Old. And Adding

A poem. Because it's Saturday.

Our good friend Shirley. Gramma and her little beans.

Great Gramma and her Little Bean

Had the greatest day you’ve ever seen.

They’d talked and laughed, played games – all sorts,

Built puzzles and a blanket fort.

Played Lego, making things just right,

Baked treats and had a pillow fight.

Played knights and forts, read stories, too,

Dressed up, and sang. (To name a few.)

Then, happily exhausted, they

Decided to slow down the day.

Great Gramma’s Little Bean and she

Were nestled down quite snug-i-ly.

Then LB stroked Great Gramma’s hair,

And to her own, she did compare,

“Yours is white!” said the little girl,

Gently touching her own curls.

Then the soft, plump hand the lines did trace,

That clearly showed on Gramma’s face.

“You’re old,” she said, with honesty.

“You’re so much older, Gram, than me!”

Great Gramma smiled, as Grammas do,

And touched the lines she too well knew,

She said, “The things you say are true,

I’ve lived a lot more years than you!”

“I’m four,” said Little Bean with pride.

And a grin that went from side to side.

“I’m eighty-six,” Great Gramma said.

She sighed. “Somewhere ‘tween birth . . . and dead.”

Then LB tipped her head askew,

And grappled with this thought so new.

And then she said, when she was done,

“Great Gramma, did you start at one?”

Neighbour Haven

Supplier of kindliness. And food.

The Stringam ranch was a large spread situated some twenty miles from the town of Milk River, Alberta.

The land stretched for miles along the Alberta-Montana border.

The buildings were nestled in a picturesque prairie valley somewhere in the middle, surrounded by tall cliffs and the lazy sweep of the south fork of the Milk River itself.

It was nine miles to the nearest neighbour.

But we got there as often as we could.

Or, at least we kids did.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In my day, the school bus service ended at Nine-Mile corner, a triangle of crossroads exactly – you guessed it - nine miles from the ranch.

This necessitated the driving, twice a day, of a vehicle to intercept said bus.

Okay, it was something unheard-of in this day of school bus service to your door, but it was a fact in the sixties.

Mom was the driver of choice, with occasional relief work by Dad.

But that’s only a peripheral to my story . . .

Less than a mile from that corner, at the end of a long driveway, was the Sproad farm. Our nearest neighbours.

Ben and Clestia Sproad were an elderly couple who raised sheep and milk cows. Their daughter had married and moved away and they had settled into a routine of farm work, household duties, grandparenting and kindliness.

Their home was a haven of peace, cleanliness, love and fabulous German baking.

Every day, after the bus had deposited our little group beside the road, and if our intercept vehicle was not in sight, we would excitedly begin the long trek toward the promise of smiling faces and wonderful food.

We didn’t make it often.

Usually, the ranch station wagon would come skidding around the corner in a cloud of dust and slide to a halt beside us, before we had taken much more than a few steps.

But occasionally, if Mom had been delayed, we managed the ten-minute walk and actually grabbed the brass ring.

Or, in this case, the freshly-baked reward for our efforts.

Served happily by Mrs. Sproad, and accompanied by her soft, cheerful chatter.

“Oh, Di-ane! You are getting zo big. Zoon you’ll be taller than me! Here. Have another.” And she was right. By the time I was in sixth grade, I had passed her by.

On these special days, Mom would appear, rather red-faced and spilling apologies. “Oh, Clestia! I’m so sorry! I got tied up . . .”

It didn’t matter. Mrs. Sproad would laugh and offer something to Mom as well.

Soon we would be on the road back to the ranch.

Still tired from the day.

But with bellies filled with yumminess and hearts filled with cheer.

Nine-Mile corner no longer exists.

And the Sproads have long been gone.

But I can still taste that baking.

And feel the love.

Unin'Habit'ed

Sisters

Also a Sister

In our church, everyone is addressed either as 'Brother' or 'Sister'.
It gives a fun, family feel to the congregation.
And to the whole 'attending church' scenario.
It was something I was raised with.
Women my Mom's age were Sisters.
Men were Brothers.
Life was simple.
Moving forward twenty years.
Still attending church.
Still addressing each other as either Brother or Sister.
But now, there was a new generation, calling me Sister.
I should point out, here, that when you work in the children's organization, or Primary, you instantly gain rock-star status if your class members meet you outside of church.
Hence, you can be wandering in the mall and a young voice will scream out, "Mom, look! It's Sister Tolley!"
And I do mean scream.
Back to my story . . .
One day, I was shopping with my children, plus a few.
Because who wants to go shopping with just your family?
A cry suddenly rattled the rafters of the local Safeway.
"Sister Tolley! I didn't know you shopped here, too! Look! Look! It's Sister Tolley!"
And then a chorus of "Hi, Sister Tolley!" "Sister Tolley, look what I'm wearing!" And the all-important, "Sister Tolley, look what I can do!"
It was adorable.
I oohed and aahed over their clothes and accomplishments and our two groups separated, intent once more on whatever it was that had originally brought us into the store.
One of the boys who had come along for the amazing experience of shopping with two parents and ten children turned to my son and whispered, loudly, "Wow! I didn't know your Mom was a nun!"
Okay. Not something you hear every day.
Or ever.

A Round Tuit

When a man says he’ll do something, he’ll do it.

There’s no reason to remind him every six months or so.

My son is a great husband and father. Hard-working. Attentive.

Present.

Busy.

He doesn't always get to things right away.

But he does get to them . . .

His wife had taken a package of pork chops out of the freezer and set them to thaw in the fridge to prepare for dinner.

Plans changed.

The chops were shoved toward the back.

One morning, she opened the door and a slight ‘off’ odour wafted out.

The pork chops had ripened.

It wasn't a good thing.

She asked her husby to take the package out to the compost.

He agreed to do so.

Two days later, the chops were still there.

And the smell was getting stronger.

Finally, tired of waiting, she grabbed the package and marched it out herself.

Muttering imprecations under her breath.

Okay, that’s how I imagine it . . .

Then she got out a fresh package of chops and put them in the fridge to prepare for dinner.

Déjà vu.

As dinner approached, she went to the fridge to retrieve the package.

It was gone.

Puzzled, she looked again through the fridge.

No chops.

And no one else in the house knew anything about them.

Sigh.

Finally, she called her husby at work.

“Did you touch those chops I had in the fridge?”

“You told me to take them out. So I did.”

Yep. He doesn't always get around to it on your time line.

But he does get it done.

Boot(Root)legging

Mark. With his friend.

Our family loves root beer.
Homemade.
And our eldest son can sleep through anything.
These two facts are related.
Maybe I'd better explain . . .
My Husby loves to make root beer.
And he's very good at it.
I got my first taste of his homemade brew on our wedding night.
Neither of us drink alcohol, so he had brought several bottles of the magical elixir in his suitcase so we could toast each other.
It was . . . fun.
And thus began a family tradition.
I should explain here that root beer making is an exact science requiring skill and knowledge.
And large containers.
Grant used a garbage pail. A new one, purchased for that exact reason.
Just so you don't get the wrong idea.
Moving on . . .
He would add the precise amount of water, then the elixir, then the sugar.
And finally, the yeast, the vitally important 'makes everything else work' ingredient.
Then the stirring.
And finally, the fun part, the bottling.
One important aspect of root beer making is the two to three weeks of 'construction' time.
It must sit quietly in a warm spot during that all-important period.
That's where our son, Mark, comes into the picture.
Mark was our first-born. He was little.
We kept his room warm.
Perfect for a couple of cases of root beer bottles waiting to 'become'.
Now, the biggest problem with home-brew is that, as the brew ages, the pressure inside the bottle builds. And after a few uses, some of said bottles may become weak.
And you can't tell, by looking, which are so affected.
You can probably guess what happens then.
Pop! Fizz!
Mess.
Ugh.
It was very early morning. Grant and I were still soundly asleep.
The glorious rosy sun was just rising on another perfect prairie morning.
It's my story, I can remember is how I want.
Suddenly, there was a dull 'popping' sound.
Then another.
We were instantly awake. And knew, just as instantly, and with the instinct of new parents, what those sounds meant.
Our root beer was ready.
And we had a couple of weak bottles.
And, more importantly, they were posing a very real threat to our baby, sleeping mere inches away in his crib.
Imagining projectiles of glass flying everywhere, we scrambled from our bed, threw open the baby's room door and charged inside.
Before you get too excited, I should explain that things weren't as bad as we had imagined.
Whew.
The bottles had obviously become weak at the base of the neck.
They looked as though they had been neatly beheaded.
The neck and lid were sitting right beside each bottle.
Our sleeping baby was fine.
Visions of flying glass faded from our minds and we immediately turned to the next problem.
Clean up.
Jabbering excitedly, we gingerly disposed of the broken pieces and hauled the remaining cases from the room.
Then proceeded with the scrubbing and vacuuming.
Finally satisfied with our efforts, we prepared to leave the room.
It was then I realized that Mark hadn't made a sound throughout the entire . . . loud . . . process.
I peeped into the crib.
He was still rosily, happily, soundly asleep.
Snoring slightly in that cute 'baby' way.
Huh.
My Husby and I learned several things that day:
1. Re-use your root beer bottles judiciously.
2. And don't ferment your root beer
3. In the baby's room
4. Unless he's a great sleeper
Cheers!

Accidental Discovery

For once, he’d listened to his wife,

How to ameliorate her life,

And he went without delay,

To take her on a holiday.

But as he hastened to comply,

In proving he was one sweet guy,

He left his glistening lab in less

Than pristine order, I confess.

While those two hurried who knows where,

One petri dish abandoned there,

A part of his criteria,

Was moistened with bacteria.

When they returned, that fateful dish,

Was not as clean as they could wish.

Bacteria, possession had,

And things were looking rather bad.

Except one place had not been ‘got’,

No icky growth upon that spot.

Instead, a little bit of mold

Had landed there and taken hold.

Beating off the icky stuff,

And proving it had strength enough,

Its presence brought discovery,

And new ways for recovery.

I guess you’ve guessed by now that guy

Was christened Fleming from on high.

And penicillin, started small

S’the best discovery of all!

After that, we note that he

Made no startling discoveries.

His wife, by his chaos dismayed

Decided she would hire a maid.

Aversions 101

You want me to eat what . . .?

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.
Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.
We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.
Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.
There's a difference.
But what a scheme!
My kids tried to use it, too.
Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.
His particular nemesis?
Beans.
Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.
My personal favourite.
And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.
Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.
Mmmmm.
From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.
Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.
Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.
Grant: “Father in Heaven.”
Mark: “Father in Heaven.” (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)
Grant: “We thank thee for this food.”
Mark: “We thank thee for this food.”
Grant: “Because it's so yum.”
Mark: “Because it's so not yum.”
Laughter (Grant).
More laughter (Mom).
Grin (Mark).
And so it went.
For 19 years.
At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.
He excitedly prepared to go.
I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”
“What?”
“Bean Town.”
His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”
“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”
He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.
“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”
“Oh.”
He went anyways, brave boy that he was.
And returned two years later.
We met him at the airport.
We had sent our little boy.
We brought back an adult.
The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.
His response?
“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”
Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .
Mark eats beans today.
Mostly to show his children it can be done.
But he doesn't wage much of a battle.
His oldest daughter Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.
Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

Mom Spit

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'.
Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.
But especially tacos.
Mmmmm. Tacos.
There was only one problem.
I couldn't get them hot enough.
I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.
Not enough.
Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.
Still not enough.
A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)
Almost there.
Seven drops.
Perfect.
And that's the way I ate them.
The entire nine months.
My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.
None.
I think I burned it off.
This is relevant.
Moving on . . .
After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.
Mmmmm. More food.
I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest.
Toasty and comfortable.
Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.
My dinner arrived.
I looked at the loaded plate.
Then at my baby.
I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.
But that would take effort. And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.
Hunger decided. I would just eat.
Over the baby.
It was just like being pregnant again.
Sort of.
All went well.
The mushy peas went first. That was easy. I just held the bowl close and spooned.
Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.
Mmmm.
And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.
With ketchup.
Paradise.
Dip.
Munch.
Dip.
Munch.
Then, that fateful dip.
Splat.
Right on the top of my baby's bald head.
Oops. What to do?
I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.
Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.
Done.
I happily went back to eating my chips.
That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table.
Looking at me.
A frozen expression of horror on her face.
Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.
I remember being a trifle embarrassed.
And briefly uncomfortable.
Then I shrugged.

In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex. I even heard that Mom spit on a Kleenex would get rust off a bumper.I guess it's all a matter of perspective. Hunger and convenience win.

Jam Test

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.
It categorizes you.
Marks your place in the family.
Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.
It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)
It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.
I'm talking about jam.
Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.
More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.
It is the family 'Maginot Line'.
You can be on one side or the other.
Both of which are tasty.
Or so I'm made to understand.
But wander over to the other side only in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.
My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.
His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.
Oops.
I mean - raspberry.
And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.
Mine.
Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.
And prefers apple jelly.
We don't talk about him.
Moving on . . .
Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.
I should point out here that it is a grueling test.
The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.
And I do mean breathlessly.
If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been know to pass out cold.
I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.
But I digress . . .
The prospective member of the family makes a choice.
And my side cheers.
It's true.
Every single one has chosen raspberry.
Until our last son-in-law.
Who chose . . . poorly.
I maintain that he was coached.
Money might even have changed hands.
So the score now stands at : strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.
And one son who will not be mentioned.
Now for the next generation.
Our eldest grandchildren are ready.
Time to make a choice . . .

Close Brush

Du-dum. Du-dum. Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-du-du-duuhhh!

He’d been away at work.

Ten days on.

And now he was home for his four days off.

The kids were in bed and he and his wife were preparing for a similar eventuality.

He was brushing his teeth.

His toothbrush was lying, conveniently, at the edge of the sink.

He grabbed it and shoved it under the water from the tap.

Then added a small strip of toothpaste.

And proceeded with the business portion of the endeavour.

At first, the pleasant taste of mint suffused his tongue.

Then . . . something different.

Floral?

Was he tasting something floral?

The scent wafted up through his nostrils.

Okay, this was like no toothpaste he had ever experienced.

He pulled the brush from his moth and looked at his wife. “This tastes funny. Why would I taste floral?”

His wife clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot.”

He slowly lowered his brush into the sink, his eyes now riveted on her. “What did you forget?”

“William got hold of your toothbrush and was dipping it in the laundry detergent cup. I left your brush beside the sink so I’d remember to rinse it out!”

And . . . we’re home.

Close Encounter With Stupidity

When Dad was talking.

I was listening . . .

Every. Square. Foot.

The annual production sale at the Stringam ranch was the highlight of our year.

It’s when we had the most visitors.

The most traffic.

The most income.

And the most work. Both before and after.

Before, we had the cattle and the ranch to prepare and beautify.

After, we had the deliveries.

Our family hauled cattle to nearly every square foot of North America.

Every. Square. Foot.

It was a slow, exacting task.

Driving the length and breadth of this continent in a truck, hauling a boatload of bawling cattle. Mapping out places to stop each night so the animals could be released, fed and watered.

Then loading them up the next morning to continue the journey.

Yep. Slow and exacting.

And it wasn’t without its own adventures - due to oversight, wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, misfortune.

Stupidity.

Or all of the above.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad were trucking cattle through Alberta.

They had only been on the road a few hours.

And were, ironically enough, just passing an auction market where a cattle sale was ongoing.

A truck pulled out.

Pickup. With the tailgate down.

This will become significant . . .

Spotting the slow-moving vehicle, Dad pulled into the other lane to give it a wide berth.

For several seconds, the two of them occupied close quarters.

Dad and his heavy rig in one lane.

The man and his pickup in the other.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the pickup decided to pull over.

Directly in front of Dad.

The collision was immediate.

And inevitable.

Remember when I mentioned the pickup’s tailgate?

Well, that comes into play here.

Dad hit that tailgate going sixty miles per hour.

Both vehicles jammed to a halt.

Then the drivers, both unharmed, got out to inspect the damage.

The grill of Dad’s truck had been caved in, rupturing the radiator and radically displacing the fan and other important features.

Interestingly enough, though, the gate had slid with surgical precision between the headlights and the running lights of the truck, leaving all four intact.

So the front of the truck had been crushed.

But without cracking a single light.

Okay, well, it was interesting to us . . .

Dad scratched his head and looked at the driver of the pickup. “Why did you pull over in front of me?” he asked.

“Oh, I was sure you could stop,” was the reply.

Dad blinked.

The man repeated the statement to his insurance company.

Who also blinked.

And paid.

Dad was involved in two automobile accidents in his life.

Both resulting in considerable vehicular damage.

And neither of which was his fault.

I wish I could say the same about me.

Sigh.

Meeting the Neighbours

Stories with Dad . . .

See?

It seemed like a good idea.

Movie night in town.

A bit romantic.

A bit relaxing.

And a much-needed break from two tiny children.

Mom and Dad piled into the car and headed out.

Unbeknownst (Ooo! Good word!) to them their neighbour to the west also thought it was a good night for a break. The difference was that she and her friends decided to take their break at the local bar.

And they had begun a bit earlier. In fact, they were taking last call, just as my parents were starting out.

Their two worlds collided, quite literally at the town bridge.
Oh, and you should probably know: DUI hadn't been invented yet.

Milk River, the town, nestles closely to Milk River, the river. On February 28, 1952, there was only one bridge spanning the foaming torrent - okay, the frozen-over, snow-covered mass of ice.

This bridge was sturdy - iron bolted to iron bolted to concrete – and built to withstand all sorts of abuse.

Good thing, too.

There was only one problem. It was a narrow bridge. One car at a time, thank you very much.

Mom and Dad were approaching from the south.

Carlights ahead told them that someone else was approaching from the north.

No problem. Dad slowed his vehicle.

The car opposite did the same.

As Dad was much closer, he took that as a sign that he should continue.

He drove onto the bridge.

Then realized that the car coming toward them, was still coming toward them.

The two of them met at the far side.

And not in a good way.

The driver of the other car, in a warm, invincible glow derived from her time spent with friends at the local bar, decided that, though it had never happened before or since, two cars would fit nicely on the bridge.

She was wrong.

Her car hit the bridge support hard enough to shake up her passengers.

Surgically remove a wheel.

And knock out her own front teeth.

The car then spun around and neatly caved in the side of Mom and Dad’s car.

Dad quickly determined that Mom was uninjured, then jumped out and ran over to the other vehicle.

The driver’s face was so swollen and bleeding from her forcible connection with the steering wheel that Dad didn't even recognize his neighbour. Now panicked, he ran to the theatre a quarter of a mile away to use their phone, quickly calling the police.

Then he ran back.

I should mention, here, that the road across that bridge is a major Canadian route. Part of the Alaska Highway. On a quiet evening in 1952, the fact that it was completely blocked didn't even raise an eyebrow.

In fact, no one noticed.

Okay, major route is only a subjective term.

Back to my story . . .

Mom and Dad did what they could for the passengers of the other car.

The police arrived and alternately helped and pried.

Finally clearing the road for any possible future travellers.

The passengers received medical care.

And everyone limped home, surprisingly (except for the missing teeth) uninjured.

Mom and Dad missed their movie.

But that was okay.
They were unscathed.

And reality is far more exciting.

Gift Horse

There’s an old saying, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’.

Now you should know that horses, as they get older, show it mostly in their teeth.

The older the horse, the more outward sloped the teeth.

I’ll talk more about this later . . .

We once received a gift horse.

Okay, well, it was a yellow Chevette.

But it was a gift.

And had several 'horses'.

The car was . . . old.

Rust spots bloomed like a garden.

The doors hardly closed. Or if they did, hardly stayed closed.

Or you couldn't get them open.

The internal organs alternately belched or squealed.

There was, literally, no back floor on the driver’s side.

And pieces quite frequently dropped off, made scraping sounds on the pavement, or detached altogether, only to be run over by the vehicle that had lost them.

Case-in-point: The muffler. It dropped to the ground during an early-morning commute and the car lurched suddenly up on one side as the wheels ran over it.

The car had one thing going for it. It had a new engine – put there by our good friends, the former owners. People who then made the magnanimous gesture of presenting it to us.

I'm quite sure you are wondering why they would do such a thing. (Because they had finished school and had made the recent move to newer, or at least less rusty.)

And why we would go on driving our 'testament to rust'? (We were still poor college students with four kids and little means of support.Who needed all the help we could get.)

So ‘Rusty Yeller’ made the daily commute to college with my Husby.

Often, they would sit in traffic, cars around them humming or growling happily.

While this car made its convincing impression of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Without the cuteness.

Or magic.

This went on for several months.

Finally, my Husby neared graduation. He would soon have a Master’s degree under his belt.

It was time to move up a peg on the whole ‘commuter’ scale by selling the car.

We weren’t asking much.

Just pay for the ad and the car is yours . . .

No bites.

We tried to give it away.

Still no takers.

Finally, Husby took to leaving it parked at the college with the keys in it, hoping to entice some desperate, or at least near-sighted, student into taking it for a spin.

A long spin.

Nothing.

Oh, come on! Vehicle theft had reached near epidemic proportions on that campus!

Obviously, the students were a bit . . . judicious . . . with their choices. Choosing cars that were, oh I don't know . . . road-worthy? 

Not the car, but you get the idea . . .

Sigh.

We finally got rid of the car.

Traded it on a push, pull or drag sale.

I think we even got $500.00!

So, back to the gift-horse scenario.

And the looking of said horse in the mouth.

In the usual sense, it means that one shouldn’t start to find the faults in a gift.

In our case, we did look.

Saw the new engine. 

And ignored the rust spots and obvious problems which later proved . . . rather important.

My lesson? Don’t bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Let the rust and disease put you off right from the beginning.

The Idiot Sundae

This . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

And finally, this.

Dad loved telling this story. Of his first day as a father . . .

He had just left his newborn daughter and her mother sleeping happily at the hospital.

The newly-minted father stepped out into the sunshine and grinned.

He needed to celebrate.

He stood there for a moment.

Then it hit him. What better way to celebrate then with a dish of ice cream at the Spudnut Shop?

Soon he was standing in the familiar café, studying the menu on the wall.

Hmm . . . he’d always wanted to try the Idiot Sundae.

He took a deep breath and grinned.

Perfect!

He stepped to the counter and placed his order.

“Just take a seat, sir,” the soda jerk said. “We’ll bring it right out.”

He did.

And they did.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the Idiot Sundae was a concoction of twenty large scoops of various flavours of ice cream. With all of the fixings.

All. Of. The. Fixings.

And one spoon.

The . . . platter . . . was brought out.

And slid carefully onto the table in front of him.

Heaven.

Another grin as he picked up the spoon.

And started working his way through the melting mound of deliciousness.

He did well.

One scoop after another disappeared.

Finally, there were only three scoops left.

He stared at them.

Three scoops.

He groaned.

He.

Just.

Couldn’t.

Do.

It.

He dropped the spoon in defeat.

So close.

So very close.

And today, almost 65 years later, he remembers those three scoops left melting in the dish.

And wonders.

Was he an idiot for leaving them?

Or just an idiot for ordering in the first place.

You decide . . .

Snow Forecast

George and Me.
One of us was smart . . . and the other has her hair in curlers.

I never was a particularly timid child.
In fact, if one were searching for words to describe me, 'timid' probably wouldn't have even been considered.
Boisterous. Cheerful. Loud. Noisy.
These all would have been correct.
But timid?
No.
And yet, there were certain times when 'timid', even fearful could have been used with complete accuracy.
Let me explain . . .
It was the fifties.
We had a TV.
And one channel which came on the air at 10:00 in the morning and left the air at midnight.
I often watched as 'Oh, Canada' played in the morning. Because I had already been watching the Indian Head test pattern for half an hour, waiting for Friendly Giant.
I never got to hear the playing of 'God Save the Queen' at midnight. Because, let's face it, I was four. By that point in time, I had been in slumberland for hours.
Moving on . . .
When the TV station was off-the-air, we had 'snow'.
And not the good kind.
White, yes, but that is where all similarity ended.
It was static-y.
And, when your brother turned the volume up loud . . .
Scary.
Said brother discovered this early. (He says he had been watching when I discovered it.
Let's just say I've erased that memory.)
And he used it often.
If he was playing in the living room and didn't want any Diane type company, he would turn on the TV, confirm quickly that there really was nothing on, and turn up the volume.
Whereupon (good word) I would run, shrieking, from the room.
Heh. Heh. Heh.
Mom couldn't get after him because he hadn't said or done anything to me, personally.
Simple.
Genius.
Fool-proof.
And the room was cleared for another half-hour of uninterrupted fun.
Until Diane forgot everything that had just happened and ventured, again, into the front room.
TV. Volume. Repeat.
So you see where the word 'timid' comes in.
Unfortunately, the word 'brainiac' never applied.

Mother of the Year

The only surviving picture of Andrew

Ranching is wonderful.
Most of the time.
You get to spend your days outdoors, working in the pure, sage-stuffed air.
See the heat shimmer on the tops of hills.
Watch the prairie grass bend in the breeze.
You witness births and new life. See groups of calves, and sometimes their mothers, cavort and snort and play.
And see the milk cow try to run with the deer.
You can bury your face in your pony's thick, warm winter coat and just breathe in his 'horsey' smell.
You have long, wonderful talks with family members as you ride to or from.
And while you're working together.
It's a peaceful and serene existence.
And the scenery breath-taking.
But occasionally, it gets pretty gritty.
There are disasters.
Pain.
Death.
But even these can result in something beautiful.
Let me explain . . .
As occasionally happens, a young heifer (cow that hasn't yet produced a calf) was inadvertantly 'exposed' to a bull.
She caught. (Became pregnant)
But something went wrong.
Perhaps because she was so young. Perhaps because she had some physical and undetected abnormality.
Whatever the reason, she was dying and there was nothing that could be done to save her.
And her calf was just days away from being born.
My Dad had to make a quick decision.
He decided to take the calf early and then put the suffering mother out of her misery.
Fortunately, in times like these, a trained veterinarian can work very, very quickly.
One life saved.
Another let go.
And we had a new little bull calf.
An extremely healthy and active little bull calf.
I called him Andrew.
Because.
But Andrew didn't have a mama.
Normally, this doesn't present too much of a problem.
You simply adopt the calf onto another mama.
It isn't easy, but it's worth the effort.
Unfortunately, there were no 'mamas' available.
Bottle feeding was indicated.
Now any of you who have bottle fed a puppy or kitten or other young animal know that it's a time-consuming and constant thing.
Not so with calves.
They only need to be fed three or four times a day.
Fairly simple to work around.
And fun for the kids.
So we dug out our bottle and formula and gave our little man his first feeding.
He sucked strongly. A good sign.
On to the next hurdle.
Finding him a place to bunk.
Firmly rejecting our son's offer of his room, we decided on the corral.
There was only one problem.
The corral already had an occupant.
Old Bluey.
Bluey was an older appaloosa mare, gentle and slow.
Her mottled black and grey hair gave her a distinct 'blue' colour.
Thus the name.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Back to the problem . . .
We decided that Bluey probably didn't propose much of a threat to our little Andrew.
We carried the calf into the pen and set him down.
He stood there for a moment.
Blinking.
Then he spied Bluey.
Bawling loudly, he headed towards her.
She stared at this little apparition.
And moved away.
He kept on coming.
Again she moved.
This went on for some time.
Finally, deciding that Andrew would be all right, we left them together.
A few hours later, I took a new bottle of formula to our little orphan.
And received the surprise of my life.
There stood Bluey, with the calf beside her nursing loudly.
Nursing?
I should point out here that a horse is generally considerably taller than a cow.
Certainly, Bluey was taller than Andrew's mother had been.
In fact, to simply reach the mare's udder Andrew had to stretch as far as he possibly could.
But he was doing it.
And Bluey was letting him.
It was a miracle.
Another thing I should mention is that a calf is a lot rougher while nursing than a colt. Calves get very 'enthusiastic'. And if the milk slows down, they butt their head into the cow's udder.
Not so with colts. They are quite gentle. Even mannerly about their feeding.
I probably needn't point out that Andrew was a calf.
And an extremely enthusiastic one.
I watched as he butted his head into Bluey's udder. I could almost feel her wince.
She raised her leg and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she lowered her leg and let him nurse again.
It truly was an amazing sight.
Throughout the summer, between bottle feedings, Bluey nursed Andrew.
Once, we left the calf in the corral and took Bluey out to bring in the herd, intending to capture them in that same corral.
As we drew close with the herd, someone opened the gate.
Little Andrew came running out, searching for his 'mother'.
And bawling loudly.
Bluey nickered back at him anxiously and he quickly found her and took up a position at her side, following along happily.
Eventually, in the fall, all the calves were weaned, taken from their mothers and put into the feedlot together.
For a day or two, there was a lot of bawling and angst.
Then they discovered the feed troughs.
And discovered, too that they had very short memories.
Peace was restored.
Bluey, too, resumed her peaceful life as though it had never been interrupted.
There is an addendum . . .
I checked Bluey's udder once while she was with her little adopted boy.
She had no milk.
None.
She had done all of that 'Mothering' with an empty udder.
The pain must have been exquisite.
But she did it.
Cheerfully.
Yep. Definitely a gold medal performance.

Work Hazards

Which is more hazardous to your health?
This?

Or this?

Two little ten-year-old girls had been given an assignment.

Then left alone to do it.

Mischief happens . . .

My family was raised on a large cattle ranch.

Dealing with cows (and the myriad tasks that follow them) was our daily life.

And when our annual sale/production day approached, work increased as not only the cattle, but the entire ranch must be presented in their best light.

My little sister, hereinafter called ‘Anita’, and her friend, Jo-Ellen, had been given the assignment to sweep out the sale barn - a large building built for the sole purpose of exhibiting cattle, one-by-one, to scores of people seated in the bleachers.

Said people were then expected to ‘bid’ on said animals.

On sale day, that building was the hub of all activity.

And, incidentally, sale day was the most exciting day of our entire year.

Moving on . . .

These two little girls had already had a busy morning. You have to know that we were a family of firm non-smokers. The only cigarettes and/or other smoking paraphernalia that ever came onto the ranch, came in visitor’s vehicles. These two little girls had spotted a packet of cigars in a prospective buyer’s car.  They had stolen borrowed liberated two cigars from it.

I know. What were they thinking?

And now, in sole possession of the sale barn, they neglected their duties to take turns pretending to be either ‘auctioneer’ or ‘buyer’. The one would take a seat at the high auctioneer’s booth while the other would light her cigar, sit on the bleachers, and ‘bid’.

Anita was the first ‘buyer’. She puffed at her cigar in her best ‘I’ve-watched-them-and-I-know-how-it’s-done’ manner, and nodded at the auctioneer at salient times. Then they switched places and Jo-Ellen assumed the buyer’s duties, cigar and all.

After a while, the two of them decided they had better get to work. Sweeping.

They pushed a load of straw and dirt out into the barnyard.

And that’s when Anita lost what little remained of her breakfast.

Oh, man she was sick.

And then the same thing happened to Jo-Ellen.

The two of them crawled up into the bleachers and collapsed. For several minutes, they sat there, wondering what on earth had happened that both of them became so sick.

So suddenly.

They concluded, finally, that it must have something to do with sweeping.

And/or buying/selling.

Either activity is obviously hazardous to one’s health.

Just FYI.

The ring-leader . . .

Eating Snake

It'll get you!

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour.
Just saying . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.