'PG' Playgrounds

The small, green roof?
Blacksmith Shop aka Playground

To one side of the barnyard, squatting amid neatly-stacked barrels and other ranch paraphernalia, stood our blacksmith shop.
Constructed of timbers and rough-sawn boards, it consisted of one large room with small windows on two sides and large double doors on the third.
Benches lined the walls, littered with the tools and detritus of thousands of past projects.
In one corner, silently dominating the scene, stood the solid stone forge. I had no idea what it was for. I had never seen it in action, though the mounds of ashes and the soot of countless fires which still marked it, and the old horseshoes and other iron hung about the rafters surrounding it, should have borne mute testimony to its purpose.
I was four.
No explanation needed . . . or understood.
The rest of the room was dotted with more modern behemoth machines. Machines with incomprehensible names like: drill press, belt-sander, and air compressor, and which stood about, mutely awaiting the command to perform.
The blacksmith shop was an icon representing bygone days. A testament to the permanence of man's creativity and ingenuity.
And a great place to play though it was, we were informed, dangerous, and not to be entered unless accompanied by Dad or some other adult..
Case in point - my little brother, Blair, then two, was with my dad, who was using the air compressor. Blair was watching the wheel of the compressor go around. He tried to touch it and nipped the very end off his tiny finger. It healed. The lesson remained.
But I digress . . .
One could crawl around the dirt floor beneath the drill press and find the little curlicues that had been shaved off some piece of metal and use them like little springs.
But carefully. They're sharp.
Or, if one were truly adventurous, one could actually turn on the huge drill, put a plate of metal under the bit, turn the gear, forcing the bit down through the plate . . .
And, voila! Create your own little curlicues!
But a bit of a warning - if Dad turned around while you were thus engaged, heaven help you.
There were also the little bits and shavings of wood strewn about. Those were especially fun for building little corrals - with equally tiny stick horses inside. Quite often, though, that particular brand of play would induce one to head out to the 'actual' corral, to play with the 'actual' horses . . .
Against he fourth side of the shop was a lean-to, or small, doorless shed. It was full of barrels of grease and oil, so necessary to the proper function of the various ranch vehicles and machines.
It also held smaller containers of the same, which were vastly easier to work with, or in my case, to play with.
Little side note here - those small squirt-cans of oil could shoot an amazing distance. Something I especially noticed when my brother, George was there with me. Our accuracy left much to be desired, however, which was probably a good thing.
You should know that oil can play was inevitably brought to a halt when Dad would holler, "You kids stop wasting the oil!"
Sigh.
The larger barrels of grease were every bit as entertaining. One could push down on the handle and a long, skinny 'worm' of grease would be pressed out.
Which one could then play with. Rolling it in the dirt. Squishing it with your fingers . . .
"You kids stop wasting the grease!"
Geeze. That man was everywhere!
Around the back of the shop was another little shed. This one with it's own door. It smelled quite different. More like salt.
And it contained - guess what! - salt. Large blocks of the stuff in blues, reds and whites.
Cattle grazing in the arid pastures of Southern Alberta need salt, and quite a few extra nutrients for continued good health. Thus, in addition to their prime ingredient, the blue salt blocks also contain cobalt. The reds - minerals.
The white blocks are just salt. Boring.
It was great fun to chip a small piece off one of the large blocks and suck on it for a while.
And Dad never got after us for getting into the salt.
I know. Weird.
The blacksmith shop was one of our favorite playgrounds. It was old - one of the oldest buildings on the ranch. Originally built by Colonel A.T. Mackie sometime before 1900, it had survived through countless decades and several owners.
It burned to the ground some years after our family sold the ranch.
Its loss must surely be felt by the kids who live there now.

We'll Sing As We Go

Dad. He of the wondrous voice.

My Dad loved to sing.
Fortunately, for the rest of us, he had a very nice voice.
And great rhythm.
It's just his timing that needed work.
Let me explain . . .
When one lived as far from civilization as we did, 'going somewhere' inevitably involved . . . well . . . travelling.
For extended periods of time.
I'd like to point out here, that wonderful inventions like DS's, cell phones , IPads and the all-important DVD players existed only in science fiction. Our entertainment consisted of visiting, looking out the window, and books.
Or, in my case, just visiting or looking out the window. Reading in a car, though perhaps my favourite diversion, unavoidably made me carsick.
Ugh.
Whenever we travelled, there was always that stretch of road (I know you've been there), usually somewhere in the middle, where we ran out of conversation and the scenery got boring.
And everyone in the car, driver included, got sleepy.
That's when Dad would start to sing.
At full volume.
He really only had one.
See what I mean about timing . . .?
His family was treated to such classics as, "Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder". Or, "My Diane" (my personal favorite), "Two Little Boys" (which always made me cry), "Daisy", or the ever popular, "The Doors Swing In and the Doors Swing Out".
Usually, Mom would also join in.
Suffice it to say that, before us kids could carry on a lucid conversation, we could sing. We didn't always know what we were singing, and our school teachers sometimes questioned the suitability of a song that took place almost entirely within a saloon ("The Doors Swing In . . ." - see above.)
But that's beside the point . . .
We were in tune and definitely had the words right.
Or at least as right as Dad did.

It wasn't until some years later that I realized my Dad used . . . poetic license.
One day, I was singing "Two Little Boys" while I cleaned out a pen in the barn. Unbeknownst (real word!) to me, Dad was leaning on the fence in the far corner, listening.

I got to one line and just did what he had always done. "Da Da Da Da Da Da Dum Dee."
He burst out laughing.
When I spun around and glared at him accusingly, he told me that he'd been waiting for me to get to that line so he could finally hear what the real words were. He had never been able to remember and had just put in 'placer' lyrics.
I had memorized them accordingly.
Scary, isn't it that we pick up what we are taught . . . mistakes and all?
I've wandered from the point.
Again.
Now, whenever I drive along a road that Dad took us down, or even a road that resembles a road that . . .
I remember. Feeling happily sleepy. And that beautiful baritone voice, suddenly belting out the lyrics to some song that probably only Dad remembered.
Or possibly that Dad made up.
But so soothing to us denizens of the back seat.
I think I can hear him still . . .

Going Home

On our way to the ranch. Five siblings, three nephews and one niece.

During our travels earlier this summer, my Husby, siblings and I took the opportunity of visiting the 'Old Ranch'.
The ranch, nestled in a crook of the south fork of the Milk River that is the basis and background to so many of my memories.
Most of what was there before is gone - lost in a terrible grass fire that swept much of the area three years ago.
The barn, scene of so many adventures has been reduced to a cracked sheet of cement.
The only reminder of the extensive corrals are the slabs that held waterers and feed troughs.
Outbuildings - feed storage, small barns, tool sheds - all have disappeared.
We wandered about - even climbing to the top of the 'old machinery hill' - so named because that's where we parked the old machinery.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Someone else's machinery was parked there.
We did find a great old gate - a friend that we had all swung on whenever Dad couldn't see us . . .
We paced around, remembering stories and experiences that were generated by what had once stood there.
Then we walked over to the ranch house. The lone survivor of the conflagration.
And received a true shock. The house is sound. Sturdy.
And in most respects, exactly as it was when I last set foot in it over forty years ago.
The fixtures, walls, ceilings, even the arborite in the bathrooms were the same.
The very same.
When my parents built the house, they had installed fine mahogany panelling in the front room and Dad's office.
Light switches were modern, gold coloured, wedge-shaped marvels.
And the bathroom was equipped with green fixtures. Not the olive green of the seventies, but a mint green of the early sixties.
Progressive.
And still there.
We wandered through, exclaiming over new discoveries in every room.
The words, "Oh, I remember this!" echoed continually.
One could almost picture Mom taking something out of the oven and Dad sitting in his easy chair, boots off, waiting for dinner. Or the family gathered in the front room, eagerly anticipating the Sunday night lineup of TV programs. Or the sound of the milk separator signalling that outside chores had been finished for the day.
Oh, there were some changes. The floor coverings had gone to laminate from carpet and lino and the great mantel and fireplace that had dominated that front room had vanished.
But, after witnessing the devastation in the barn yard, seeing the sameness indoors was a great joy.
And a relief.
Some things still do exist.
Reminders of that childhood from which my siblings and I sprang.
It really happened.

The river today.

Nephew, Josh on the fence that surrounds the house and yard. Needs paint, but still the same.

Paradise

Paradise flowed right around the main Stringam Ranch buildings.

Siblings with cousins.

To the adult residents of the ranch, it was the South Fork of the Milk River.
To us, it was a muddy, murky playground. Our entertainment. Our recreation. Our playmate.
It provided a solid skating surface in the winter and a wonderful swimming pool in summer.
In spring through fall, it was an endless source of educational fun as we hunted snakes and frogs. Tried to trap unwary fish. And generally made life miserable for any denizen so unfortunate as to capture our attention.
I learned to skate there. What is that little dictum that states that the hardest part about learning to skate is the ice?
That would apply to me.
But I digress . . .
I learned to swim there.
And I wish I could swim there, still.
On a hot summer afternoon, my siblings and I would invariably be found in the milky depths of our river.
I can remember exactly how the water looked - billions of grains of fine sand hanging suspended as the rays of sunlight shone through it.
I can remember how it smelled. Wet mud and fresh water and things growing.
And I can remember how it felt. Cool and soft as it slid across one's nearly naked little body.
The current was slow and sluggish, but still strong enough to prove a challenge when swimming against it. In fact, only my eldest brother, Jerry could make any headway. The rest of us tried manfully, or girlfully (is that a word?) to keep up.
We couldn't.
But we did flail with purpose and finally, I was able to at least hold my position.
It was a time of peace. When one's siblings were truly one's best friends. We watched over each other, fishing the smaller siblings out if they got in over their heads and keeping our St. Bernard, Mike from drowning anyone as he tried desperately to save them.
From time to time, the chief lifeguard, Mom, would appear at the top of the cliff beside the house and survey the area, counting heads and noting the general state of her six offspring. Then she would wave and disappear.
And we would go back to whatever she had interrupted.
It was a blissful way to spend the summer.
Sure, there were chores that had to be done. Acres of garden to hoe. Cattle to drive. Calves to brand. Feeding. Milking. Haying. Fencing. Mowing. Harvesting.
But for those few hours every afternoon, we had no duties. No pressures.
Just Chris' radio blaring out whatever was considered the day's top hits. The soft sand. The sunlight on the milky water.
And each other.
We were right.
It was paradise.

Breakfast Forts

Breakfast.

The most – interesting – meal of the day.

Mom believed in beginning the day with a good, hot, hearty meal.

Bacon. Sausage. Eggs. Pancakes. Waffles. Ham. Fruit. Muffins. Fresh bread. Cinnamon buns. French toast.

A breakfast milkshake that included eggs and fruit. And occasionally, chocolate.

She mixed and matched.

And pure deliciousness emerged.

But sometimes, she allowed us kids to graze.

Okay, her version of grazing was to set out a plethora of cold cereal boxes and let us take our pick.

Funny how kids accustomed to ‘home-cooked’ can think ‘store-bought’ is a real treat.

But we did.

We happily selected and poured and sugared and crunched.

Except for big brother George.

He did all of that . . . and built a fort.

His breakfast fort.

And, because he did it, and made it look like fun, I had to do it too.

Did you know it’s possible to sit at the same table with someone and never even catch a glimpse of them?

Well it is.

With a little ingenuity.

And a lot of cereal boxes.

George would set a large cereal box on either side of his bowl. Then add a third to connect the first two.

Voila!

Cereal box fort.

Private and exclusive.

One could eat one’s bowl of awesomeness and never even know that one had breakfast companions.

Well, until Mom came, demolished one’s fort with her genius for quick and effective relocation and a, “Stop doing that, you two. We need to see each other’s bright and smiling faces in the morning!”

To which George would inevitably reply, "My face isn't bright and smiling!"

Yeah. Cereal boxes. They can hide so much.

Guardian Angels

By little brother and fellow cattleman, Blair Stringam.

So many adventures...

If it wasn’t for guardian angels I don’t know if I would have survived my youth . . .

When I was about 18, we had a very nice saddle horse. I had been told that the horse had a tender mouth but I didn’t understand what that meant. I just thought that I could use a bridle that had a straight bar for a bit.

In the spring, Dad and I needed to drive some yearling heifers across the bridge to a pasture on our ranch.

Now said bridge and my family had “history”. For some reason the heifers or bulls on the ranch did not like to cross it.

Also: This is the same bridge off which our herd bull pushed my sister to almost certain doom. Just before she used his tail as a rope to save herself.

Where was I? Oh, right, heifers and bridge.

So Dad and I needed to chase these heifers over the bridge.

Both of us were mounted – me on the tender-mouthed horse.

The heifers, in true ‘cow’ fashion, were trying to explore everywhere but the direction in which we were trying to chase them. I had to maneuver the horse repeatedly to intercept the numerous attempts at escape. This required making the horse perform some tight turns.

I noticed that the horse would spin on a dime. I remember thinking that whoever trained the animal had done a very good job.

Finally, we had the heifers down at the bridge.

We were trying to get them to cross, but they were milling around, looking for any other places to escape to.

Any other places.

I was having to use all of my experience to work the horse and try to keep the heifers moving where I wanted.

At one point I needed to pull back on the reins to get the horse to reverse a few feet.

As I did so, the animal started to rear up on its back legs. I reacted by pulling a little harder on the reins.

Which caused the horse to rear higher and start backing up, as I had wanted, but on its hind legs.

Yikes.

Then it lost its balance and started to fall directly backward.

I was in a very dangerous position. If the horse continued to fall as it was, it would have landed directly on top of me.

The saddle horn would have been planted in my chest and I would have been seriously hurt. Even killed.

I had heard many stories where riders had been killed in this same situation.

However, lucky (or unlucky) for me, the horse turned at the last second and fell on its side. My leg and foot were smashed and I experienced pain like I’ve never felt before. I believe I expressed said pain by uttering a nasty word or two.

(I might have even said darn it!)

The horse rolled back onto its feet and went running to the comparative safety of the barn. I remained on the ground for a few minutes.

At that point we gave up the bridge idea and I drug myself to the pickup truck and Dad and I took the heifers to their destination the long (ie. safe) way.

Dad on horseback and me in the truck.

I have thought many times since about that incident and why the horse may have turned at the last second and landed on its side.

I like to think that my guardian angel may have had something to do with it. 

Water for Chocolate

How do you get your motor running?

I had slept in. Again.

It was summer. I was seven. It was acceptable.

Everyone else was working outside.

Well, except for mom who was busy with my little brother and baby sister.

Somewhere else.

I had the kitchen to myself.

My day had come. I could get my own breakfast!

I got down the bran flakes and poured a generous helping into my bowl. I grabbed the sugar, the Nestle Quick and a spoon and assembled them next to my cereal, together with the tallest glass I could find.

Then I went to the fridge for the all-important ingredient to tie the whole meal together. That white miracle heavily flecked with cream that, when poured over cereal or mixed with chocolate powder, produced gustatory bliss.

Fresh milk.

The door opened.

I know I must have let out a solid gasp. Because there, on the shelf that normally held the big, frosty-cold jug was . . . nothing.

Nothing?

How could that be?

Never had there been nothing!

Had Old Bossy passed on to greener pastures?

Had all of the cow milk-ers passed on with her?

I closed the door, then whipped it open again.

Still gone.

I tried a few more times, but with the same result.

My life was over!

I looked at the bowl and glass sitting together on the cupboard.

At the box of Nestle Quick beside them.

Then I looked at the tap.

The tap that was always full of fresh, healthy, sulphur water.

Hmm . . . could work.

I grabbed my glass and filled it nearly full of water. Then I carried it carefully back to my place and set it down.

So far so good.

Prying the lid off the chocolate powder, I scooped out a heaping spoonful and tipped it into the glass of water.

Then I mixed happily and put my spoon down.

My taste buds gleefully anticipating the first chocolatey contact, I took a sip.

I probably don’t need to tell you that my little experiment didn’t . . . work out. That the liquid refreshment I had hoped to create wasn’t refreshing.

Or even palatable.

Even after the addition of several more spoonfuls of chocolatey deliciousness.

Yes. My first attempt at culinary creativity didn’t get a passing grade.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stop me.

P.S. Sulphur water on cereal. Also horrifying. Even with extra sugar. Just FYI.

And a little bonus today:

A picture of Husby, camping in the rain. Any resemblance to any garden figurines you may know is entirely unintentional.

Maybe . . .

Home Again

I'm home!
And what a month!
Funerals. Travel. Dodging forest fires.
Collecting fruit.
Camping with wonderful friends and family.
Visiting.
Publishing yet another book.
But I've missed all of you!
Missed our daily visits.
Missed your insights and experiences.
I've realized that you make me a better writer.
And person.
Thank you!
Tomorrow, I will begin posting again.
But for now, know that you are always in my thoughts.

And because I simply can't resist, a little story:

Husby is known for his hoard of treats. Maybe I should capitalize the word 'Hoard'. Because that would be more accurate.
Some time ago, when our chicks and chicklets were visiting, Grandpa brought out something he hadn't produced for a while. Dino-sours.
And no, that isn't a typo . . .
They proved to be a great favourite. Again.
Littlest man (LM) was quite captivated and proved the he could shove quite a number in his mouth before he was caught and emptied by his mother.
He hovered around that bowl of gummy, sweet and sour deliciousness until it was well and truly empty.
Then they went home.
A few days later, that little family was shopping at Costco.
(Our favourite place on earth.)
While walking slowly  up the fairly extensive candy aisle, a display of those delicious dinosaur treats appeared.
LM toddled over and pointed excitedly. "Grampa!" he said clearly.
How would you like to be remembered?

Happy Birthday, My Canada!

First, a little background: Canada Day is the national day of Canada, a federal statutory holiday celebrating the anniversary of the July 1, 1867, enactment of the British North America Act, 1867 (today called the Constitution Act, 1867), which united three colonies into a single country called Canada within the British Empire. Originally called Dominion Day , the holiday was renamed in 1982, the year the Canada Act was passed. Canada Day observances take place throughout Canada as well as among Canadians internationally.

Now, on with my story . . .

Saturday, July 1, 1967.

My Grade seven teacher had been harping on endlessly about this important date.

Something about it being Canada’s Centennial.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Canada.

And had celebrated her July 1 birthday with great enthusiasm for each of my 12 years.

I just didn’t see what made this particular birthday so important. Centennial? What did that mean?

Okay, maybe I was just a bit stuck inside my own world . . .

But I was more than willing to go to choir practice to perfect our renditions of ‘Oh Canada!’ and ‘God Save the Queen’.

And excitedly discuss the day’s planned activities with my friends.

And anticipate a holiday.

The day dawned, clear and bright.

And my family wandered over to the newly-erected ‘cairn’ down by the Milk River.

Flags were flying. Eight of them, to denote the eight flags under which our town had lived.

And grinning, happy people were beginning to gather.

Lots of people.

I excitedly greeted my friends as they arrived.

Finally came the time for us to assemble on some risers set up near the cairn.

There was clapping and excitement.

We sang. 

To further applause.

And not a few tears.

And then, the speeches.

And, suddenly, I realized what it was that everyone was emotional about.

My country, this country that I loved, was 100 years old.

100.

Wow.

That was significant.

And I was a part of it.

It was 48 years ago.

Today, my country is 148 years old.

Happy Birthday, my beloved Canada!

To my beloved readers and blog-followers and friends: I will be away from the computer for the next two weeks. Heading to the wilds of Canada for a much-needed break. I will desperately miss you, but will be back soon! I love you all!

Worlds of Cloth

Perfect!

Tenting was my favorite thing in the world.
I could happily sit for hours in my soft, quiet shelter. Immersed in my own little world. Miles away from the business and bustle of life.
Or at least inches away.
On the other side of my blanket.
And my chair.
Oh, and the all-important pillow.
Okay, so tent-making wasn't an art with me. In fact, you could probably say that it was . . . fairly inexpert, invariably consisting, as it did, of a blanket tossed over a chair and held in place by a pillow.
Frank Lloyd Wright, I wasn't.
But I still loved it. Hiding in a shelter erected solely by my own two little hands.
For a short while, I was the queen of my world.
Then, one day, I was introduced to a whole new world. My brother, George, deigned to join me.
Something, I might point out, that rarely happened . . .
And instructed me in the creation of a complex, blanket draped wonder.
George set up chairs and draped them with covers, connecting them to each other and holding each in place by different items, drawing heavily from the various 'objets d'art' that Mom had strewn about the room.
The blankets were pulled over to the couches, secured, and then drawn to the tables. There, they were again weighted into place.
Slowly, our little 'club house' grew until it covered the entire front room.
The two of us stood back and surveyed it proudly.
It had an entrance. And a back door. It had twisting tunnels and little rooms.
It was perfect.
I was quivering with excitement. I couldn't wait any longer. I dove in.
"Careful, Diane!" George said.
But he was too late.
My rash action pulled on one of the blankets.
In fact, the blanket that was being held in place by a large, ornate, plaster vase.
Both slid from the table.
The blanket survived.
The vase didn't.
George and I stared, aghast, at the mass of wreckage.
And then, like a figure of doom, Mom appeared in the doorway.
"What are you two . . . my vase!"
There was no hiding it.
There was our intricate web of blankets, furniture and bric-a-brac.
To one side, a limply hanging corner.
And, beside it, the broken vase.
Even a fool could have figured out what had happened. And Mom certainly wasn't a fool.
"Did you kids use my vase for your fort?"
How did one answer that? I mean, couldn't she see it?
George was braver than me. "It was Diane's idea."
I stared at him. "It was not!" I said, hotly.
"Was too."
"Was not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
Okay, so our arguments could never have been classified as intelligent.
"Too."
"Not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
"Okay, enough!" Mom had worked her way gingerly across the sea of blankets, plucking up breakables as she went.
Finally, she reached the vase.
She set down the other objects she was carrying and stared down at it.
Then she looked at us.
"Ummm. Sorry, Mom," I said. Not entirely original, but it was all I could think of.
Mom picked up the vase. Then the pieces.
She looked . . . sad.
Mom never really had to discipline me. I could do it all by myself. I burst into tears. "Sssooorrry!"
She turned and looked at us once more. "I don't ever want you two playing with my things again."
"Oookaaay!" More tears.
I should have been on the stage.
Mom carried the pieces of her vase out of the room without looking at us again.
And just like that, our fort was no long the wonder it had been. George and I 'folded' the blankets and put things back.
Mom kept the vase, carefully gluing the numerous pieces back together.
To our 'waste not, want not' Mom, it was totally in character.
But it haunted us for years, in fact, it sat atop a cupboard at my Dad's apartment.
Haunting,

I still like to tent.
But fortunately, my husby introduced me to such marvels as . . . tent poles. Pegs. Guy lines.
What it lacks in ingenuity, it certainly makes up for in convenience.
And unbreakable-ness.

Featherheads

Admit it. He's cute!

I have birds. 
Zebra finches, to be exact.They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.
I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on for eighteen years, now.
It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop loaned us a canary, two doves and a finch.
 A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.
During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.
One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A tiny, rusty, musical gate.)
I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'.), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.
The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.
And the little notes kept on.
Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?
My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.
I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.
The third cage.
And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.
My heart was captured.
He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.
She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy popped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)
They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.
My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator.
And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.
They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.
Constantly entertaining.
One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.
"Yes. Right there! That's the itchy spot. Oh get it! Get it!"
Or . . .
"Stop that racket!"
"But it's the same song you were singing five minutes ago!"
"I don't care! I don't like you singing it!"
Or better yet . . .
"What are you doing in my cage?!"
"I live here!"
"Well, who said that could happen!"
"What are you talking about? I was born here! To you!"
Or the ever popular . . .
"I don't like the way you look!"
"But I'm your son, I look like you!"
"Don't change the subject!"
In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.
I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go to become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.
It's the one thing I wish I could change.
Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.
I've tried taking them to task for this, using the same forceful, penetrating words as those I used in raising my children . . . you little monkeys! Clean up this mess!
They never listen.
Wait. Neither did my children! Sigh.

My private elevator.

Yowch.

Carefully, now . . .

By the early 1870's, smooth wire fences were fast being replaced by the new, and far more formidable and efficient barbed-wire.
Now, domestic (and no few wild) animals could be effectively contained.
Wars were fought by stock owners and free-range enthusiasts over this new invention and its perceived advantages and disadvantages.
And no few lives lost.
With the ending of the hostilities, barbed-wire became the accepted medium for fencing in the ranching and farming world.
Sometimes, I wish the outcome had been different . . .

The Stringam ranch was large.
Really large.
And, to keep its inmates (cattle) controlled, it was fenced with miles (and miles) of strands of barbed-wire.
Wire that had to be strung, stretched, looped, stapled, fastened, weighted and maintained.
And maintained. And maintained. And . . . you get the point . . .And all of this work had to be accomplished by weak, easily wounded human beings.
You can imagine the damage that two to four sharp points of wire, created to discourage even the most thick-skinned cow, could do so soft, very-not-tough skin.
I can count 13 scars on one finger alone.
Thank goodness for heavy, leather gloves and even heavier moosehide chaps.
Over the years, we thin-skinned humans had many differences of opinion with the barbed-wire which stretched across the ranch. Most trivial, requiring a Band-Aid or nothing at all.
But a few, fairly serious . . .

Once, my Dad and brother, George were stringing wire (A complicated procedure which required the paying out of four strings of wire from an apparatus on the back of the truck, closely supervised by said brother, George).
Dad hit a bump.
George was thrown into the tangle of wire, resulting in multiple deep gouges and cuts to his hands and arms.
Not good.
Or pleasant.
Band-Aids wouldn't do for that mishap.
He had to be sewn back together.
Like a quilt.
Only not as warm and cuddly.
But at least it was a mishap that could only be considered an accident.
My run-in with 'The Devil's Rope', could easily have been prevented.
If I'd been smarter.
Hmmm. Like most of my calamities . . .
I'd been out visiting the horses and was heading home.
There was a fence in the way.
Now a normal person would have employed the usual method for getting past a barbed-wire fence. Climb under or through. Climb up a post. Find a gate.
But not me. I was determined to simply climb over.
Now, I should mention here that climbing over a barbed-wire fence is entirely possible.
Just not very simple.
You have to do it carefully. Step on the bottom wire and bend the top wire down. Then lift your leg gingerly over the top wire and step to the ground. Then swing the other leg after the first.
Easy peasy.
As long as nothing gets caught. (Pant legs or crotches come to mind.) And as long as you can keep your balance.
I was only wearing a pair of shorts, so pant legs weren't even a consideration.
It never occurred to me that I should watch out for my actual leg.
The barbs entered my skin at mid thigh, and at the apex of my swing over the fence.
Ouch.
I lost my balance and fell over the fence.
Worse.
The barbs raked two grooves down the entire length of my leg.
Impressive.
The good news? I was over the fence.
The bad news? I now sported two 18 inch furrows from mid thigh to mid calf on the inside of my right leg.
Hmmm.
I got to my feet and looked around.
Good. Mom and Dad were away on a Hereford Tour. And no one had seen my folly.
I limped quickly to the house and made use of the first-aid kit that Mom always kept just inside the back door.
Smart woman, my Mom.
Then I stared at my injury. Visions of the rows and rows of stitches it had taken to sew my brother closed floated through my mind.
In Technicolor.
I definitely didn't want that.
But no Band-Aid could possibly cover this wound.
Finally, I twisted a clean cloth around my leg.
Then, belatedly, put on a pair of jeans.
Perfect.
A few days later, when my parents returned, Mom instantly noted my limp.
And made me show her my injury.
And then hauled me in to the doctor.
By that point, stitches couldn't have done any good. The doctor merely pasted my leg with goop. Applied some gi-normous bandages, and gave me a shot.
All better.
I still have the scars.
They remind me that, in a difference of opinion between me and barbed-wire, the wire is always going to win.
And always, always wear jeans.
Or armor.

Just Plane Dating

I could hear her voice as I came down the hall.

It was raised.

Have I mentioned I don’t like raised?

I don’t.

“What?! What?! What are you talking about?! How is this my fault?!” The rather grating voice was up at least two octaves.

Oh, man. Someone was getting it in the ear. Instinctively, my steps slowed.

“I’m going to come right through this phone and choke you till you’re dead!”

Better listen, pal. If it could be done, she’d be the person who could do it. Every alarm should be going off in your head. I shivered. I could just picture that burly arm emerging from the receiver.

“Why you little pipsqueak! I’ve got half a mind to ta- . . .” the voice broke in the middle.

Uh-oh. He cut her off. Buddy, never cut her off.

“Why you . . .!”

Silence. Buddy was talking again. We were obviously dealing with a rebel here. A rather brave rebel.

“But . . .!”

More silence.

“I’m telling you, it’s smashed! Smashed!”

It didn’t seem possible for that voice to rise higher, but it did.

“And we’ve waited weeks for that airplane model! Weeks! It’s the key display for our annual Royal Spring show! Made by prisoners while they were in a POW camp in Japan. Have you got no respect, man?!”

Oh, man. She’s playing the respect card . . . I’d reached the end of the hall. The wide reception area was before me. I could see Clara’s desk. She was turned slightly away, but I could see how red her wide face was. I rubbed a hand over my head and seriously considered a full retreat.
She turned slightly. I froze. What is it they say about carnivores’ visual acuity?

A model airplane was sitting in front of her on her desk. I frowned. It looked all right to me. Could this be the subject of her discussion?

She suddenly vaulted to her feet. “You listen to me, you . . . you . . .” Words seem to fail her. Her face was now more of a purplish colour.

I stared. I’d never seen this happen before.

“Well, it’s up to you to send someone to fix it!” A pause. “I don’t care if he just finished his rounds for the day. I need him to come back!” Another pause. “Listen, mister! I’ve got half a mind to bring this by your office and stick it in your one good eye!”

Uh-oh. She was threatening real violence now. Maybe I should . . . I stepped into the room.

Clara spun around and looked at me. Then jammed the phone down on its cradle. “Well, it’s about time! I’ve been screaming at your boss for 10 minutes!”

“Uh. Yeah. He sent me here as soon as he heard your voice. Was there something you need me to fix?”

She made a face.  “Are you kidding?” She moved around her desk. “Maybe we should stop meeting like this.”

For years, Delores of Under the Porch Light has issued her six-word challenge.
And challenging it is.
But Delores is retiring. 
Our dear friend Elephant's Child has assumed the duties for the near future.
Words for Wednesday hangs in the balance.
It's been some time since I was able to participate.
This week, I'm back!
This week's words:
Choke, Respect, Smash, Airplane, Royal, Spring

And/or

Good, Eye, Burly, Alarm, Stick, Rebel
Hop over to EC's and see what the others have concocted!