The Winners!

I'm thrilled to announce the winners of the draw for my books!
First, I'd like to thank everone who entered. I was touched that so many were interested and wanted to read something I wrote! :)
So... The winners, chosen at random by two blindfolded granddaughters:

SnowMan the 'real' story behind the song, Frosty the Snowman.

The winner is: Veryl Stockdale

Gnome for Christmas The adventures of an efficiency expert at the North Pole.

The winner is: Claudette Esterine

Words Life in Rhyme

The winner is: Penny Cameron











Congratulations to the winners and a huge thank you to everyone who entered!
(Winners, please forward your mailing address to me via email: dtolley@shaw.ca)

Last Day for Free Books!

Last day!

Until midnight tonight, I will be taking entries.
Three lucky people, drawn at random, will each win one of my new books!
All you have to do to qualify is visit my website: www.dianestringamtolley.com
That's it. That's all. Respond here with 'Visited' and a word to describe your visit and you will be entered.
Good luck!

 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.

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

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

...............................................................................................

“For some of us receive one gift,

And some, another. True.

Her gift was drying silverware.

And mine? Is telling you.”

Diane Stringam Tolley’s Words is a collection of thoughts and feelings from six decades of living.

A happy romp from childhood to old age. Ranch to city life.

In rhyme.

And isn’t life just a little bit better in rhyme?

...................................................................................................

North Pole Society is uncomplicated.

Prosperous.

Happy.

But everything the Elves of the North Pole hold dear is about to be challenged and, perhaps, changed forever.

Can a society that has survived – even thrived – based on love and goodwill, endure the advent of modern ideas. Incentives programs?

Buzz words?

Can generations of innocence, helpfulness, friendliness and generosity outlast the introduction of an effiency expert?

Will the love that forms the beating heart of North Pole Society survive? 

In her long-awaited sequel to (Kris Kringle’s) Magic, Diane Stringam Tolley has created a tale of friendship, perseverance and the enduring power of love.

All Shapes and Sizes

Look at this!

I caught a snake. Garter variety.
The banks of the river abounded with such things, as well as frogs, tadpoles, minnows and other slithery, slimy denizens of the milky water.
It wasn't unheard-of for my mother to be the calm recipient of a bullfrog, salamander, and cup full of minnows . . . all on the same day.
Okay, so, squeamish, I wasn't.
And my mother was a saint.
But snakes, we usually had a harder time catching. Actually laying hands on one was a treat. An achievement.
I know. We probably should have explored other hobbies . . .
I was understandably excited about my snake. I wanted to share.
I decided to take it to school.
I can't remember just how I managed this. Perhaps my Mom helped me by putting it in a shoe box. But it, and I, somehow managed the long bus ride.
Then I was the center of attention as everyone on the playground crowded in for a peek. In fact, my snake was so popular that my teacher arranged for me to take it to every classroom to show the kids.
For the first time in my young life, I was the center of attention. I was popular. I was famous.
Yes, well, it rather went to my head . . .
To make my snake a bit more visible, the principal offered me his own glass fishbowl. Now it could be seen at all times.
I thought it was terrific. I don't suppose the snake was very impressed.
I walked into each of the six classrooms, filled with importance. Then I would talk about my snake . . . ummm . . . knowledgeably.
"This is a garter snake. I caught it by the river. It's kind of cold and . . . smooth. It can swim. It eats frogs and other stuff."
Hey, I was six. That was as knowledgeable as it gets.
Then I would reach in, grab my snake by the end of its tail and lift it out for everyone to see. The snake would, obligingly, stretch up and flick its tongue.
Ooohs.
This went on for the lower five grades.
Then, the last class. My oldest brother Jerry's class. The grade sixes. The big guys.
I was more than a bit intimidated.
I carried my sideshow exhibit into the class and went into my spiel. Then I lifted my snake. And stared in horror as the last two inches of its tail . . . broke off.
The poor thing dropped to the floor and began a frantic slither towards somewhere else.
Several girls screamed.
I quickly pounced on it and scooped it up, dropping it back into the goldfish bowl.
Order was restored.
Then I realized that I was still holding the piece of the snake's tail. Flushing, I dropped it in with the snake, then quickly seized the bowl and scurried out of the room.
My 15 minutes of fame were over.
For the rest of the day, my snake sat on the shelf at the back of my grade one classroom.
After school, my Mom was waiting for me at the bus stop. She loaded my brothers, George and Jerry, my snake and I into the car.
On the way out of town, she pulled over into the campground beside the river.
"Okay, Diane," she said, "let the snake go."
I stared at her, horrified. Let him go? But he was mine! We'd been through so much together!
She nodded.
Heaving a sigh, I opened the car door and carried my prize to the riverbank.
I looked back at her.
She nodded again.
Now, I should point out here, that I could have simply taken my slithery friend out and laid him in the grass beside the river. Or even set the bowl down and let him crawl out there.
But no. Instead, I made my way down the very edge of the river and tipped up the fishbowl to drop my companion and friend into the milky water.
And unwittingly added an exciting postscript to the story.
Because I also dropped the fishbowl.
My principal's fishbowl.
I did try to make a grab for it, but it quickly slid out of my reach and disappeared. I stared at the place where it had last been seen.
I was in so much trouble.
I remember looking at my mom, horror written across my whole face. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head.
She was so accustomed to me.
She must have sorted things out with my principal, the first of many such exchanges, because I never heard anything of it and it was soon forgotten.
But I often think of my little garter snake friend and wonder just what happened to him. Dropped into a foreign world, miles from his home. Part of his tail snapped off.
Did he survive? Even prosper?
I like to think so.
But more thought provoking is the fact that I had absolutely no fear when catching and handling my snake.
If he had been a chicken?
Totally another story.

Got Clean?

Okay. I admit it.

Sometimes kids have a strange idea of what’s funny.

Let me explain . . .

My brother, George, and I loved watching TV.

Like millions of other baby-boomers before and after us.

And, between our beloved slices of Gunsmoke, Woody Woodpecker, Bonanza, Ed Sullivan and Disney we were electrified by the ads for snowier wash, whiter teeth, hot drinks good to the last drop, better cleansers, stickier bandages, fluffier pastries, softer bread, happier soft drinks and new, new, new contraptions.

We had the jingles - indeed most of the ads - memorized.

Often, putting them to our own distinct uses.

George had a beloved T-shirt.

One he insisted on wearing daily until it was forcibly (sometimes surgically) removed for cleaning.

When it was returned to him, clean and fresh, he would happily re-don it for yet another cycle.

Said shirt justifiably began to show the wear.

Tiny holes started to appear along the seams and in a couple of places on the front.

These were happily ignored until, inevitably, they grew to sizes where ignorance could not justifiably be bliss.

And this is where he and I thought things took on a whole new hilarious angle.

Mom had been agitating for George to retire his adored shirt.

George was resisting.

Their dialogue was ongoing.

Finally Mom took the shirt and held it up, pointing out the obvious wear and gradually widening holes.

George took it and he, too, held it up. “This shirt is not only clean,” he said. He placed his eye up to one of the larger holes. “It is clean clear through!”

Okay, the makers of Fab laundry detergent probably didn’t have holes in mind when they created their ads. But George and I thought it was totally apt.

And totally hilarious.

Mom? Not so much.

Don't forget to enter the contest for my three new books!
Only two days left!
Enter here!
It's easy!

Cooking. In Heaven

The ranch cook. With Chris and Jerry.

Mom could make anything taste good.
And it didn't matter what she had going in her life, meals were always plentiful and on time.
She would serve a full, cooked breakfast of ham, eggs, pancakes and oatmeal, with lunch simmering on the stove and dinner baking in the oven so both meals could be produced quickly as soon as she got done gardening, cleaning, doing chores, driving us kids to school, picking up whatever was needed from the hardware/feed store/grocery, or attending one of her numerous Hereford club meetings/quilting/sewing bees.
Sometimes I contemplate the scheduling nightmare that her life must have been.
Thinking about it makes me tired.
But back to the food . . .
When Mom was 10 years old, she went with her dad and brothers up to the Berg family's 'other place' to cook while Grandpa and the boys brought in the hay crop.
She often described the little wood stove she used for her meals.
“It had the littlest oven,” she told me, “just big enough to fit in one pie.”
She was making pie???!
At ten years old???!
By herself???!
In a - gasp - wood stove???!
Okay, amazing just doesn't quite cover it.
By the time I was ten, I figured I was doing extremely well because I knew how to eat pie.
But I digress . . .
So, at the age of ten, she was doing all of the cooking for her father and three older brothers.
Well, she certainly learned how to cook.
Mom could open the fridge (that same fridge that one of us kids had just looked into and pronounced, 'empty'), and produce a hearty, rib-sticking meal.
In minutes.
And totally without the aid of a microwave.
Okay, she had all the modern conveniences. Electric stove. Running water.
Toaster.
Cheese Whiz.
But still, the meals she could produce!
Her roasts were works of gustatory art. Her pastries and pies had to be tasted to be believed.
Even her vegetables were unsurpassed by anything available in the vast dining world.
Mom could take cauliflower that she had grown and frozen. Cook and serve it in such a manner that not a scrap was left over.
I tried it with my kids.
Somehow, when I prepared frozen cauliflower, it just came out . . . soggy.
And disgusting.
I did learn how to make her pies. But that was all.
To this day, my siblings and I contact each other regularly, asking if anyone knows the recipe for . . .
No one does.
When I cross over to the other side, it will be with a pen and paper in hand.
The first thing I will ask Mom will be, “What the heck is your recipe for your angel food cake topping?”
Notice I said 'heck'. That's because you can't use anything stronger in Heaven.
Where I know Mom is.
Cooking.
*  *  *

Don't forget to enter my book contest!

All three of my newest books are on offer.

It's fast.

And easy!

Go here

You won't be sorry! 

Book Contest

My books are in and I'm announcing a contest!

For the next five days, I will be taking entries.
The three winners, drawn at random, will each receive one of my three new books. All you have to do to qualify is visit my website: www.dianestringamtolley.com
That's it. That's all. Respond here with 'Visited' and a word to describe your visit and you will be entered.
Good luck!

 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.

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

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

...............................................................................................

“For some of us receive one gift,

And some, another. True.

Her gift was drying silverware.

And mine? Is telling you.”

Diane Stringam Tolley’s Words is a collection of thoughts and feelings from six decades of living.

A happy romp from childhood to old age. Ranch to city life.

In rhyme.

And isn’t life just a little bit better in rhyme?

...................................................................................................

North Pole Society is uncomplicated.

Prosperous.

Happy.

But everything the Elves of the North Pole hold dear is about to be challenged and, perhaps, changed forever.

Can a society that has survived – even thrived – based on love and goodwill, endure the advent of modern ideas. Incentives programs?

Buzz words?

Can generations of innocence, helpfulness, friendliness and generosity outlast the introduction of an effiency expert?

Will the love that forms the beating heart of North Pole Society survive? 

In her long-awaited sequel to (Kris Kringle’s) Magic, Diane Stringam Tolley has created a tale of friendship, perseverance and the enduring power of love.

Sleepytime Ride

Blair and Anita.
And me.
In my beautiful 'fur' coat.

Okay. I was six. Grade one is hard work! I was tired!
And we lived a million miles from town!
Enough background.
Living 20 miles from the local schools might be a blessing during ‘snow days’ in the winter when the buses didn’t run, but the rest of the time, it merely meant a very long ride. A very long, boring ride.
If one didn’t have someone to visit with, the trip was interminable. Especially to a six year old.
Which I was.
Seating was a highly organized, painstakingly structured fact of bus life.
The eldest kids got to sit in the back. The youngest directly behind the bus driver.
Okay, maybe not so organized . . .
Hijinks were restricted to the back two rows. Your progress through school and through life was largely measured by where you sat in the school bus.
I had never sat more than two sets behind the driver.
Until that fateful day.
The Lindemans weren’t on the bus. Will and Louise's seat in the second last row was empty and just waiting to be claimed. My day had come.
Happily, I perched in that heretofore inaccessible spot.
Our bus driver, a wonderfully kind and loving man named Dick Sabey was responsible for delivering us safely into the waiting arms of our mother, Enes Stringam, at Nine Mile Corner. It was a corner situated, interestingly enough, exactly nine miles from our ranch buildings.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.
Day after day, our faithful friend dropped us off at the corner, waving to us cheerfully as we began the trek towards home.
Usually, we managed only a few yards before our mother’s car, trailing a cloud of dust on the country road, appeared around the turn. She would skid to a halt and load us in, questions and news being tossed back and forth before the doors had even closed.
Occasionally, when our amazingly busy Mom was late, we would manage to make it to the Sproade’s, an elderly couple who lived about ½ mile from the corner and whose house was always filled with the rich smell of wonderful German baking. Baking which needed to be eaten by ravenously hungry school children.
We prayed every day our Mom would be late.
But I digress . . .

It was chilly. I don’t remember if it was Spring or Fall, but the weather necessitated the wearing of fairly warm clothing. I had a golden faux fur parka. Purchased by my Dad specifically for a trip to cut our family’s Christmas tree. A coat that could easily have doubled as a bear disguise. But which was wonderfully warm . . . and cozy . . . and *yawn* comfortable . . .
When I awoke some time later, Dick and his dear wife, Scotty, were standing over me, shaking me gently. I sat up and looked around. It was dark. The lights of the Sabey home were shining dimly into the shadowy bus.
Nine Mile Corner was nowhere to be seen. Or my brothers and sister. Or my Mom.
That’s when the tears started.
Dick picked me up and carried me into the house, where Scotty calmed me and cuddled me. And fed me. (Amazing how so many of my stories revolve around food.)
Later, my relieved parents arrived to pick me up and the story was finally told.
The Stringam kids always left the bus in a group. The bus driver, watching alertly to make sure they were safely on their way, noticed that Diane wasn't with them.
But sometimes, kids stayed in town for some reason or another. The accepted practice in such an instance was to give the driver a note explaining their absence.
But it wasn't unusual for said note to be forgotten.
Dick surmised I had had piano lessons . . . or something.
And since I hadn’t been sitting in my usual spot, my brothers and sister had concluded the same thing and headed quickly toward the Sproade's. By the time our Mom arrived and my absence was noted, the bus was long gone.
The time for panic had truly arrived.
Cell phones existed only in the imaginations of science fiction writers. The only phone connection available was a single party line, installed by my father (and enormously entertaining, but that is another story).
Once she reached the ranch buildings, Mom wasted no time in calling the Sabey household and raising the alarm. Dick hadn’t yet returned from his route, so Scotty waited breathlessly at the front window for the bus. When he arrived, she met him and the two of them quickly searched the bus.
They soon discovered that a bulky coat, discarded on one of the last seats, actually contained a person. Not a very big person, to be sure, but a person just the same.
Me.
Some time later, with my Mom’s arms around me, I could see the humour of the situation.
Almost.
Until I grew taller, about grade nine or so, I never again sat anywhere but directly behind the bus driver. It was safer there. And less forgetful.
And, oddly enough, I find it impossible to fall asleep in a moving vehicle.
Except when I’m driving.

Toddler Gardening

It seemed a good idea, I thought

                Some hours in the yard.

The winter months had been so long

                And I felt the need of working hard.

So armed with gloves and rakes and things,

                I started out the door.

Trailed by two toddlers

                Who loved to help with Gramma’s chores.

Things went well for a tic or two,

                As Gramma started in,

The girls spun circles in the yard

                Till Linney fell and bumped her chin.

A kiss and cuddle, tears were gone

                It really wasn’t hard.

I set her down and looked to see

                That Hazel’d wandered from the yard.

She’d not gone far, I scooped her up

                And carried her back home.

Then penned them both behind the gate,

                And told them sternly ‘not to roam’.

While toddlers watched, I grabbed my rake,

                But got no further then,

‘Cause Hazel shrieked; I had to run

                She’d fallen in the mud . . . again.

I fished her out and cleaned her off,

                A kiss and all was well,

Then turned just as another shriek,

                Told me Lin was stuck as well.

I’m sure by now you’ve realized

                I didn’t manage much.

With Lin caught in the tramp’line springs

                And Hazel eating chalk and such.

Four trips to bathroom, ‘Pee, potty now!’

                And squabbles over things,

And pouring sand in someone’s hair,

                And all the angst that action brings.

Searching the yard from stem to stern

For Linney’s missing shoe,

Then doing the whole thing o'er again

                Cause Hazel’s hat was ‘somewhere’, too.

With helping up and helping down

                And watching in between.

It’s no wonder that my work just sat,

                With little progress to be seen.

Last night when all were sound asleep

                And peace had been restored,

I looked out the window there,

                And sang my praises to the Lord.

For though my tools were strewn about

And no sign of success,

My time was so well spent, because

                Two little girls, my day did bless.

If you enjoyed this, order my book: Words: Life in Rhyme.

You know you want to . . .

Kitchen Clothes

Mom, with Chris and Jerry.
Mom's the goofy one in the middle.

Mom liked cleaning.
With six kids, one husband, assorted hired men and various other duties and hobbies, she did a lot of it.
A lot.
I think she did it in her sleep.
Certainly, she did it in ours. If we lay down on the carpet in the front room for a nap, we would be picked up and cleaned.
That's just how Mom was.
But, as with any demon cleaner, sometimes the clutter and rubble would get away from her.
Particularly if she was busy with a project and unable to follow us around, picking up and tidying after us.
I can remember two instances when this was brought hilariously to my attention.
The kids in the neighbourhood had been playing at my house.
I don't remember what we were doing, but it involved toys and games.
And mess.
After most of the kids had left, Mom came out of the kitchen and surveyed the detritus that can only be the result of many small bodies . . . having fun.
While she was standing there, Laurie, from next door, twitched her apron.
Mom looked down.
"You sure have a messy house, Mrs. Strin-gam!"
I don't know what Mom said in response.
Probably something tactful, knowing my Mom.
But the story lost nothing in the retelling.
Another time, George and I were playing under the kitchen table.
Yes. Under.
I know. Weird.
Mom was bustling around in the business area of the room.
She opened a cupboard.
And pulled out something . . . unexpected.
"What the . . . who put this underwear in my cupboard?!"
What she was holding was actually a pair of swim trunks.
Light grey.
With sharks printed on them.
But why quibble over details.
George and I stared at them.
Then laughed uproariously.
Mom snorted, folded them neatly, and carried them to their proper home.
We never found out who left them there.
Over the years, I've made up several scenarios that would account for it.
None practical.
Or believable.
But after that, at least once a week, George and I would hide something 'underwearish' (not a real word - I made it up) in Mom's cupboard and wait for her to find it.
Then laugh ourselves silly when she did.
Okay, we were little.
Things were funnier then.

There is an addendum.
I was busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning.
One of the myriad duties that accompany the care and feeding of six kids and one husband.
I set a pot in the sink and opened a cupboard door.
"What the . . . who put these dirty socks in my cupboard?!"
I had turned into my mother!
It's a good thing.

Sold!

There really aren't 20 mule teams inside. I looked.

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.
We had one TV channel.
And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.
Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.
And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.
He read stories and played music.
Just for me.
Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.
And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)
Each memorable by itself. And each enhanced by the ads woven skilfully between and throughout.
I loved the ads. Those wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.
Or whiter teeth.
Or better coffee.
We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and then answered by, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”
How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”
Or, “J-E-L-L-O!”
I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”
That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.
We simply couldn't do without it.
Mom had to buy it.
Or make it. Or do it.
The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens?
Mmmmm. Mom could do that.
The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware?
Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.
But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.
“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”
Moms are weird.
She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”
She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.
I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.
I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.
She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the minuscule driver and team.
I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from Playtex.And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.
Every time.
I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.
Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.
Mom probably can.
Moving on . . .
We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.
I also wanted the bowls they ate from.
Because.
She baulked at that.
She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.
Oh, occasionally, she tried to substitute some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.
I had seen the ads.

I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat and I liked the song.
'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, Jiffy pop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'
Okay, I have to admit it.
Ads worked for me.
It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.
Mom - and me - never would have survived.

Phun With Phones

Stringam Ranch.
Everything . . . except a phone

"Operator."
“I want to talk to Jody.”
“Number, please.”
“Six.”
Electric ringing.
“Hello?”
“May I talk to Jody?”
“Yes, one moment.”
“Hello?”
“Jody! We got our phone!”
It was the most exciting day of my life.
The Stringams. That weird family who lived at the back of beyond, had joined the twentieth century. The modern world had finally found its way to our door.
But therein lies a story.
The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the bustling metropolis of Milk River (pop. 499). The phone lines went as far as Nine Mile Corner, a bend in the road situated, astonishingly, just nine miles from the ranch buildings.
The phone company refused to take the phone lines any further. Why would people living that far from civilization need the convenience of modern communication?
Why indeed.
But Dad wanted a phone.
As the only veterinarian in the area, Dad needed a phone.
Dad was determined to have a phone.
Finally, he bought all of the poles and cable to run his own phone line.
He and the hired men spent several weeks installing said poles and cable the nine long miles to the ranch.
Voila!
The magical day dawned.
The phone company unbent enough to hook up our line to theirs. (And then proceeded to run many, many lines off of it, but that is another story.)
The family gathered around the large, wooden box.
It shrilled. Twice.
Two longs.
We stared at it.
Then looked at each other.
We had arrived.
From that moment on, the peace of the Stringam home was often shattered by the shrilling of the magical box in the hallway.
And the pounding of numerous feet as various denizens of the house sprinted to answer.
It was a whole new, and very exciting, experience.
Followed, soon after, by the discovery that, if one was careful, one could gently lift the receiver and . . . wonder of wonders . . . listen in on other conversations on the 'party' line that had nothing to do with you.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you why it was called a 'party' line.
My sister and I became the masters of it . . .
“Well, I'm sure she meant well. But I can tell you that Gloria wasn't very flattered.”
“Well, I can imagine. Poor Gloria!”
“Yes. I mean, I can only guess, but I would well imagine that being told that one was as big as a whale, albeit a pretty whale, wouldn't go over too well.”
“Well, I wish I'd been there. I would have given her a piece of my mind!”
“Well, Dorothy brought a yellow jellied salad with bananas in it that was just divine. I got her recipe!”
“That reminds me. I wanted to get Dorothy's recipe for her devil's food cake.”
“Oh, I have it, just wait a moment.”
“Ladies?”
“Umm, yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the 'phone.”
“Oh, sorry, Hank. Problems?”
“Yeah. I need to talk to Joe at the feed store.”
“Go right ahead. Grace? I'll get that recipe and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Mabel.”
This was fun!
Another conversation . . .
“Well, she was out half the night!”
“No!”
“Yes! Until midnight! And when she got home, Papa could smell . . . liquor on her breath!”
A sucked in breath. “Oh! What did he do?”
“Well, he wasn't happy, I can tell you! She's grounded for a month!”
“A month!?”
“Yes! And that includes prom and everything.”
“She might as well die right now!”
“Exactly!”
And another . . .
“Well, Doc, my poop looks like . . .”
We ended that conversation before it was begun.
And . . .
“Okay, don't spread it around . . . yet . . . but the Larsons are going to be away next weekend.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Jeff says his folks should leave about 6.”
“So what time does the party start?”
“Well, he has to do chores and tidy up the dishes, so 8:00 should about do it. He will beep the phone line twice when he's ready.”
“We'll be waiting.”
Finally . . .
“You have to be careful what you say on this line. Uncle Bob may be listening in.”
“I am not!”
It was the most fun we had ever had.

Until we were introduced to . . . The Prank Call.
Dun, dun, duuuun!
“Hello?”
“Is your 'fridge running?”
“Just a moment, I'll check.”
A pause.
Then, “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Well, you'd better go catch it!” Click.
Ah. the memories.
I don't remember the last conversation I had on the old party line.
I should.
Because now, phone lines are private.
And boring.

Cut-Throat I-Spy

We live a ten-minute drive from a large city.

A city that has more stores than our bustling little town.

Stores we occasionally need to shop at when we need something more than groceries.

Enough background . . .

We (Husby, Daughter, Granddaughter and me) were heading ‘into town’.

For a three-year-old, it is a long, exhausting trip.

A game of I-Spy was indicated.

For the first few turns, all went well.

Granddaughter would pose, “I spy with my teensy-tinesy little eye, something that is . . .”

You know the game.

She posed. We guessed.

We posed. Everyone guessed.

Then it was Husby’s turn.

He started out all right. “I spy with my little eye . . .”

But then it all fell apart, because he ended with: “. . . something that is red but not red like Mommy’s bicycle.”

There was a momentary silence in the back seat as this riddle was digested.

Then a high little three-year-old voice said, decisively, “That’s not right Grandpa!”

I want to emphasize the word ‘decisively’. Because nothing else better describes a little three-year-old playing a favourite game.

This statement was immediately followed by: “You’re out.”

What? No warning? No yellow card?

Straight to the red (but not red like Mommy's bicycle) card?

Huh.

Did you know it’s possible to be immediately ejected from a game of I-Spy?

By a three-year-old?

Well, it is.

Take note.

Oh, sure. They look sweet and innocent.
But give them a striped sweater and a whistle . . .

What's in a Name?

Mom and Dad, with Pimple Pants, Rusty, Jerry and Bert

Parents put a lot of thought and even prayer into the naming of their offspring.
Why, then, do they go to such lengths to never use those names?
My name is Diane. Mom loved that name, so, when I made my appearance, she was happy I was a girl. Now she could use it. Let's face it, 'Diane' for a boy just doesn't fit quite as well. But that's another story.
As a second name, she chose Louise, after my Aunt Louise. A really, really, sweet lady.
So, Diane Louise.
Works for me.
I called myself Tony. I'm not sure why.
My Mom's working name for me, however, was 'Pixie'.
?????
Occasionally, she would vary it.
“Oh, here's my little Pixie-Girl.”
Or, “What do you want, Sweet-Little-Pixie?”
I think it might have had something to do with my size.
Okay I know that, looking at me now, one would find this hard to believe, but, at one time, I was under height. And definitely under-weight.
Those were the days.
Sigh.
Moving on . . .
Later, when I was nine, I got my hair cut. Really short.
I loved it.
So did my Dad.
He changed my name to 'Mike'. I'm almost sure it had nothing to do with our dog. He of the same name.
Mom was horrified. “Mark! She has a perfectly good name. Use it!”
I know he was as bewildered as me. Ummm . . . which name? Diane? Louise? Pixie? Tony?
Are you beginning to see why I'm such a confused person?
So, 'Louie' I became.
????? again.
Mom retaliated by calling me, 'Diane'. For the first time in my life.
Then, my brother, George, got into the game.
His name for me was Bert.
Because.
Coming from someone whom Dad called 'Dard', and Jerry called 'Pimple Pants', I wasn't worried.
Rusty, or Chris as she had been christened, had no opinion.
Neither did Blair . . . er, 'Bare Blue', or 'The Great Root Blair'. Of course he was only two, so he could be excused.
And Anita was a baby. She was 'Sweetheart' or 'Sister'. One day to be known as 'Nutty Nita'.
Jerome got off easy.
Actually, that's a story in itself. He was always, 'Jerry' to everyone. Except when Mom got angry.
Then, he became Jerome Allen, or worse, Jerome Allen Stringam.
All the 'angry' names, as they are truly known.
But I've wandered from the point.
Which was me.
So, I've been through Diane, Louise, Tony, Pixie, Mike, Louie and Bert.
Now, my Honeybunny (don't ask) calls me, Honey. And my kids call me Mom.
Or grandma.
I'm so blessed.

Missing the Link

Ahh, Sinbad. Hero. Heartthrob.
Nightmare.

Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I'm hooked on them.
And have been since . . . well . . . forever.
In Milk River, we got movies twice a week.
First run movies.
Which was a real scoop for a town of 499.
My Dad told me it was because there were a limited number of prints and that the theatre owner in Milk River had been around longer than the bigwig in Lethbridge, so had seniority.
Yes. I’m sure ‘seniority’ is the word he used.
I only knew that we got all the cool movies first.
For example, when ‘Lassie Come Home’ was released, everyone in Southern Alberta came to Milk River to see it. I remember the theatre owner setting up rows of folding chairs all down the aisles and across the front.
Fire regulations were obviously in the conceptual stage in the late 50s and early 60s.
But the theatre was crammed full and everyone cried together when Lassie finally came home.
Lassie came to Lethbridge several days later.
Na-Na-Na-Na-Na.
But I digress . . .
Every Bonanza Day (Milk River’s fair day) the theatre owner would offer a free movie to everyone in the town.
Usually, it was the hit flick, ‘Santa Claus Meets the Martians’, but sometimes, he would get creative and offer, ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I don’t have to tell you which I enjoyed the most.
Or which one inevitably gave me nightmares.
I think it was the scene when my hero Sinbad and his men had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed themselves back into a tiny crevasse in a stone wall.The Cyclops, a little piqued that his lunch would have had the temerity to run, was hunting them.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad or one of his men, who would press themselves a bit tighter back against the wall.
This time, the creature would get him!
No. This time!
I was into it.
And it didn't seem to matter how many times I saw the picture, I still gasped and grabbed my Mom’s arm every time the huge hand reached.
At the end, with Sinbad safe once more and kissing the pretty girl, I would shiver with delight.
And that night and for the following several nights, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling-muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . not scary.
No, my dreams inevitably starred a huge gorilla.
And he was going to eat me.
Okay, yes, I know that they don’t eat little girls, but I was four.
And they had teeth.
Enough said.
My gorilla would chase me through our house and finally, corner me underneath the dining room table.
I would shrink back to the far side as that hairy, dark hand reached for me.
And missed.

Barely.
He would move around the table and bend over, looking at me. Then he would stretch out his arm again.
I would slide to the other side of the table and stay just out of reach.
This would go on until I finally awoke, dripping with sweat and whimpering.
And still, I was the first in line when the theatre showed ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I think the term ‘Glutton for Punishment’ was coined by someone who knew me.
Maybe the Gorilla.

Freezing Dracula

We just got a new freezer. Upright because we're no long able to stand on our heads to reach for things in the bottom of the good old 38 year-old chest style. And also because said chest style no longer froze things. 

A technicality, but an important one. 

I was reminded of my first freezer. The one my parents had from the time I was small . . .

Admit it - this strikes terror into your heart!

Mom and dad had a freezer.

Chest style. 26 cubic feet.

Whatever that means.

To me, that just meant that it was large.

They had had this behemoth since they were married.

It had far outlived its 'best before' date.

Oh, it still froze anything and everything that was put into it.

It just didn't stay closed anymore.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad's freezer, aptly named 'Frigidaire', sat in solitary glory, in the downstairs bathroom.

In a space created especially for it.

Beside the shower cubicle. And across from the 'porcelain throne'.

For years, it had been humming busily along, doing . . . freezer stuff. Keeping cold things cold. And slowly filling with ice.

Every couple of years, Mom would take out whatever food was left in it, stack it all neatly aside, and attack the ice build up with an ice pick and a butter knife.

Then, she'd scrub it shiny, replace the food and start the whole cycle over again.

It was fun to watch.

Okay, yes, I probably should have helped, but why deprive Mom of something she so obviously enjoyed?

Well, that she appeared to enjoy . . .

Okay, I should have helped.

Geeze.

One thing of note: when one closed the freezer, one had to be very careful to push the handle in till it clicked, or in the middle of the night, or some other equally inconvenient time, the door would open. All by itself.

With scary amusing results.

One afternoon, the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I was in the bathroom . . . minding my own business.

Without warning, the lid of the freezer opened.

With an appropriately eerie squeal.

Eeeeeeeeeeee . . .!

Now, my head knew that Dracula never really existed, except in the brilliant mind of Bram Stoker. And certainly, if he did exist, the last place he would appear would be in an old freezer.

In the middle of the bathroom of the Stringam ranch house.

By no stretch of the imagination would that be . . . romantic. (Does that word work here?)

But, no matter how frantically and reasonably my head was whispering all of this to my heart, my heart was still expecting Count Dracula to sit up, in all his dark majesty, maybe with a touch of real frost in his dark hair, and say, “Good evening!”

My business of the moment forgotten, I charged out of the bathroom, frantically zipping my pants as I flew.

Once in the family room, I stopped.

Sanity returned.

And I started to laugh.

And laugh.

I went upstairs and told my Mom.

She laughed.

One by one, we told it to every member of the family.

They all thought it was a huge joke.

Okay, we're weird.

I did remember to go back into the bathroom and latch the freezer properly.

Later.

And every time thereafter.

But now, years later, whenever I see a glistening white freezer, I half expect the door to open and to see Dracula sit up and smile menacingly at me.

It still makes me want to . . . mind my own business.

Gunmoke

Yummm!

Though we lived at the back of beyond, the modern world did at times intrude.
Certainly it was there in the tools we used and, increasingly, in our entertainment.
Sometimes, miraculously, in both at the same time.
It was that way when we got our first ever television.
I remember it well. A large unit which stood on its own stubby legs and emitted a magical black and white picture. Mom would turn it on in the morning and I would sit and watch.
The Indian Head Test Pattern.
For hours.
That picture was amazing. It never occurred to me that it was unchanging.
It was there. I stared at it.
Okay, I was really waiting for ‘The Friendly Giant’ to come on.
But Mom would craftily switch on the set long before the program aired and I was caught. Snared by the light that flickered from the magical box. Her little 'dear' in the headlights.
It was the first ever electronic baby-sitter.
What genius!
As time went by, we discovered that, with an enormous antennae perched at the very top of the tall tower on the hill which rose to the north of us, we could miraculously get . . . two channels. The variety: endless. The choices: unlimited.
Sundays were the best.
On Sunday evening, after dinner, there was a whole line up of goodies. First was The Disney's Wonderful World of  Colour (in black and white), followed by Ed Sullivan Show, and finally, if I had been really good, Bonanza!
Surprisingly, I watched it often. It was amazing how a week’s worth of mischief could be erased by the advent of Sunday evening.
Peace filled the land, and flickering light filled our living room. We were glued to the set, as adventure after adventure unrolled before us.
But at some time during the week was the best program of all. The one I waited breathlessly for. The show with the best and biggest of heroes. And the nicest horses.
Gunsmoke.
Sheriff Dillon was my hero.
But I loved Chester, with his limp. I just knew that, when I got older, I would marry Chester.
Okay, my knowledge was sadly lacking, but the spirit was there!
There was only one hitch to my love of this program.
My pronunciation.
I couldn’t say it.
If Mom made the mistake of telling me a wee bit too early in the day that it was a Gunsmoke night, I would walk around all day chanting, “Gunmoke! Gunmoke!”
And I do mean all day.
It probably got a little . . . irritating.
My Mom would try her ‘Mommy’ best to help me. She would kneel in front of me and say, and I quote, “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
I would stare at her and move my mouth with hers.
She would repeat. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
She would smile at me encouragingly. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
Expectant silence.
I would open my mouth.
Mom would nod.
“SSSgunmoke! SSSgunmoke!
I never really noticed her disappointment. I was too happily watching my hero of heroes.
Sheriff Dillon.
On Gunmoke.