For the Love of a Child

Been travelling again.
Finally found a WIFI connection!

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

When he was 19 years old, Husby went to live, for two years, in France.

It was an exciting time.  A time of growth, education and change.

And of new and varied experiences.

One of the latter had such a profound effect on him that it defined his life . . .

He and his companion were visiting with a woman teetering on the very brink of disaster.

She had been married. But to an abusive animal of a husband whose daily and favoured recreation seemed to be the use of his very manly fists.

With his wife as the target.

When he finally abandoned them, he left her and their two children completely destitute.

Desperate to feed her small family, the wife, after much tearful consideration, decided the best course would be to send her small son and daughter  to live in the very large and efficient orphanage some ten miles away. Knowing, even as she did so, that she would seldom, if ever, be able to even visit.

This was the situation when Husby came by.

At the end of their call, the mother tearfully begged them to make the ten mile trip to visit her children.

They agreed to do so, covering the distance fairly easily on their bicycles.

Husby clearly remembers his first glimpse of the massive building – a former hospital – now given to the housing and feeding of hundreds of young children.

There were children everywhere. Clothed and clean and obviously well-fed, but almost without adult contact.

He and his companion made their way to the main office and inquired after the two children. They were directed to one of the wings of the building. Carefully, they mounted stairs and counted doors, coming at last to a massive room.

The young boy – about nine – and his younger sister met them in that doorway.

Husby peered into the room and saw literally hundreds of beds placed in regimental order down each side of the huge room.

Here was home.

Clean. Tidy.

Institutional.

Their only adult supervision supplied by the nurse in charge and their daily contact with their teachers.

Husby thought of their grieving mother and his heart melted inside him.

He and his companion spent a few minutes chatting with those children, but in that few minutes, he was changed forever.

Into the loving, giving caretaker of any child – every child - he sees.

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

And sometimes, though the experience is painful, it’s for the good.

1950's Communication

As I was driving to the city for an appointment yesterday, I saw two trucks stopped on a frontage road paralleling the highway.

They had been travelling in opposite directions and had pulled over next to each other in the centre of the road so the drivers could chat.

It brought back memories . . .

In the fifties, in the sparsely-inhabited and phoneless outer ranchlands of Southern Alberta, neighbours didn’t see each other much. Busy with ranch demands and family life, they only got together at county shindigs and the occasional branding or barn dance.

Oh, they travelled the same roads to and from the nearest towns, but the chance of running into one another on those long trails was slim to nil.

When it did happen, it was cause for excitement . . .

A cloud of dust appears on the horizon, slowly coalescing into a dark spec. Then into a vehicle.

As it draws closer, said vehicle is recognized – a friend or person who is not yet a friend.

The vehicle slides to a stop in the middle of the road.

Your car does the same and you look out to see that the other person is already leaning on his crossed arms out his open window – ready for a chat.

Everyone in each vehicle crowds around their driver for a peek and a listen.

Inevitably, there’s a few minutes of chatter, beginning with: “Well, Enes! I haven’t seen you in dog’s years! How are you? The kids? And how’s Mark?”

And Mom’s answer: “Oh, everyone’s fine. Busy. You know.”

“Heading into town?”

“Oh yeah. This crew never stops eating. And I have to make a call at the hardware and the shoemakers.”

“Yeah, the missus sent me on much the same errands. Oh, she’d like to drop by sometime, if that’s okay.”

“I’m always happy to see her! Tell her to bring the kids down for an afternoon. They could go swimming.”

“Had any rain at the ranch? We’re so dry, the birds are building their nests out of barbed wire and the trees are bribing the dogs.”

“You still have birds? And Dogs?”

“Good one.”

This goes on for some time. Until one or the other realizes that they have to be somewhere . . .

Then it ends with: “Well, better get back. I’ve got ice cream and we all know how much it likes this hot weather! Could you please tell Mark that I’ve got those bulls that need testing and we still haven’t done our vaccinating. Maybe have him stop by?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And you and the kids come by any time! The pot’s always on and you know you’re always welcome!”

The driver shifts into gear and, with a wave, heads off down the road.

We continue our trip, with us kids all swivelled around to watch the truck disappear into another cloud of dust.

Communication.

On the prairies. 

In the fifties.

It was always personal, neighbourly and eye-to-eye.

And you took it when you could get it.

Where you headin'?

P.S We kids often re-enacted the whole visiting-on-the-road scenario. When playing with toy cars, we would inevitably stop beside someone else and discuss plans - which usually included going for groceries.

P.P.S. It was even funnier when we were playing with model planes. Did you know those guys can hover? Well, when they see someone they know, they can hang there for inordinate amounts of time and discuss the weather.

Apex

The ranch

Production sale day.

The highlight of the Stringam Ranch year. Black Friday in our ranching world.

The catalogs have been printed, painstakingly hand-addressed (ugh!) and mailed out.

All over the world.

The cattle have been groomed, trimmed, tucked in and kissed good night.

The ranch site has been mowed, scoured, repaired and painted.

Now it sparkles like a new penny in the dawning sun as the crew slowly climbs out of bed.

Some (my parents) might not have seen their bed.

Arrivals start

Breakfast is on the table and Mom is a blur of motion as she tries to do three things at once.

A shout from the barnyard. “They’re here!”

A glance out the window. Sure enough, the first of a long line of vehicles is moving slowly up the ranch drive.

From then on, the day is a series of impressions.

Snapshots.

Greeting and handshaking.

Parking cars and the trickier trucks and trailers.

Handing out catalogues.

Tending the coffee and the all-important donuts.

Making sure the auctioneer staff are comfortable and cared for.

Dusting the bleachers, ready for customer bottoms.

Hearing the shouts and movement from the pens behind the sale barn.

The warm up patter from the auctioneer on the stand as he gathers the chatting, laughing, gesticulating crowd.

An open gate and the first animal, an outstanding heifer, in the ring.

The auctioneer assistant, armed with a cane, moving her about.

Oohs and aahs from the crowd as they thumb their catalogues, looking for this entry.

More chatter from the man with the mike.

Bidding.

The smack of the gavel.

Another open gate and the now-nervous heifer gladly disappearing.

Gates open.

Gates close.

Shouts from the pens as stock is shuffled into catalogue order.

Animals in.

Animals out.

Pounding of the gavel.

Talk and laughter as the auctioneer plays with the crowd.

The final animal, a 2000 pound bull, in the pen.

Final strike of the mallet.

“Mark and Enes Stringam would like to thank all of you for making this day special!” the auctioneer says. “And to invite you to come and enjoy a nice home-grown beef dinner on them!” A grin. “It should be good, it’s out of the neighbour’s bull!”

Much laughter. The crowd is well aware of the almost fanatic fence maintenance required by the ranch owner.

And the unlikely possibility of anything four-legged crawling through with mischief/romance in mind.

Everyone moving down the hill toward the long tables set out in front of the ranch house.

Tables groaning with mountains of Stringam beef, salads, rolls, and every other good thing.

A buzz of contented ‘people noise’ as food is consumed.

Sounds of vehicles as buyers take turns backing up to the loading chutes.

Visiting. Laughter.

The crowd slowly dwindling, along with the sunlight.

Finally, peace.

The mercury-vapour barnyard lamp shining on the faces of a family of exhausted people, collapsed in chairs in front of the house.

And in other news:
I'm famous! Well . . . almost . . .
This picture appeared in a neighbouring city's newspaper! And I didn't know until someone posted it to Facebook.
How exciting is that?!

Little Furry Critters

Blair in winter. Just add mouse...

Guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

We had little fury critters that were common around the ranch.

They seemed to be everywhere.

When a grain bin door was opened they scampered away to safety. When we pulled bales from hay stacks, ditto.

A little background . . .

Every summer I had the pleasure of baling and stacking hay.

Every late fall and winter I had the pleasure of feeding hay.

Most of the time we baled an alfalfa grass mix but on some occasions we baled green-feed (an oat crop that is cut when green and just headed out.) Creative name, eh?

Cows really like green-feed and so do little furry critters.  Consequently, you see lots of them when you feed green-feed bales. 

On with my story . . .

One day in the middle of winter, dad and I were loading green-feed bales.

The snow had just fallen and we had a lovely white blanket everywhere.

I was pulling bales from the stack and throwing them into the back of the truck where dad was stacking them for the trip to the field. When each bale lifted, critters would skitter to the safety of another bale.

Suddenly, I got a funny feeling.

A little warm furry critter had somehow found his way up my pant leg.

Umm . . . yikes.

As the critter was slowly making his way up, I managed to grab him.

Now I had a predicament.

It was inside my pants leg. Which were inside my coveralls.

I could only stop the critter by grabbing it from the outside of said pants and coveralls.

I didn’t want it to bite me so I grabbed and squeezed.

Then I tried to shake it down my pant leg.

It wouldn’t shake. 

I turned to Dad. He of the years of experience and endless knowledge.

Surely he had some wise method to take care of this very unwanted predicament.

His advice? “I guess you’ll have to take off your pants.”

I had only this to say:

Stack yard!

In the winter!

In the snow!

In my underwear!

Yeah. Dad had a good laugh.

Happy Barn Burning

A repost for my birthday . . .

What was left of the barn

October second. My birthday. A time of reflection and renewal. Time to reminisce.
It was exactly 60 years ago today that I made my way into the world.

Feet first.

Fourth of six children and second daughter for Mark and Enes Stringam. A pretty exciting time for everyone. Well, for me at any rate.
I grew, healthy and strong in a loving, ordered world. My birthdays approached, were celebrated with varying degrees of success, and then left behind. First. Second. Third. For my fourth, something special was planned. Very special. And very secret. No one knew what was coming.
No one.
Early on the morning of my fourth birthday, a frantic phone call jolted my Dad out of his bed.
“There is a rather major emergency at the ranch. Would you possibly be able to come out?”
“Emergency?”
“Erm, yes. The barn is on fire.”
“On my way.”
Or at lest that is how I picture the conversation. It was probably something more in the way of . . . “EEEEEEE (high pitched screaming)!”
And Dad, “AAAAAAAAAH (Not quite so high pitched)!”
And that was the total exchange. But I digress . . .
So dad jumped into his truck and drove the twenty miles to the ranch in record time.

Really record time.
The only other occasion that would warrant such reckless driving and high speeds was the imminent arrival of yet another small Stringam . . . but that event was months away.

He arrived just after the fire department.
By then, the barn was well on its way to being a memory. Flames had consumed most of it and the remainder was burning purposefully . . . and cheerfully . . . in the early morning light.

Acrid smoke coiled across the barnyard, obscuring the crowd gathered to watch.

Tears filled most eyes. Some because of said smoke. Others due to the fact that their most precious possessions had – literally – gone up in it.
One hired man stood there, in his longhandles, shaking his head helplessly. It took some time, and the appearance of the attractive ranch cook, for him to realize that his attire was . . . less than conventional. He beat a hasty retreat to find something a little more . . . conservative . . . to wear.
And not just the humans were concerned.

The smaller denizens of the barn had been rudely awakened and forced to – quickly – find new lodgings.

One mouse, intent on that very errand, scampered from the mass of smoking debris that had been his home, and into the pale morning light.

He stopped. Something was very wrong. There were two humans standing directly in his path. He worked it through his little mouse brain, then darted back into the smouldering pile.

Better the evil you know . . .
There was great loss. Two litters of pigs - with sows, several horses, calves. Not to mention saddles, tack and equipment. None irreplaceable, but all valuable.

Oh, and my birthday.

Somehow, in all the melee, that was lost as well. Not that I cared. I was happily perched on the fence, just within toasting distance of the glowing fire, watching the spectacle. Not really understanding what was going on. Knowing only that, in four years of mischief, I’d never been able to come close to this excitement. Never.
The barn was rebuilt. Bigger. Better. More modern. And my . . . birthday was never forgotten again. Every year, Dad called on this date to wish me a . . . Happy Barn Burning.

With music.

And the dance.
There is a codicil. Twenty years ago, my barn burned down. Our losses were not as enormous as the ‘original’ barn fire. We lost two little pigs and some equipment. But the most important fact was the date. April first. My father’s seventieth birthday. I had to phone to wish him . . . Happy Barn Burning.
Payback is so sweet.

Further news:

Huge grass fires in Southern Alberta in 2012 consumed all of the outbuildings on the old ranch.

Including the 'new' barn.

It was a landmark.

Devastating.

Toungled Tangs

Coy-Bow. Sans guns . . . 

My Dad had a speech impediment.
Sometimes, he said things backwards.
Oh, he could control it.
He just chose not to.
An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.
And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.
For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:
Rock a bay bybee
On the tee trop.
When the blind woes,
The radle will crock.
When the brough bakes,
The fadle will crawl.
And down will bum caby
Adle and crawl.
You're right. That's not even English. But that's how I thought it went. And Dad said it made just as much sense his way.
I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them. Our conversation was as follows:
Me: What are you singing?
Them: Rock a Bye Baby.
Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Them: Let's play somewhere else.
As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.
Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.
And that my favourite ice cream wasn't scutterbotch.
Others had to find out for themselves.
My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother. The imminent arrival scheduled for, at most two weeks, stretched to six, leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.
It was a happy six weeks . . .
Michael was playing cowboys. And had dressed accordingly.
He had his gun and holster.
His boots.
His overlarge hat.
And his training pants.
He was ready.
Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.
Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style. "Stick 'em up!"
Oh, he was good.
Dad looked at him. "What are you? A coy-bow?"
Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .
"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"
"Coy-bow."
"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.
Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."
Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"
That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"
"No! No! Gow-boy!"
Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."
Michael had outlasted his grandfather.
A noble feat.
I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time. It was the exception rather than the rule.
And he always correct us afterwards.
But it was fun while it lasted.

Almost Parenting

Mark, right and Erik, with Grampa Tolley in the background

To complete his master's degree, my husband moved our (then) little family to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.
Also know as Winter-peg or Windy-peg - either one is apt.
And I found myself, for the first time, living in a large city.
There was the usual adjustment period.
Okay, I'm lying, there was no adjustment 'period'.
I never did adjust.
For eight months, my (then) two sons and I hardly left the apartment, unless accompanied by my husband.
Funny how grocery shopping can start looking like a 'date'.
I was homesick for my prairies and open spaces.
I did get a lot of reading and sewing and cleaning done. And my boys discovered the wonder of 'cable TV'. I soon learned just how much they watched . . .
Grant had taken us for a drive. He had an errand to run and his family was suffering from 'cabin-fever', a common enough ailment in Canada in the winter.
No, really. You can look it up . . .
Grant was making a quick dash into the mall.
Now those of you who know my husband know that a quick dash anywhere, isn't.
Quick, I mean.
The boys and I were sitting in the fire lane in front of the Zellers store long enough to celebrate birthdays.
Yes, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture. It was quite a while.
Erik was buckled into his car seat directly behind me, happily blowing bubbles and Mark, his older brother by eighteen months was opposite him, with the clearest view of the storefront.
I was reading.
Again.
Mark was chanting something, just loud enough to be heard.
It took a couple of repetitions before I noticed.
I put down my book.
"Mark, what are you saying?"
He repeated it.
"What?" Sometimes, deciphering almost-three-year-old speech takes a Master's degree. And where was the one person in our family with such a degree???!
"Say it once more."
"Zed-E-Eleven-E-R-S."
What on earth was he talking about?
I looked where he was looking.
The front of the Zellers store.
Suddenly, it hit me.
He was reading the letters over the front doors.
Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S.
Well, almost.
It made perfect sense! If you were two.
What a clever boy!
Genius.
And I had raised him.
Okay, for a very few seconds, I did a bit of back patting.
Very few.
Then reality set in.
The only reason he knew all of those letters was because of his copious amounts of time spent watching Sesame Street. On a good day, he could catch the program twice!
Funny that my son's showing me how advanced he was, showed me, at the same time, what a neglectful parent I had been.
I'd like to say that things changed.
And they did.
Afterwards, when Sesame Street came on, I was watching with him.
Before long, we were nearly on the same reading level.
A few more months in Winnipeg and I might have caught up to him!

School With Frogs

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast
Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.                             
                                  by George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.
Because it is.
But I didn't learn it until grade twelve.
Biology class . . .
We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year. The part that I, the daughter of a veterinarian, found most fascinating.
But that many of the other girls (and even some of the boys) . . . didn't.
We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.
Great! Field trip!
But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned poem.
We thought it was cute.
And clever.
And easily folded into paper planes. Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.
Philistines!
Then we set out.
The walk down was enjoyable. Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.
And boys. (We were speaking of biology . . .)
It didn't take long for us to reach the pond. We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.
Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' little things.
In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.
One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket. The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.
Then, to work.
We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.
Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.
It was an interesting morning. And far too short.
When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.
Or so I thought.
Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention. Closer attention, even, than I was.
There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."
Payback.
And a fitting tribute.

The 'S' Word

She of the foul mouth . . .

There are creative ways of making one's anger and frustration known.

Even when one is little . . .
My friend's two eldest children were having 'one of those days'. When arguments erupted at regular intervals. And no one was happy.
Periodically, one of them would go to their mother and say, “Sister said the 'S' word!”
Now their mother was an adult.
I probably don't need to point that out.
She knew what the 'S' word was. But had no idea how her children had learned it.
Appropriate punishment was carried out.
A few minutes later, the other child was at her side. “Brother said the 'S' word!”
This went on for some time.
Finally, totally exasperated, their mother pulled both of them aside and asked them where they had learned the 'S' word.
“Well you and Dad say it!”
Now my friend lived in a non-cursing home. Expletives were kept strictly within certain bounds. She knew she had never, in her entire life, said the 'S' word.
She shook her head. “When did I say it?”
“Mom, you say it all of the time!”
“Really?”
“All the time!”
Finally, she realized that there was one question she had not asked.
“Kids, what is the 'S' word?”
Together they chorused, “Stupid!”
Ah. Okay. Not a desirable word, but not quite what she was thinking, either . . .

We, too had our forbidden family curse words.
Mom and Dad had a problem with children abusing each other verbally.
Stupid was a no-no.
But we were raised on a ranch.
With hired men.
Whose language was, how shall I say it? . . . colourful. And it was inevitable that we should pick some of it up.
I remember the first time we heard our little sister curse. It shocked my younger brother and I to our toes.
That's a lot of shock.
We stared at our tiny sister in disbelief. Had we heard what we had just heard?
Mom was gonna have something to say about this!
We ran to tell her. Let's face it, getting each other into trouble was the thing we liked doing the most.
Because.
“Mom! Mom! Anita said something bad!”
Mom stopped what she was doing and followed us to where the guilty party stood.
Feet planted.
Chin out.
Bristling with anger and defiance.
Mom knelt next to her.
“Anita, what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Anita, Diane and Blair told me you said a bad word. What was it?”
“I didn't say anything!”
“Anita!”
Finally she sighed. "Stupid Poop,” she said.
Her two-year-old ears had heard what the hired men had spouted and processed it to this?
There was hope for the world after all.

Breaking Bread

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
Bruised but triumphant, the winner would carefully carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, the sacred placing of the bread was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Soon, the instant the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won. Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but tastier.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread. (Okay, remember what I said about manners? Forget it.) Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .

Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .

Hot Hand

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friends

Mom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with their friends, the Jones - their nearest neighbours.

At the Jones’ ranch fifteen miles away.

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steadily losing battle.

Another hand was dealt.

And Casey loudly voiced his displeasure at yet another 'bad' hand, then sighed heavily and played his bad hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel suggested refreshments and got to her feet. She bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom followed her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.

“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Moments later, Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands and announced that their game had officially concluded.

Casey had thrown the cards into the stove.

Yep. Something had to be done.

Good thing he was on hand to do it.

Untrained Sneakiness

Caitlin Age 3

Nine o'clock pm.
Six happy, grubby little bodies scrubbed clean and clothed in freshly-laundered pajamas.
Six sets of shiny, white teeth brushed.
Six heads of hair neatly brushed.
Six stories read.
Six songs sung.
Six sweet, heartfelt prayers.
Six (times six) hugs and kisses.
And six children finally tucked up between fresh, clean sheets.
All are asleep.
Whew!
And now, their parents can relax, knowing that their happy, healthy and very active children have been properly prepared for a much-needed night's rest.
They can put their feet up and rejoice in a few stolen minutes of peace and calm. To visit together and catch up on the day's events.
All is well.
Then . . .
Little footsteps. Crossing the bedroom. Coming up the hall. Going into the kitchen.
The squeak of a refrigerator door.
Talk in the front room ceases. Two semi-alert parents are listening to the clandestine sounds.
Finally, the suspense is too much.
"Who's in the kitchen?"
Silence. A three-year-old intellect is working frantically.
"Who's there?"
"Ummm . . . not me!"
Healthy and clean and ready for bed? Yes.
Sneaky and clandestine and ready for a life of prevarication and/or crime? Not so much.

25

Yes, it's blurry.
Photographing children and wildlife. It's the same . . .

For two weeks, we’ve had our youngest son’s two children (ages 3 years and 16 months) in our home while their parents were exploring places warm and sunny.

I should probably mention that our home already houses four adults and one resident three-year-old.

It was, for the most part, a marvellous time!

Twenty-five things we learned:

1. Children are like the ocean. You never want to turn your back.

2. The decibels reached by the average toddler during normal conversation cannot be measured by normal means.

3. Enthusiasm and unhappiness are often expressed with the same ear-piercing wail.

4. Also hunger, I’m-not-tired, and he-took-my-toy.

5. Three-year-olds and scissors should never make even a passing acquaintance.

6. Just because they’re approximately the same size, two three-year-olds don’t always see eye-to-eye.

7. The definition of a toddler is someone two feet tall with an arm reach of eight feet.

8. The head is equipped with a solid bone for a reason.

9. Bike helmets should be a standard component of every outfit (see above).

10. Just because someone is looking at you, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are also listening.

11. Hiding places turn easily into finding places. A little too easily. Sooo . . .

12. Nothing is safe.

13. A toddler can – and will – eat their weight in food.

14. And, conversely, can live on air for an inordinate amount of time.

15. If you turn on the TV, the only time they notice is for the first three minutes.

16. And when you shut it off.

17. The bathtub is an excellent place to play.

18. Except when it has water in it.

19. If one wakes up in the middle of the night, one needs the company of a sibling.

20. And/or at least two grandparents.

21. If a diaper says 8 to 10 pounds, that really is all it will hold.

22. The amount of time one needs to hurry a toddler to the potty is proportionate to the amount of time it takes for them to realize they have to go and telling you.

23. There's nothing quite like a small herd of children greeting you enthusiastically at the door when you get home.

24. A toddler hug makes anything better.

25. A toddler kiss, ditto.

Their parents are home from a wonderful trip. Everyone has been happily reunited.

Grandma is going back to bed.

The Scary One

Me (red and white striped shirt).
And three of my cousins.
My head was learning stuff. Who knew?!

I learned a few things as I was growing up.
Okay, I know that comes as a surprise to many, but it's true.
Some lessons were fairly severe, but a few, and even some of the most life-changing were quite (for want of a better term) painless.
I was fifteen. And had been staying with my best friend and nearest neighbour at her parent's ranch, fifteen miles from my own.
It was a glorious week of riding, playing, getting into her father's hair.
Oh, yes, a glorious week.
It was time to go home. Her Dad needed the break.
It was a fairly easy trip when one was merely negotiating the fifteen miles of dirt roads between our ranches.
But my parents had moved, for the winter, to our town home in Milk River a further twenty miles away.
A trip of approximately an hour, if the road conditions were favourable. Which they often weren't.
Originally, my Dad had planned to pick me up when he came out to do a vet call.
His plans had changed.
And now, so had mine.
Sigh.
I would be riding with my best friend's uncle.
The scary one.
For an hour.
Just the two of us.
I suddenly didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I wanted to stay with my friend.
Or die.
Neither choice was given to me, however.
Amidst much hugging and goodbye-ing, I was pushed out the door and parked in the uncle's truck.
Doomed.
I curled into a little ball in my corner and tried to pretend I didn't exist.
We started out, the silence thick about us.
After a while, the uncle reached out and turned on the radio. A short time later, he turned it up.
Now, at least, we had music to fill the emptiness.
But I found myself getting more and more uncomfortable. My parents always claimed that visiting made the time go by faster. I definitely wanted that to happen.
Finally, I thought of a question about his ranching. I asked it.
He answered. Quite politely, I might add.
I asked another.
Again, he answered. With even more detail than the last.
This went on for some time. He turned the radio down. Then down again.
Then finally shut it off completely.
And it was then I realized that we were . . . visiting. And that he was funny. And not nearly as scary as when we got into the truck.
Huh. Who knew?
The trip turned out to be infinitely shorter than I had anticipated. In fact, we got so animated in our conversation that we were parked in my family's driveway before I even realized that we had reached the town.
And I learned that all you need to do to get a conversation going is to ask a question about whoever you're with. If you are genuinely interested, they like to talk about themselves.
I also learned that, when you are visiting, no one is as scary as they first appear.
Even someone else's uncle.

City Girls

City Kids!

My cousin was visiting.

For two whole weeks.

She was a city girl but the only difference between a city girl and a ranch girl was location.

Right?

I took her swimming in the river.

She got sand in her suit.

She taught me ballet.

I fell over a lot.

I taught her how to swing from a rope in the hay loft.

She got a rope burn on her hands.

She taught me how act out stories.

I . . . actually, I liked that. A lot.

I tried to get her to ride the pigs.

She stood outside the fence and made a face.

And held her nose.

She taught me gymnastics.

I fell and knocked the air out of me.

I decided it was time to teach her my most favourite thing.

Horseback riding.

I dragged her out to the corral and pushed her up to the top rail. Kicking and screaming.

Her, not me.

Looking back, I can see the differences between the two of us as we perched up on that fence.

The country and the city girl.

Me, in my inevitable shirt and jeans.

She in her white slacks and blouse and light blue sweater.

Even a fool would have found it obvious.

I wasn't a fool.

Well, actually . . . never mind.

The horses were drowsing in the corral.

She eyed them suspiciously.

“They're okay,” I reassured her. “C'mon.”

Trustingly, she followed me down and into the corral.

I picked out the nearest horse, Coco. “Here. This is a good one.”

“But she's so huge!” Her eyes got bigger as she drew closer.

“She's gentle!” I gave the large, coco-brown mare a reassuring pat. The horse reached out and lipped my hair. “See?”

My cousin moved beside me. “Okay. What do I do?”

I showed her how to stand beside the horse and grab a handful of mane. Then I cupped my hands, told her to step into them and boosted her up. At the proper time, she swung her leg.

She was aboard.

The excitement must be coursing through her! She must be palpitating with accomplishment and eagerness and a sense of 'the world is mine'!

I stepped back.

I must admit that everything my cousin did was graceful. Her walking. Her dancing.

Her falling off a horse.

It should have been all right. The horse wasn't even moving, after all.

But she didn't land on the ground.

Instead, she fell onto something much . . . softer.

I don't think she was pleased.

I guess some people have a problem with large, steaming piles of horse buns. Road apples. Horse puckies.

To the uninitiated, manure.

But then people are so weird.

She got to her feet. And looked down at her light blue sweater.

Her heretofore pristine light blue sweater.

Then she looked at me.

Uh-oh.

I never got my cousin back up on one of our horses.

Instead we spent the rest of her stay dancing. Doing plays and gymnastics.

Reading.

While Mom got the marks out of her sweater.

Before her mom saw them.

City girls.

Pffff.

Re-Unioning

I live in the past.

It's peaceful there...

The group. Husby is in the back row. With the whiskers.
Donny is directly in front of him.

Reunions are so much fun.

Spending hours - sometimes days - remembering the fun times.

Oh, and sometimes commiserating together over bad times, too. But even those, shared, become good memories.

Husby and I spent the last weekend immersed in his reminiscences. He and twenty or so of his schoolmates, as part of a grand twelve-class reunion, assembled for a wonderful couple of days.

Husby was speaking to his high school best friend, Donny MacLean. The conversation went something like this:

Husby: Remember our trips to the dump?

Donny: The TVs!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was the sixties.

Two fourteen-year-old boys were looking for something to do.

They decided it was a good day to ride their bikes over to the dump. Just to see what amazing things they could discover.

In case you’re wondering, this was a favourite pastime. Forty years BE. (Before electronics.) And before the town dump was regulated. Or controlled.

And before the invention of germs.

Or good judgement.

Or danger.

Husby was carrying his twenty-two rifle. (All of the above.)

Because.

The two of them scrambled around for a while.

Then discovered a heap of old TVs dumped and forgotten by who-knows-who.

To me, such a thing would have suggested storage units.

Or display cabinets.

But these two boys were a little more knowledgeable.

And knew about vacuum tubes.

And, more specifically, what would happen when something disturbed or upset said tubes.

Gleefully, they lined up the TVs.

Then they backed away to a safe distance. Roughly a quarter-mile.

Carefully, the first shooter took aim.

Pulled the trigger.

And the two of them stared at the spot where the TV used to be.

The bullet had struck the screen (actually the front of the vacuum tube) and the entire thing had exploded.

I do mean exploded.

A sheen of shiny dust that used to be a glass object, and a few splinters of wood littered the area.

The two boys stared.

Then grinned.

And took aim at another TV . . .

The two grown men laughed together over this memory.

And their survival.

P.S. More stories to come.

Work Boot Tutorial

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.
He had slaves.
At least that is how his children saw it . . .
Dad worked hard doing . . . ranch stuff.
It took him most of the day.
Every day.
When he came in at the end of it, his recliner looked really, really good and it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.
Great motivation.
Silly little things like removing one's work boots weren't nearly big enough. Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.
That's where we came in.
His six little, willing slaves.
Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.
Fortunately, this was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.
Don't get the wrong idea. There was no kicking involved . . .
The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.
The standing smaller person would turn their back, straddle said foot and grasp the boot.
That's where the large foot came in.
While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.
Small person would be pushed away from the large person and the boot would slide slowly from the foot.
Until, at last it would drop to the floor.
The boot, not the foot.
Operation completed.
The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.
And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have had to move out of his chair.
Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)
This operation continued nightly until his children grew up/got smarter.
Then he was on his own . . .

We had all moved away from home.
Dad had started wearing shoes that he could remove by himself.
One day, when we were visiting, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.
For the rest of us, it was a short stroll down memory lane.
But without the work boots.
It was almost as good.