ‘roll call’.

So to speak.

In 1981, Mom applied for, and was awarded, the job of Census supervisor.

The job entailed working closely with a team of women who quickly became her friends.

The work was, for the most part, fairly mundane, as each of the women went door-to-door, collecting information on who lived there.

There were a few ‘hold-outs’.

And one or two downright nasties.

But the group managed to get the work done.

Noses counted.

And reports filled out.

It was time to celebrate.

Mom suggested that they all go out for a commemorative Chinese Food dinner.

Reservations were made.

The women gathered.

Eating and hilarity ensued. Mostly at my Mom’s expense as her co-workers proceeded to ‘roast’ their good-natured and long-suffering boss who had become such a good friend.

The end of the meal approached and fortune cookies were duly delivered to their table.

Each person seated there selected one.

Then they made a game of standing and reading their fortune aloud.

Finally, it was Mom’s turn.

She got to her feet.

There was a breathless pause. (Hey, it’s my story; I’ll tell it how I want . . .)

Mom grinned. “Oh, this is entirely appropriate,” she said. “It’s time to make new friends.”

Who says you can’t find truth in a fortune cookie?

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.