My Newest Book

I am way beyond excited!
My newest book, SnowMan, has been published!
The third volume in my Christmas series.
The sweetest story of all:

Driving a busload of happy, young scouters on rain-slick roads John Benjamin Frosst is faced suddenly with the unimaginable. In a fraction of a moment, he makes a decision, selflessly offering his life in exchange for the lives of innocents.

Now confronted with the knowledge that the comfortable existence he had expected is in tatters, Ben realizes that, instead of doing the serving he loves, he must now humbly receive it from others.

Hampered by this new reality, the fine man that is still Ben Frosst discovers the term ‘handicapped’ is only a starting point from which to find new ways to give and to help.

That service comes in many forms.

And, with enough love and support, anything is possible.

Diane Stringam Tolley’s newest Christmas novel is a charming, heart-warming story of sacrifice, love and the strength of family and community.                                                                                                                                     

Sometimes, life simply doesn’t turn out the way you plan.And that’s just fine.

You can order SnowMan now.
In plenty of time for Christmas! :)
Buy several. They'll make great gifts!
Order here!
Or, if you want to start reading immediately, here is the Kindle edition:
Snowman
And please pass the word . . .

Food Foraging

Admit it, they would fool anyone!

First, a little insight into the 'Diane' thought process . . .
But they look like peas!
They open, like peas.
And they have little pea-type things in them.
And if they look like peas, and open like peas and have little pea things in them, they must be peas.
I'm eating them . . .

The Anderson family lived in a great barn of a house at the very top of the hill in Milk River. It was my favourite place to visit. And to play.
Not only did my best friend, Kathy, live there, but there were lots of other kids to play with (12 in all) and they had this amazing house with an infinite number of rooms and hallways and balconies and little, hidden cupboards. We could play pretend for an entire day and never run out of spaces or scenarios.
And to make things even better, across the road on the north and east, was farmland. With barley crops taller than we were, ripening in the sun.
I should probably mention here that Milk River has produced at least three Barley Kings. An award given for producing the best that the barley world had to offer.
But to me, barley simply made an excellent hiding place.
Moving on . . .
Along the road, on the East, screening the Ellert farm from the Anderson's back yard, was a high hedge of caragana.
That, in late summer, was hung with thousands of . . . peas.
Well, it made sense to me.
We had been playing hard most of the day and it was nearly time to go home for supper.
We were hungry.
Kathy did the smart thing. She ran to her house to find food.
Her sister, Laurie, and I decided to forage for ourselves. After all, there were all of these peas that no one else was picking. We simply couldn't let them go to waste.
Have I mentioned that I love peas?
I grabbed a big one and opened it.
Huh. Well, they weren't quite the right colour, but they were approximately the right shape and size.
I ate one.
Yuck. Not great. Well, the next one will be better.
Okay, it wasn't.
Maybe the next one.
Okay, all of those were pretty much awful.
The next pod will be sweet and tasty.
Nope.
Well, maybe the next one.
And so it went.
I can't tell you how many of the awful things Laurie and I ate. It must have been quite a few. Because we certainly got sick.
I don't remember much about that part. Mostly because I was unconscious at the time.
Who knew that peas could do that?
But I learned my lesson which I would like to share with you.
Don't eat peas that grow, temptingly, on trees.
Stick to things like . . . buffalo beans.
Adult aspirin.
Dust bunnies.
Tried and tested by me!

Full House

By request.

Because the nest is still full . . .

The nest was clean

            And tidy, too.

There wasn’t much

            I had to do.

It stayed that way

            From dawn to dawn.

Had been like that

            Since the chicks had gone.

But it hadn’t always

            Been just so,

When chicks would come

            And chicks would go,

When clutter ruled

            When ‘mess’ was norm,

When noise began

            With the dewy morn.

I found myself,

            Each day, awash

In dirty dishes,

            Stinky socks.

Up to my knees

            In diapers, too

When days were full

            And the nest was, too.

When every evening

            Prayers were said,

And kisses, hugs

As they went to bed.

Then flopped, exhausted,

            In the chair,

And contemplated

            Life from there.

And though it seemed

            It’d never end.

Somehow it did,

As all things tend.

And the nest that never

            Took a bow,

Echoed with

            The silence now.

But then, one day

            The door swung wide,

And chicks and chicklets

            Stepped inside.

“We’re here to stay,

            If that’s okay.”

Once more, there’s action

            every day.

Once more I live

            With clutter, there,

And no bare spaces

            Anywhere.

And noise? Whoo-boy!

            You have to know,

That lungs’re the very first

            Things to grow.

The toys are spread

            From here to there.

And chicklets playing

            Everywhere.

And meals to make

            And clothes to mend

And schedules to

Draw and blend.

And, still, with all

            The noise and strain

And problems bouncing

            In my brain,

With things to do,

            And time to share,

And chicklets falling

            Down the stair.

That I would never

            Want at all,

The spotless house,

The quiet halls.

Exchange the action

            That resides

Or change the love

            That dwells inside.

I’ve learned you don’t need

            Silence, no.

When people come

            And people go.

There’s peace in every

            Busy day.

When chicks and chicklets

            Come your way.

With hugs and kisses

            You abound

And love is shining

            All around.

And never can your

            Life be dull,

‘Cause, once again

            The nest is full.

Bittermilk

Yummy deliciousness. Not.

Milk. That commodity touted as one of the world’s most perfect foods. So important to growing bones and teeth. Or so it was described in the 50’s.
Like other ranching families, the Stringams had their own milk production system.
Bossy.
Not an original name, but at least it gave her a slight distinctive edge over 53. And 175. And 92. And . . . you get the picture.
Bossy was gentle. Quiet. Dependable. Everything a milk cow should be. Her milk production was high. Higher than most dairy cows. For that reason, she had been a family fixture for many years.
She also had a problem. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Every morning Dad, or one of the hired men, would carry home a galvanized steel pail filled with warm, rich, frothy milk, compliments of Bossy. This milk was then poured through a straining cloth into another pail and ‘purified’, then poured into sterilized jars.
The jars of still-warm milk were distributed to the various households on the ranch. Bossy was truly a remarkable cow to fill the needs of so many.
In the evening, the same procedure was repeated, only the captured milk was poured through the separator and the resultant thick, rich cream used for such remarkable things as ice cream, cream puffs, pastries, and many other treats aptly designed to satisfy the sweet tooth of every child - and most of the adults - living there.
The milk from which the cream had been removed, or ‘blue’ (skim) milk was given to the pigs, who thought they were in heaven.
It was a prefect system. Not a drop wasted.
Then the milk . . . changed.
At first, Dad thought the cow had gotten into a patch of weeds. Not an unknown thing on any ranch. The result of such a change in diet usually reflected, quickly but briefly, in the milk.
Onions make for a really . . . interesting . . . milk flavour. But I digress . . .
For some time, the milk continued to taste strange. But the processes remained the same. The milk was distributed. Separated. Consumed.
Then the rebellions started. Small at first.
“Mom, this milk tastes icky (real word)!”
“You’re imagining things, dear. Drink it.”
“Mom, it stinks!”
“Drink!”
Then larger.
“Mom if I have to drink one more glass of that milk, I’m going to be sick!”
“You need the calcium! Now drink!”
Mom was not unaware that the milk was distinctly off. But she was very concerned about giving her growing family the nutrition they needed.
Occasionally, she would bring home a container of milk from the store.
Which disappeared. Magically.
And also coined another phrase. “I’m going to stop buying this milk! You kids just drink it!”
Ummmm . . .
Finally, Mom got to the point where, if anyone complained about the milk, she would taste it, smack her lips appreciatively and say, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
As time passed, she got more and more creative in trying to get the horrible stuff past our pre-adolescent taste buds. She put it into puddings. Soups. Desserts.
And still we whined.
Then that glorious day. Dad went out to milk . . . and found the cow dead.
Really dead.
Hardware disease. Not uncommon and distinctly nasty.
Poor Bossy.
Our celebrations could be heard in Lethbridge.
An autopsy revealed what the rest of us had suspected for three long years. That the cow had something seriously wrong.
She had, sometime while grazing, ingested a piece of metal and it had become lodged in her system, affecting her milk production. Eventually, it had worked its way through something important internally, and had been the cause of her death.
There was no grieving.
Dad bought a new cow. A healthy, young one. And the ‘milk distribution system’ resumed as though it had never been interrupted.
With one important change. Whenever any of us was given a glass of milk, we would sniff it suspiciously. Even forty-five years after the described events.
Old habits die hard.
Kind of like our cow.

There is a codicil.
Years later, when my family and I were attending my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my children and I performed a skit. They were seated around a picnic table and I poured each of them an imaginary glass of milk, which they then ‘drank’.
Clutching their throats, each then succumbed to the terrible poison that had been ingested. Gasping out their last breaths, one by one, they collapsed onto the grass beneath the table, twitched a few times, then lay still. I picked up one of the imaginary glasses, pretended to take a drink, smacked my lips and said, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
At which point my eldest brother leaped to his feet and shouted, “IT DID! IT TASTED THAT BAD!!!”
Spill this milk. Please.

Ranch Shoes

Blair and his first pair of shoes . . .

I bought myself a pair of shoes the other day. Very practical with a heavy sole and a solid leather upper.

Every once in a while I think I should consider a lighter pair – especially considering I live where it is very hot.  But this thought does not linger long. I have to have a solid pair of shoes.

Why?

Growing up on the ranch.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was a wee lad, my mother provided me with a vast array of foot wear.  I had a pair of flip flops, running shoes, rubber boots (gum boots to us but which some people call 'Irrigator Tony Lamas'), and cowboy boots.

First I tried my flip flops.  But I soon discovered that one could easily bruise one’s toe when walking across the graveled drive to the barn.  Plus the entire foot was exposed, inviting close contact with animal digestion products.

Ewww.

Flip flops were not desirable.

Next I tried my rubber boots. Hmm. Easy and quick to put on, plus they protected my toes from unwanted bruises and my feet from the aforementioned products of animal digestion abundantly scattered around the barn [even though we actively collected them and put them in the animal digestion products (manure) pile].  And rubber boots were great when it rained and I could walk across/through mud puddles.

An aside here: I did have to be careful in mud puddles because sometimes my boots stuck in the mud causing me to step out of said boot and into said mud with my foot.  Not a desirable plan.

However, I discovered that the most undesirable feature of gum boots was they offered little protection for my feet when I was around horses, who just happen to be very adept at picking up their feet and placing them on my foot with amazing and lightning-fast precision.

A thought: Missile guidance design engineers will never be able to craft a system that achieves the precise accuracy of a horse when they place their hoof on your foot, then, having nailed your foot, shift their weight from all their other hooves to the one that pinned your ……ahhhhhhhh ……..….. FOOT!

Also: I’m fairly certain the horse then says in horse talk to his friends, “Hey I nailed this poor little sucker this time!  Hey look at me, I can place all of my weight on the one hoof!  Bet you guys can’t do that.  Oh, hey look!  I think that his foot hurts so much he’s going to pass out!”

Moving on . . .

So gum boots were out. 

I finally determined that ultra-sturdy cowboy boots offered the best fortification.  My toes didn’t hurt near as much when the horse stepped on a foot that had been thus adorned.

Later I discovered work boots and that was even better.

But that is another story.

So please know that when I shop for shoes, I may look at the lighter, cooler one, but my toes tell me that they would rather be safe in something solid and sturdy.

Habits, unlike toes, are hard to break.

In the Ear

Or something similar...

It was a quiet afternoon at the Stringam Senior home in Lethbridge, Alberta.

Grampa was multi-tasking: reading the newspaper and keeping track of his small grandson, Dale.

Dale, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He had a grand new toy. A water pistol ‘guaranteed to provide your child with hours of safe, exciting fun’.

There was one draw-back.

To enjoy said hours of safe, exciting fun, one needed to have the ability to fill the gun with water.

Let’s face it. Without water, it was just a plain, old, boring shooter.

Sigh.

For some time, Dale had been doing his best. Pretending that this new toy did something other than look the part.

And that was when my Dad came onto the scene.

Grampa emerged from his newspaper long enough for cheerful greetings, a quick recap of the day’s notable events - ie. Where was mother and what are you doing here at home – and Dad was free to make his way to the kitchen.

There he found his small nephew struggling mightily to fill his new toy with the water that put the final guarantee on an afternoon of safe, exciting fun.

Always up for a bit of high-jinks, Dad obligingly helped out. Then, with a smile, he told his nephew to (and I quote) “Go and shoot Grandpa.”

Grinning gleefully, the little boy disappeared.

Dad lingered quietly in the kitchen.

Because that’s the best place to wait when there is going to be gun-play in the front room.

His patience was rewarded with the sound of little footsteps trotting across the floor, a pause and a large grunt from Grandpa.

“Euagh!”

Or something similar.

Dad crossed the dining room to witness the final result.

Dale, still with his gleeful grin and gun at the ready, was standing beside Grandpa’s chair.

Grandpa was wiping the side of his face with a shirtsleeve.

“Did he get you?” Dad asked the glaringly obvious question.

Grampa levelled a look at him. “Yes,” he said. “Right in the ear!”

Dad. Noted water-fighter extraordinaire.

Training up the new generation to excellence.

It’s a family thing.

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam on a more successful babysitting day.
With my eldest sister and brother.

Till We Meet Again

On May 28, 2015, we said good-bye.

We've told stories and laughed and cried.

Now we have the memories . . .

Post from June 15, 2014

Husband, father, rancher, veterinarian, brother, friend, uncle, cousin.

Jokester.

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.

At 89 years old, he is the last surviving sibling of a great progeny.

And he has made his mark in the world. (Oddly enough, his name is Mark. Apropos . . .)

He has served in numerous leadership roles in Church and community.

Been a voice for change in Provincial/Federal politics.

Lovingly supported his wife all her life and through her final illness.

Raised six kids, numerous grandkids and even more great-grandkids.
Built heritage clocks and other woodworking marvels.

Developed and refined his own award-winning genetic line of Hereford cattle.

Taught. Led. Supported. Pushed. Pulled. Guided. Built.

Worked.

But what do his progeny mostly remember this great man for?

His pranks.

Yep. Pranks.

This was the man who shaved his head into a ‘mohawk’ do, long before it was acceptable. And with red, curly hair, such a style was . . . noticeable.

Proof! Daddy's on the right...

Painted a large ‘48’ on the water tower at his Alma Mater in Guelph, Ontario.

Disassembled and re-assembled the headmaster’s car on the porch of the administration building.

Played the ‘wedding waltz’ when his youngest brother-in-law showed up with a girlfriend. And rigged a smoke bomb on the engine of said bother-in-law’s car at the end of that particular visit.

Served drinks in ‘dribble’ glasses.

Lit the bottom corner of a newspaper on fire when the reader was concentrating on reading the upper corner.

Used a syringe to squirt water through a nail hole, thus winning, once-and-for-all, the title of ‘water fighter extraordinaire’.

Also used a syringe to squirt skunk ‘essence’ through the keyholes of the 'Ag' students at Guelph Verterinary College. Can anyone say ‘stink’?

Floated a plastic ice cube with encased fly in guests’ drinks. 

Hid an unwrapped prophylactic in the headmaster's handkerchief, tucked into the man's tuxedo, to be revealed with notable results.

And other monkeyshines too numerous to mention here. But which will be the subjects of future posts . . .

The once-mighty rancher is frail now.

Still clear mentally, but moving slowly and with care.

And seldom venturing far from his comfortable chair and book shelf.

It would be painful to watch, if one were not buoyed by Dad’s own words. “I’ve had fun!”

Words followed by the familiar twinkle as he recounts past pranks.

And still looks forward to future ones.

During my last visit, a dear guest looked at her glass and said, “This isn’t one of those ‘dribble’ ones, is it?”

Daddy? Never change!

How I'll always remember him. Seated at his desk. Getting things done.
See you soon, Daddy!

Remembering

Remembering Dad.

This post is from from May, 2014

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

The best of times.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying.

Moving on . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. Not that I'm admitting anyway . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader.

I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line.

By whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation.

“Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much.

“Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant.

The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing.

Quiet talk and laughter around us.

Gentle chime of silverware on china.

Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu.

“Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match.

Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life.

Goodbye, Daddy

My Dad went home this morning at 3:20. Peacefully.

I know Mom was there and that, after more than a decade, they are finally together again.

He was - and is - the best Dad ever. 

I miss him already.

I hope you don't mind if I repost past stories of him for the next few days.

Remember this great man with me . . .

Mom and Dad.
Yes, they always dressed like that.

From June 6, 2011

Today is dedicated to Mark and Enes Stringam, my parents.

Mom and Dad were married 63 years ago today at the United Church in Brooks Alberta.

Reverend Dixon performed the ceremony, which was attended by family and friends.

But that was only the beginning.

The young couple immediately moved to the Stringam Ranch on the Alberta/Montana border.
Mom knew she was marrying the youngest son of a notable Southern Alberta ranching family. But what she didn't know, but quickly discovered, was that she had also married a clown. A joker. Tease. And all around goof.
The adventure had begun . . .

On their honeymoon, they chose to camp. Rustic. Earthy. Isolated.
All the perfect ingredients for a newly-married couple.
Then it rained.
And got cold.
Whatever clothing dad took off, mom put on.
Then they moved their tent into a nearby shelter, along with all of the other campers in the area.
Okay, so intimate, it wasn't.
Just at dawn, Dad, always an early riser, got up and made a beeline for the showers.
Mom awoke some time later to the loudly-belted strains of "'Cause some dirty dog put glue on the saddle!" (Still a family favorite.) Shaking her head, she turned over to complain to Dad about the rude person singing in the showers.
But Dad wasn't there.
It was about then that Mom realized just who was making all the noise.
And still she stayed married to him.

* * *

Once she was settled on the vast Stringam ranch, Mom quickly discovered that life wasn't so different from what she had known on the Berg Ranch near Brooks. There, she and her mother had the care and feeding of Mom's father and eight brothers.
Now, she had the similar responsibility for Dad (this new goofball husband), and six hired men.
It was a toss-up as to which group could eat more.
Fortunately, Mom soon proved that she was more than capable of satisfying any hungry person, or persons, who strayed into her kitchen.
She spent a lot of time in that kitchen.
And in her vast gardens, which supplied food for that kitchen.

* * *

There was a bell on the ranch.
A large bell, rung only at meal times and in case of dire emergency. A bell that could be heard, on clear days, at a distance of five miles.
Only authorized people were allowed to ring this bell.
And Mom wasn't, yet, authorized.
But she wanted to be.
The bell's cord draped temptingly through her kitchen window and over her sink. Teasing her with its proximity and, at the same time, its inaccessibility.
She glanced at it. Right there. Just a little pull. Only a tiny ring. No one would even notice . . .
Sigh.
Sometime later, while maneuvering a stack of dirty dishes towards the sink, she inadvertently caught the forbidden cord.
A loud 'clang' made her freeze instantly.
Oh-oh.
Moments later, the kitchen door burst open, revealing a very concerned Dad. "What is it? What's the matter?"
Mom looked at him, red-faced. "Nothing, dear. I just happened to catch the cord . . ."
"What's happened?" One of the hired men had come in just behind Dad.
"Is there a problem?" Someone hollered from the front door.
"Everyone okay in there?" Mom didn't even know where that voice came from.
Two more men bumped into those already assembled in the kitchen. "Someone need help?"
Mom could now hear the pounding of hoofs coming up the driveway.
Could she possibly just sink into the floor?
"False alarm, boys," Dad said, grinning at Mom's red face. "Let's get back to work."
The kitchen emptied out and Mom could hear Dad making explanations out in the yard.
Soon she was alone again.
Well, at least she knew that the bell worked. Sometimes a little excitement was a good thing.
She stared at the cord.

* * *

Dad spent a lot of time out riding. And when he wasn't riding, he was working somewhere in the barns or corrals. Or moving irrigation pipe. Or hauling hay or feed. Or doing one of the million or so things that went into ranching. And when he wasn't doing that, he was, as the area's only veterinarian, making vet calls.
To say that he was busy is a distinct understatement.
We kids saw him at mealtimes, or when we went out to the barnyard to get in his way . . . help, I mean.
Often, his duties would call him from the supper table and he wouldn't return until long after we were tucked in for the night.
He would quietly enter the house and tip-toe to his bedroom.
Then he would empty his pockets onto the carved-leather organizer on his dresser, before getting ready for bed. Coins, his jackknife, keys, instruments. Everything contained in those pockets would be dropped into the various different compartments.
They made a 'thumping' sound as they hit the leather. A soft but very distinct sound.
And it vibrated into every corner of the house.
Inevitably, I would wake to the sound of the creaking floor as Dad crept down the hall.
Then I would hear the tell-tale thump of his pockets' contents, hitting the organizer.
I would sigh happily and turn over.
Dad was home. All was well.

* * *

I don't know how they did it.
Mom and Dad had six children and numerous hired hands. Together, they still managed to organize and direct the various operations that went into running a ranch and household. Feeding, milking, planting, weeding, watering, harvesting, cleaning, sewing, repairing, overhauling, riding, fencing, driving, having babies, parenting, reading, cooking, canning, church responsibilities, veterinarian calls, Hereford club duties, neighborly visits and on and on and on. The only way they could have accomplished it all was to never sleep.
To say that I'm proud of them would be a vast understatement.
To say that I'm grateful, even more so.
Today is their day.
I love them.

A Very Short Trip

Ready for town . . .

We lived 70 miles from the nearest city. Thus, a 'trip to town' was more of an event.
Inevitably, I got car sick. Not a pleasant thing for anyone stuck in the vehicle with me.
And, being four, I sometimes confused being excited with being sick.
Let me explain . . .
On the ranch, the most exciting thing our Dad could say was, “Everyone get in the car, we've got to go to the town!”
It was equivalent to being told we were going to Disneyland.
All right, I admit it, sophisticated world travellers, we weren't.
We would then pile into the car (And I do mean 'pile'. Seatbelts hadn't been invented yet.) and head up the gravel road towards the great white lights of Lethbridge. The trip took an hour and a half. Or more, when Diane was one of the passengers.
Invariably, at some point between the ranch and the first town, Milk River, a small voice would pipe up from the back seat, “I'm sick!”
The car would slide quickly to the side of the road. Mom's door would fly open. Diane would pop magically to the top of the heap of humanity in the back seat and . . .
I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
Every trip.
Every time.
But then . . . something changed.
The little voice would speak up sooner.
And sooner.
Until the car wouldn't even have made it out of the driveway before the fateful words were heard.
Mom and Dad tried to puzzle it out. Why was Diane getting sick so quickly after getting into the car?
They must have figured something because they certainly came up with an effective solution.
On that fateful day, Dad announced that he had to make a trip into town.
With much talk and laughter, we kids piled (that word again) into the car.
Dad got in. His door closed.
A pause while he found the key and jammed it into the starter.
He turned the key.
The motor roared to life.
He reached for the gear shift.
“I'm sick!”
His hand hovered there for a split second. Then dropped down and shut off the key.
“Then, you'd better stay at home with your Mom.”
What?! No! I stared at him, horrified.
“Go on. Get out.”
The tears started.
I should mention here that my Dad is a real push-over for tears.
Any tears.
Except, obviously when his small daughter needs to be taught a lesson.
“Diane. Get out.”
“Daaaadddyyy!”
Suddenly, Mom was there, opening the car door.
“Nooooo!”
She carried me, by now crying bitterly into the house and set me down on a kitchen chair.
Over my sobs, I heard the car start up and pull out of the driveway.
They were really going to leave me! It was more than my little four-year-old heart could handle.
I lept off the chair, ran to my parent's room and crawled under the bed.
Now, I should point out here that, never before or since have I crawled under my parent's bed. Maybe because, never before or since has anything been that traumatic. But I digress . . .
I lay under there, sobbing for hours. (Or more probably five minutes – it's all the same when you're four.)
Suddenly, a banana appeared at the side of the bed. A fresh banana, with the peel still on, but just slightly opened to reveal the yumminess underneath.
It stayed there, just temptingly out of reach.
I looked at it. I love bananas.
And it really looked good.
I slid towards it. Just a little.
It stayed there.
A little more.
I could almost reach it.
More.
There! I could touch it.
And I was out from under the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
I looked up. Mom was sitting there on the floor, holding the banana.
I nodded and crawled into her lap. She held the banana for me to take a bite, then handed the rest to me and snuggled me tightly.
I munched my way through the treat, still sniffing occasionally.
Mom waited until I was done.
“Was it good?”
Nod. Sniff.
“Would you like something else?”
Nod.
She stood up, taking me with her and carried me into the kitchen.
Where she fed me a cookie.
Then another.
Why does everything look better on a full tummy?
Then she sat down. “Diane, in the car, were you really sick?”
I stopped chewing and looked at my cookie. Then I stared at her, wide-eyed.
“I don't think you were, were you?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“So why did you say you were?”
I looked at the cookie again, my mind working frantically.
“Were you excited about going to town?”
I nodded.
“Okay, I want you to think about this . . .”
Great. Thinking. My forte. Not.
“When we go in the car, I don't want you to say that you're sick. Unless you really are sick.”
I turned that over in my mind. I nodded.
“Can you remember that?”
Another nod. I started chewing again.
Mom smiled and stood up. “Good.”
And, oddly enough, that was all it took.
Never again did I pipe up from the back seat for anything less than genuine illness.
Or the potty, which Mom kept under her car seat.
But that is a whole other story.

Coyote Un-Sightings

Ray Tolley, my father-in-law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a man of integrity. Honest, forthright and industrious, he worked the land on his farm near Fort Macleod, Alberta with skill and patience, gleaning a good crop from the dry land every year but one until his death at the age of seventy.

FIL was a man of faith. Of deep thinking and wisdom.

He was also a man with a wicked sense of humour. Because, let’s face it, how could one have endured the hours he did sitting on a tractor, without one?

From using a ruler to measure ability (which was inevitably ‘nigh onto nothing’), to posing the conundrum, ‘which would you rather be – dumber than you look or look dumber than you are?’ to which the forgone conclusion was always, ‘How could you?’ (Yeah. Try to get out of that one . . .), FIL personified the image of weather-beaten farmer, tanned of face, hard of muscle and clever of tongue.

He had many sayings, most gleaned from family, neighbours and reading, but my personal favourite was when he’d come home and dramatically exclaim to his grandkids that, “I almost saw a coyote today!”

Inevitably, one or more of the younger kids who hadn’t heard this one before would get caught up in the conversation. “Really, Grandpa?” Then the reality of the statement would sink in. “Ummm . . . how do you almost see a coyote?”

The slow grin. The uh-oh look. The sure sign that someone had taken the bait and was about to be ‘had’.

Then, the punch line.

“If he’d been there, I’d have seen him!”

FIL left us over thirty years ago and, if he were still alive would be well past 100. But when one of his sayings crops up in a conversation, we know he’ll never truly be gone.

There it is!

Getting to Know You

The children’s organization in our church begins when the children are three.

Watching those little ones come into the room for the first time to join the older kids is quite a treat.

They look so tiny.

Enough background . . .

In an effort to get to know each of the children, a survey was distributed at the beginning of the year.

These are the answers my three-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter called GD3) supplied.

Primary Spotlight 2015

I came down to__[earth]__ from my Father above.
My home has __[five]__ people and __[1]__ animals to love.
I like to __[go on doughnut dates]__ with my family.
If you see someone with __[hazel]__ eyes and __[curly brown]__ hair, it could be me.
I like learning about __[the alphabet]__ when I go to school.
When I grow up, I want to be __[four years old]__ (I think that would be cool)
In my spare time, I think __[watching movies with mom]__ is fun.
And I like to eat __[cucumbers and marshmallows]__ when the day is done.
I like the color __[pink, purple and green]__ when I am making art.
On Sunday __[Sunbeams]__ is the class I go to
Singing __[Popcorn Popping]__ is one of my favorite things to do
On __[October 11]__ you can say “Happy Birthday” to me
Thanks for getting to know me!

Each week, one child is selected and the answers are read out one by one.

Then the other children in the room try to guess who the ‘spotlight’ is.

When GD3’s was read, things went something like this:

Teacher: I came down to earth from my Father above.

GD3 (loudly): Hey! I came down to earth too!

Teacher: My home has five people and one animal to love.

GD3 (more loudly): Hey! That’s the same as me!

Teacher: I like to go on doughnut dates with my family.

GD3 (louder yet): Hey! Doughnut dates! That’s what we do!

Teacher: If you see someone with hazel eyes and curly brown hair, it could be me.

GD3: Wow! I have hazel eyes! Look!

I think you can see where this is heading . . .

For every answer read, GD3 was deafeningly ecstatic that someone else liked/did/had the same things she did.

By the time the survey was done, every other person in the room had their hand up.

The first time, ever, that that had happened.

Primary. The most entertaining part of Sunday Church attendance.

P.S. I can see a future in theatre, but I do hope GD3 never tries to go into politics.