A Parenting Fail

Chris, Jerry and Dad.
Background: The RIVER
Eeeeek.

Sometimes, in our best efforts to raise and protect our children, we blow it.

My Mom was amazing, but even she had her moments . . .

My eldest sister, Chris, was a wanderer.

On a ranch, that is never good.

Mom often was forced to perform herculean feats in order to keep her small daughter safe. (See here.)

She tried many different things.

And, on one occasion, resorted to ‘reason’.

With less-than-stellar results.

Three-year-old Chris was very fond of wandering down beside the river that flowed past the ranch house.

At times, Mom had to physically pluck her daughter from the very jaws of death.

Finally, she decided to try something that would encourage Chris to police herself.

She told her small daughter that it was dangerous to walk near the river.

Because there was a giant octopus that lived there.

And it would get her if she got too close.

Chris stared at her mother wide-eyed.

“Octopus?”

“Octopus,” Mom said knowledgably.

“Oh.”

Mom went back to her chores, happy in the knowledge that her little girl would now stay far from the wicked river’s banks.

A few minutes later, she looked up to see that, not only had her daughter disappeared, but her even smaller son.

Sighing, Mom began her search.

Even though she knew that the probability of the two of them heading for the river with the ravening, slavering octopus living there, her footsteps just naturally turned her in that direction.

Good thing, too.

Because it was there on the river bank that she found her intrepid duo.

Chris had toddler Jerry’s hand and was leading him along the bank.

Encouraging him to look out into the water and see if he could spot the octopus.

Yeah. Parenting fail.

Where Little Cows Come From...

Oh, the things you learn from the top rail...

It’s spring.

Finally.

The time of new growth.

And baby animals.

Farm kids are exposed to the mating habits of animals early in life.

They just don’t always understand what they are seeing . . .

I was sitting on the top rail of the corral fence with my Dad.

Some cows, and a few bulls, just brought in from the nether pastures, were milling about below us.

Suddenly, one bull reared up.

Right onto the rear quarters of a cow.

I stared at them.

Weird.

The bull slid down.

And another took his place.

Really weird.

After three or four re-enactments of the same scenario, I turned to my dad.

“Daddy.” Indicating the bull. “What is that cow doing?”

Where did YOU think they came from?

Dad got a bit red-faced.

This was the fifties. Sex hadn’t been invented yet.

“Erm. Well . . . he’s resting his feet.”

“Oh.” Yeah. I was fairly easy to fob off in those days.

Today’s kids are also educated.

At least as well.

Case in point . . .

My friend raised rabbits.

Beautiful, lop-eared, gentle, soft, furry rabbits.

And by raised, I mean hutches in the back yard, carefully and successfully monitored.

With the help – or at least close scrutiny - of her children.

Babies (kittens or kits) came with amazing regularity.

These are rabbits we’re talking about, after all.

One day, a school friend asked the daughter where the baby rabbits come from.

“From the mommy,” she said, knowledgeably.

“Oh,” said the friend. “How does that happen?”

“Well,” the daughter said, “The daddy rabbit gets on the mommy rabbit and shakes her!”

We've come so far.

What can I say but CUTE!

Blair's Prayer

 . . . or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were out doing . . . ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly . . . umm . . . playing quietly.
In the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Cause Blonde is Better

See? Blonde.

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) did not like blondes.

And my Mother-in-Law hated beards.

These two statements go together.

Just give me a moment . . .

So . . . back to my FIL.

No one knew why he did not like blondes.

And they did ask.

“Dad! Were you dumped by a blonde?”

“Dad! Did some blonde do something horrible?”

“Dad! Could I borrow twenty bucks?” Oh, wait, that has nothing to do with this.

Back to my story . . .

He passed away without ever sharing the reasons for his aversion.

But his family knew it well.

Whenever one of his five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, the first question was, invariably, “She’s not a blonde, is she?”

To which the invariable answer was, “Oh, no, Dad! She’s not a blonde! Definitely not a blonde!”

Even if she was.

The keys would be produced.

The date embarked upon.

All was well.

Yep. FIL’s aversion was well known.

Sometimes a little too well known.

His wife had an aversion as well.

To facial hair.

Here it comes . . .

If her husband ever suggested that he was considering growing a beard, she had the perfect answer.

“I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

Even the remote possibility of beard growing disappeared instantly.

Genius.

In his later years, he did make allowances.

I mean, he personally picked me for his son, and I had the white-blonde hair only found in people of Swedish heritage (like me) or points north.

And, in fact, two of his sons married blondes.

Call it parental opposition.

But the mystery remains.

The only other statement we ever heard from him concerning blondes was, “You know why blondes have more fun, don’t you? Because they get dirty quicker!”

Hmm . . . was that a hint?

Honey-do

Server and Servee.

I'm a people-pleaser.

Or try to be.

Call it a weakness.

But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.

Most of the time, it's fun.

Occasionally, not.

Let me tell you about it.

When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.

I worked hard at it.

Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.

I had meals ready at meal times.

Kept the laundry done.

Cleaned the house.

Ran errands for him.

This went on for some time.

Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.

And probably should.

Case in point:

Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.

True story.

Can everyone say “gullible”? Everyone?

This went on for nearly three years.

Then, one day, we were at a reception.

My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.

Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.

The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”

Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.

And that's when I hit him.

Oh, not hard.

Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.

And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.

Ha!

There.

I said it. See how much I've learned?

Erm . . . can I take that for you?

The (Fire) Circle of Life

That's Entertainment!

On the ranch, in the 50s, we burned our garbage.
It was the only option.
Each week, the trash cans were collected from every room in the house
Carried out to the burning barrel.
Emptied into said barrel.
And set alight.
It was an exciting job.
Okay, well, it looked exciting to me.
Probably because the task came with an 'age appropriate' rating.
And I hadn't reached that age.
Sigh.
I would scurry through the house, collecting bins for whoever was assigned.
Then help them lug everything to the trash barrel.
Then stand back and watch as they . . .
 . . . LIT THE MATCH.
Oooooo!
Most of the time, it only took one.
I was more than fascinated.
The lit match would be lowered into the barrel.
A curl of smoke would issue forth.
Then the first of the flames.
There was nothing . . . I repeat nothing . . . more exciting.
And I had been to movies.
And watched Bonanza on TV.
Okay, well, maybe I'd better exclude Bonanza which, incidentally, started with its own fire.
For years, I watched, enviously as, first my parents, then my older siblings got to light the match.
Slowly, the day approached when I would be trusted with the all-important job.
And then, it was here.
"Diane, would you please burn the garbage?"
Eeeeeeee!
I carefully collected every bin.
Toted them all down to the barrel.
Chose one at random and dumped its contents.
Chose another.
And another.
And finally, surrounded by empty trash cans, the magic moment.
I lit the match.
And dropped it carefully into the accumulated trash.
It winked out.
Huh.
I tried again.
Same thing.
This was harder than it looked.
Most of a book of matches later, I discovered that I needed to choose a piece of paper as my first victim.
Light that, then let it light the rest.
Ahhh!
Finally, I had a blaze.
I stepped back and watched proudly.
My first trash fire.
Okay, I admit it, you have to look for opportunities to shine in this life.
Within a few weeks, I was an old hand at 'burning the trash'.
I could collect, empty and light with the best of them.
And use one match to do it.
And then the gloss wore off.
Dad: "Diane. Time to take out the trash."
Me: "Can't someone else do it? I'm watching Woody Woodpecker!"
Blair: "I'll do it!"
Dad: "Blair's too little. He can help, but Diane has to light the match."
Me: [Huge sigh.] "Okay. Fine."
Blair: "Yipee!"
The fire circle of life.

Hockey. Live.

Or something similar.

It was my first ‘live’ hockey game.

Okay, I know that all of them are live.

And live-ly.

Let me re-word . . .

It was the first game I attended where I was actually sitting in the bleachers.

It’s a lot more exciting when one is surrounded by fans.

And can feel the cold air on one’s cheeks.

Just FYI.

My friend Colleen RHF (rabid hockey fan), whose boyfriend was minding the net for our team, was explaining things to me.

I glanced at her occasionally as she spouted such foreign terms as ‘face-off’ and ‘icing’ and ‘high-sticking’ and ‘penalty’. But mostly, I just sat and happily watched the game not knowing--or caring--who was winning.

Colleen was not as . . . indifferent as me.

She wasn’t very tall, but she could sure make her presence felt, bobbing periodically to her feet to launch criticisms at whichever aggravating party was . . . aggravating. As in: “What’d’ya call that, Ref?! Are you blind?!!!”

But as loud as she was, her behaviour had nothing on the woman sitting in front of us, next to the boards.
I should probably mentions, here, that this was in the pre-safety days when nothing stood between you and the flying puck.
Nothing.
Back to my story . . .

Now that woman was vocal.

She used words I’d never even heard of, expertly launching them at the ref with practiced ease.

I tried mentally editing out the more profane. But if I’d been successful, the woman would have been sitting there with her mouth open and nothing emerging.

Halfway through the game, she became a little more pro-active.

And that’s when things really got interesting.

After flinging a particularly incendiary little ball of nastiness at the long-suffering ref, she leaned on the boards and waited for the man to skate past.

She didn’t have to wait for long.

If you know hockey, you know that this game goes back and forth. A lot.

The ref skated by, intent on the next play, whistle in his mouth and hands and feet working frantically.

The woman leaned over and swung her purse at him, knocking him clear into tomorrow. I say that because it was ‘tomorrow’ before he woke up.

He was carried from the ice with reverence and care.

The woman was escorted to the hoosegow with neither of the above.

When officers opened her purse, they discovered a bottle of whisky.

Full.

The ref made a complete recovery, living to ref again.

Never saw that woman again, though. At least not at any hockey games.

But the lesson was learned.

Alcohol can kill you.
In the right purse.

The Ceremony of the Tucking In

Success!

Routines are important.
Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.
The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.
Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.
Teeth brushed.
Hair combed.
Jammies donned.
Stories read.
Family prayer said.
And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.
The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.
I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".
Okay, maybe I will.
Moving on . . .
One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.
Our daughter, Tiana.
She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"
Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.
Then would follow the boosting into bed.
The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.
And the ever important good-night kiss.
Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.
At least until the post-tucking parade began.
One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.
Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.
But notice had been given.
Dad was already on the move.
He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.
Then resumed his chair and his reading.
Tiana re-appeared.
"I'm ready now," she said.
Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said.
"What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!"
"Well, I tucked somebody in."
Tiana ran to her room.
"You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.
Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, he was there!" he said.
"Dad!"
After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.
She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.
Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.
Clothing.
Toys.
Books.
Homework.
Muffy.
I repeat. Routines are important.

The O'Connor Boy

He’s not a  mean or nasty lout,

In fact, were you to ask about

Our Paddy Craig O’Connor boy,

You’d find that he’s just hoi polloi.

He’ll shoulder in, with work to do

He loves his wife, and kiddies too,

He’s loyal, almost to a fault,

A fisherman--a seasoned salt.

But after a long day at sea

He’ll meet the boys occasionally,

And, of the good stuff, have a dram,

Then get himself into a jam.

‘Cause Paddy, when he’s had a few,

Well, there’s nothing he won’t do,

Though he draws the line at lawless stuff,

It's hard for him to say, "Enough!"

He’s mixed the pigs in with the sheep,

And upset everybody’s sleep,

Howled with the dogs, sang with the cats,

Joined Ladies Aid with a box of bats.

Dropped a pig in the local pub,

Took chickens to the senior’s club.

Yes, Paddy really has a knack.

For strolling down the 'mischief' track.

Until that time e’en Paddy knew

He’d knocked the Universe askew.

He had to make a major change.

Frivolities, he’d rearrange . . .

It’d started harmlessly enough,

With Paddy swimming ‘in the buff’.

Just floating out there in the bay

Till the Archbishop came his way.

I must admit: How could he know

An august visitor would show?

But there he was upon the sand,

With formal robes and raise-ed hands.

Well, Paddy rose out of the waves

Wearing just what God had ‘gave’,

Advanced to ask him “What's the craic?”

And give His Grace’s hand a shake.

And right there on the sea levee,

In frank and simple way, did he

Beseech His Excellence to leave.

A blessing for one who believed.

The blunt request no sooner said,

His Grace’s face turned slightly red,

T’was only then Pad realized

They were the cynosure of eyes.

The village, all, was there to see.

Pad sobered up immediately,

And in the mayhem that ensued,

Vowed he would be more subdued.

So if you’re staying there to sleep,

Hear pigs and chickens and some sheep,

Know, with those feats of fun and brawn,

That Paddy’s clothes are staying on.

Horse Trading for Dummies

Me and Zee.
Now that's a little more like it!

At sixteen, I made my first foray into the wide, exciting world of horse trading.

Let's just say it was a learning experience . . .

I had been saving my money for months to purchase my first horse.

Okay, yes, we had dozens of horses on the ranch, but none of them had been purchased by me.

See the difference?

Okay, my Dad didn't, either.

Moving on . . .

Some friends of ours knew of a rancher near Waterton Park who had some horses to sell.

Beautiful scenery and a chance to buy my own horse.

It was a perfect world.

We drove into the mountains and left the main road, winding down the mountainside and into the prettiest little ranch I had ever seen.

I was filled with anticipation.

Only the best in horseflesh could come from such a place.

I was wrong.

The owner introduced us to several horses, but one little bay mare immediately caught my eye.

The rancher noticed.

Perhaps my glassy-eyed stare and drool was a give-away.

He went into his spiel.

Yes. Ranchers have a spiel.

He told me I would love her. Her gait, conformation and performance were perfection.

Here. Let's saddle up and you can take her for a spin.

He did.

I did.

Everything he had said was true.

Sold!

Money exchanged hands.

We loaded the sedate little mare into our handy-dandy trailer and headed home.

Before we had gotten back to the main road, I had a name for my new best friend.

Fancy.

It suited.

Back at home, my Dad got his first look. He examined her carefully, then shrugged. I don't know, he said. She looks pretty enough, but I don't know.

Horse sense. Some of them have it . . .

Some of us don't . . .

The next morning, I went out to saddle up my new little beauty.

And got a distinct shock.

During the night, someone had come and switched my sweet tempered little Fancy with a roaring, man-killing beast.

And I do mean man-killing.

The drugs had obviously worn off.
Remember when I called her 'sedate? I obviously should have said 'sedated'.

No sooner had I bridled her, then she reared up and struck out at me with her front hooves.

I should point out, here, that hooves are hard and can easily be used to cause 'blunt force trauma'.

I watch C.S.I. so I know about B.F.T.

Her first unexpected attack caught me, fortunately on the very top of my head where my skull is the thickest.

She knocked me to my knees, but did no permanent damage.

I struggled quickly to my feet and moved to the nearest far-away place.

Where I watched in wonder as she began her second attack.

Yep. The first had been no accident.

But I was ready and she posed no danger at that point.

My decision was made, however.

This horse had to go.

I talked to my friend, the one who had taken me to buy my little whirlwind of terror.
He was very interested.

He should be, he had gotten me into this mess . . .

He dealt with difficult horses and offered, on the spot, to trade me for a horse of my choosing.

This time, I took my Dad with me.

I may be dumb, but I do learn quickly.

We agreed on a nice, black gelding.

Tall. Lively.

But without one aspect.

He wasn't out for my blood.

An important aspect as it turns out.

'Zee' and I became instant friends.

Something Fancy and I could never be.

Sorry, Fancy. But it is your fault.

P.S. They say, 'Never buy a horse with the blanket on'. Turns out you need a blood test as well.

Getting It Right

I come from a long line of non-smokers.

Generations of puff-nots.

But my best friend had a cousin staying over for the summer.

A cousin from the big city who had seen it all.

And done most of it.

I was about to get an education . . .

My family lived on a ranch twenty miles from Milk River, in southern Alberta.

Life out there was bliss.

And, because of a lack of outside influences, completely under the control of my parents.

I had seen people smoking.

Certainly I had.

But I had never considered the possibility of being one of them.

Not even for an instant.

Moving on . . .

My parents owned a house in town.

When Mom got tired of driving the twenty miles to take us kids to school and activities, we would move into town.

Until Dad got tired of driving out to the ranch every day to do ranching stuff.

We would move back.

It was a fun and exciting way to live.

The benefits of town living.

The joys of the ranch.

But one or the other of our houses often sat empty in the interim.

That summer, we were firmly ensconced on the ranch.

So the town house was sitting vacant.

A perfect place for 10-year-old girls to get an education from the 11-year-old-far-more-experienced-world-weary-cousin-from-the-big-city.

My parents had dropped me off at my best friend's house for a--gasp--Once and only three-day sleep-over while they went out of town.

We: my BFF, her younger sister and the Cousin (notice the capital letter) had been knocking around town for most of two days.

It had been an education.

It was about to become more so.

The Cousin bought a packet of cigarettes.

She was going to show us country hicks how to smoke.

Okay, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Our biggest problem lay in finding a secret place in which to do our teaching/learning. I mean, there were twelve kids in my BFF's family. Plus the Cousin. Plus me. Her house was out . . .

Idea!

My family's empty town house.

I found the key and let us in.

The place echoed emptily.

Perfect!

We went into the main bathroom and dug out the cigarettes.

Cousin proceeded to light up.

Oooh! She looked so cool!

The rest of us were excited to try.

In no time, we each had a cigarette.

She helped us light them.

Soon, my BFF and her sister were blowing smoke in the most approved manner.

It took me a bit longer.

But I got it, once Cousin pointed out that one needed to suck.

Not blow.

Oh.

I should point out, here that my parents weren't due to pick me up from my BFF's until the following day.

And, even then, they had no reason to come to this house.

Our smoking education could continue apace.

Without threat of interruption.

But parents never do what they say they are going to.

My BFF's little sister went out to the front room.

And immediately returned, wide-eyed.

"Your parents are here!"

"Sure, sure," I said, taking another puff. "Nice try!"

We all laughed.

A sound that broke off instantly when my Mom appeared at the door.

"Oh," I said. "Ummm . . . hi, Mom."

She looked at me. Looked at the cigarette I held in my hand.

Then turned and left.

Without saying a word.

We quickly cleaned up our mess and headed for the front door.

My parents were waiting in the car.

I said some quick good-byes and climbed in.

For several minutes, my parents said nothing.

Finally, Mom turned to Dad and sighed.

Then Dad turned to me and said, "I'm very disappointed, Diane."

I was completely crushed.

He didn't know it, but those four words had just killed my cigarette habit.

Forever.
Parenting done right.

Dog Water

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.
The renewing of ties.
An opportunity to get re-acquainted.
Catch up on family accomplishments.
Additions.
Losses.
Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.
Our eldest son Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.
He was getting around under his own steam very well.
And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.
For several hours, he wandered around the site.
Exploring.
Eating.
Getting filthy.
All the things that make a little boy so very happy.
He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.
Gorged on hot dogs.
Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.
Spit out the baked beans (another story).
Slurped up watermelon.
And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.
He was a happy, filthy little boy.
He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.
I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.
Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.
Really.
I think it was the marshmallows.
Might have been helped along by the watermelon.
I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.
But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.
And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.
Or flippers.
I will admit they were still effective.
He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.
But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.
I went for a wipe.
But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.
While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.
Frodo's bowl.
I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.
And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.
I can't.
By the time I had the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.
In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.
Ick.
And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.
He was happy.
And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water. So he was happy.
In fact, everyone was happy.
Except me.

Happy Dad's Day!

Today is Father's Day.

A little tribute to the most special father in my life...

My Hero

For most of his career, my Husby has worked for the Culture department in our province.
He enjoys it.
Building museums.
Refurbishing older exhibits.
It has been a constant adventure.
But he learned, as a civil servant, that gratitude was an accepted part of the job and very, very rarely expressed.
Case in point . . .
He and his team had been refitting an interpretive center.
They had been at it for three years.
Their job was finally drawing to a close.
Which allowed the center to open.
Ironic but true.
A grand gala was planned for the opening night.
With speeches by pertinent politicians.
And food.
Myself and our three younger children made the trip and were seated in the audience, happily anticipating hearing from our husby/father.
The evening wore on.
Speeches by many, many people. None of whom had even stepped foot in the building until that night.
Then, finally, just at the end of the evening, the MC announced my Husby.
The man who had organized and directed the entire operation.
The whole three years.
I was so proud of him.
He had worked hard, spending weeks and weeks on a project that took him far from home and family.
And he had done well.
I glanced around. I was surrounded by evidence of his careful, thoughtful, precise planning and execution.
We were now seated in a world-class center with the best and most advanced displays found anywhere.
The crowd had clapped politely as he stepped to the podium. Most of them had no idea of the part he had played.
But his family did.
My daughter suddenly whispered, "Come on! Let's do it!"
My children and I surged to our feet, cheering and clapping wildly.
The rest of the audience stared at us in stunned silence for a moment.
Then the smiles began.
And the applause.
No one else got up, but everyone there knew that this man was special. Deserving of what little praise we could give him.
He smiled at us, then, in his usual calm fashion said, "I have no idea who those people are."
Then, "And I didn't have to pay them much to do that!"
Much laughter and the tone of the entire evening was changed completely.
Later, one of the people with whom he had worked closely stopped me.
"We were so happy when your family did that," she said. "We would all have joined you, if we weren't already standing at the back!"
Dads get very little recognition for good deeds done in this life.

My daughter's advice? 'Let's do it!'

Candy in a Bottle

Does this look delicious to you? Yeah, me either . . .

My Mom had a magic cupboard in her bathroom.
It was full of wonderful little bottles.
Intriguing little bottles with funny shapes and beautiful colours.
And with all sorts of interesting contents.
Most of them defied my little three-year-old fingers.
But one twisted off easily.
Disclosing little, white pills.
Mmmm.
Okay they didn't taste very good, but they were little.
And melted on my tongue in a fun way.
I had another.
And another.
This was fun!
Mom came in just as I was finishing the bottle.
For some reason, she got quite upset.
She grabbed me and ran to the phone.
For a few seconds, she chattered excitedly.
Then she carried me to the kitchen and set me on the cupboard and hugged me tight.
I didn’t know what I had done that had gotten her so excited, but this was living!
Or not . . .
A few minutes later, a man came into the house carrying a black bag.
He put a tube down my throat.
And Mom let him!
Weird.
And traumatic.
I cried.
For several minutes, the two of them fought to keep the tube where they wanted it.
With minimal/non-existent results.
Finally, Mom stuck her fingers down my throat and made me gag.
And I lost all of my wonderful little pills.
Um. Ick.
The doctor packed away his horrible tube and left.
I wasn't sad to see him go.
Mom cuddled me for most of the afternoon.
Sigh.
Nice.
A few days later, I was again exploring Mom's treasure cupboard.
Well, look at that.
A new bottle of my little pills.
I wonder if they will taste any better.
Mom came in a bit earlier this time, but I had still ingested over half of the bottle.
She didn't bother calling the doctor, just used her patented new method to make me bring the pills back up.
This time, I got a scolding.
Moms can be so inconsistent.

Super...Gone

If you are ever in Denver . . .

Somewhere in or near Denver, Colorado, is my wonderful, stupendous, long-awaited, much-anticipated, beloved, toy of the century.

The one that was mine too briefly.

Sigh.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was growing up, my rancher father often took his family on holidays.

Said holidays usually included some form of cattle show.

Or cattle ranch visit.

Or driving down the highway slowly because someone’s herd was there.

In the field.

I know you’re wondering what this has to do with my toy.

It’s coming . . .

This particular family trip had been planned with the National Western Stock Show - annually held in Denver - in mind.

And that was okay with me.

Because said stock show also included horse classes.

And I had a new toy.

Now it comes out . . .

The Wham-o company had just released the most amazing gadget.

A solid rubber ball that would bounce higher and do more tricks than anything that had ever been invented.

Aptly named the ‘Superball’, it was a thing of beauty.

An amazing little ball of rubber that promised hours and hours of entertainment.

I had wanted one forever.

Well, since I had first seen an ad a couple of months before.

Dad had stopped at a store before heading over to the stock show.

They had them! A whole display!

I was at a store that actually had the magical little balls for sale.

And my Dad was there.

With his wallet.

The planets had aligned. The day was mine!

And so, incidentally, was my little, dark blue miracle.

I pried open the package and, for the first time, felt the cool, smooth surface of the greatest high-bouncing ball of all time.

I sat there in the truck and held it.

Staring at it.

Smelling it.

I couldn’t wait to give it a good bounce.

Dad pulled into the stock section of the fair grounds and we all got out and went into the nearest pavilion.

I found myself standing in the lane of a long, concrete-floored, stall-lined, barn of a building.

Perfect.

I lifted the hand holding the ball . . .

And smashed it down onto the pavement as hard as I could.

Wow.

All of the ads never really paid it full justice.

That little ball hit that hard surface and shot like a missile toward the ceiling.

I stared at it; eyes wide and mouth open in a foolish grin of pleasure.

Then my magical toy came down.

Down.

Finally landing somewhere in the endless mounds of straw that filled the building.

Okay, that, I never anticipated.

I searched for that ball for hours.

I’d be searching still if my Dad hadn’t dragged me away for some frivolous ‘have-to-eat-and-sleep-and-for-heaven’s-sake-it’s-only-a-ball’ reason.

My one and only Superball.

You know, the ads claimed that it would keep on bouncing, almost forever. 

The ads were wrong.

DON'T Sing it, Sam!

Oh, please! Not that song again!

I grew up on a large old Southern Alberta ranch.
Among cattle, horses and hired men.
I loved it.
I spent many happy hours riding (or sleeping) on the horses.
Chasing the barn cats.
Catching mice.
Wandering through the corrals and feed lots.
Or my favourite, watching the hired men.
It was while doing the last, that I received both my nickname and my signature song.
Let me tell you about it . . .
The Stringam Ranch generally employed six or more hired men.
They worked hard.
Wrangling cattle.
Breaking horses.
Fencing.
Doing one of the myriad tasks that were ranching.
But, inevitably, each job included one extra chore.
Watching over Diane.
I don't want to say that I was always under foot but . . .
Okay. I was always under foot.
When they were in the corral with the horses, I was perched on the fence.
When they were milking the cows, I was sitting on one of the empty stools nearby.
When they were hauling hay, I was in the cab of the truck, nose pressed against the back window.
Yep. If anything was happening, you can bet Diane was in the middle of it.
I should point out, here, that these men were good men.
Hard working.
Dependable.
A bit rough around the edges.
But that I never heard one curse word from any of them.
Ever.
Looking back, I'm sure they knew these words.
They just never used them around me.
Believe me, I would have repeated anything I heard.
Back to my story . . .
It must have been a trifle . . . inconvenient . . . having the boss' four-year-old daughter always under foot.
They never complained.
In fact, they even had a nickname for me.
Danny.
Which I loved.
And gave me my very own song, “Danny Boy”.
Which I didn't.
I'm not sure who was the first to discover this song.
Or my aversion to it.
But the word quickly spread.
Soon, whenever I would appear, someone would begin singing, “Oh, Danny boy . . .”
Whereupon (good word) I would cover both of my ears and scream, “Noooooo!”
Then run away.
It was magical.
Not one word need be said.
And they could continue their work in peace.
Genius.
Moving forward thirty years . . .
When my youngest son Tristan was born, he was our 'Little Warty Boy'.
I'm not sure who came up with this.
Or why.
He didn't have warts or anything.
It just seemed to fit.
He even got a song. (Sung to the tune of 'Surfer Girl')
“Little tiny warty boy,
Fills my heart with so much joy.
Do you love me,
Little Warty Boy?”
We sang this for years.
Until he was about four and abruptly developed an aversion to it.
Suddenly, he began covering his ears and screaming, “Noooooo!” whenever someone started singing.
I felt his pain.

Learning to Ride

See? Blue.

When my husband married me, he got more than he expected.
I came with baggage.
More correctly.
Horses.
One was blue in colour.
Aptly and creatively named, 'Bluey'.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Bluey was . . . not a pretty horse.
She was an appaloosa-cross mare. About ten years old.
Like many of her breed, she had no mane. And an embarrassment for a tail.
But she was gentle and quiet. Patient and un-stampedable.
Perfect for farm kids.
But Bluey had one fault.
She was tall.
Too tall for the average child to climb on unassisted.
And that's where my story starts . . .
Mark and Erik, our two oldest boys, were in Bluey's field.
Playing.
Mark, 4, especially loved to ride.
But neither he nor his younger brother could climb up on their gentle friend.
Even though she was perfectly willing to stand quietly while they tried.
First, it was Erik helping his brother.
But they quickly discovered that three-year-old Erik's muscles simply weren't up to the task.
Finally, Mark had an idea.
He could help his little brother get up on Bluey.
At least one of them could have fun.
I have often imagined the conversation . . .
Mark: “Here, Erik, I'll boost your up.”
Erik (eyeing the mare suspiciously): “I want to go home.”
Mark: “In a minute. First, you get to have a little ride.”
Erik: “Don't want to ride.”
Mark: “Yes you do. It's fun.”
Erik: “Pretty sure I don't.”
Mark: “You're little. What do you know? C'mon.”
Erik: “Sigh.”
He submitted.
Once he was safely installed, Mark stepped back.
And gave the mare a slap. 'To get her going'.
She went.
Right out from under Erik.
Not a good thing.
A short time later, two boys came to the house.
One in tears.
They had both learned an important lesson.
The hardest thing about learning to ride is the ground.

Monsters on Holiday

Lake Okanagan. It only LOOKS peaceful and serene...

The Ogopogo was going to get me!

Ahem . . .

I have a vivid imagination.

I admit it.

It’s carried me to places near and far.

Most of which simply don’t exist.

But that doesn’t stop me from visiting them.

The problem with a vivid imagination is that it can cause you a lot of needless worry and some amazing heart gymnastics.

On with my story . . .

My family was visiting Penticton on the south shore of Lake Okanagan in the beautiful interior of British Columbia.

We had been having a marvelous time.

Picking fruit.

Eating fruit.

And stopping at any and all tourist sites.

Heaven.

We were camped just feet away from the shore of the lake.

A beautiful, peaceful body of water approximately 80 miles long and with an average depth of about 250 feet.

Now, I should mention here that I loved swimming.

I had learned in the muddy waters of the Milk River that flowed past our ranch.

We spent our entire summer in that river.

So, murky-ness didn’t scare me.

Nope.

What scared me were the tales of the great Ogopogo that supposedly inhabited that serene-looking body of water. The Ogopogo with its horse-shaped head and great undulating, serpent-like body that had been known to swallow native canoeists whole.

I stood on the beach and stared long and hard at the water, looking for anything that might betray the presence of the beast. Because I knew that, if I slid even one foot into that water, the monster would immediately sense the presence of a ten-year-old gleamingly white-skinned, skinny, tow-headed girl and think, “Oooh! My favourite meal!”

And pop to the top.

I knew it.

I would rather have watched my feet break through the scummy surface of some smelly municipal sewer than to disappear beneath the clean water of Lake Okanagan.

Except that sewers have been known to harbour their own monsters.

Sigh.

Finally, with much cajoling and some really pointed teasing, I waded in.

And I do mean waded – the water never reached my knees.

I wasn’t happy about it.

Every splash made me jump.

And I had a nagging, persistent feeling that great, piercing, bloodshot eyes were watching my every move, deciding where would be the tastiest place to sink sharp, ragged teeth.

I spent the entire ‘swim’ continually glancing behind me, certain I’d see a line of ripples leading in my direction. Or worse, a great, hulking form rising up out of the water, slavering jaws wide open and  . . . eww . . . dripping.

And where would my holiday be then?

Finally, I parked my little self on the beach.

Safely back from the monster-filled water.

Under a lovely, toasty sun.

I watched my brothers and sisters and scores of others as they tempted fate.

Silly, foolish people.

Tourist view in Kelowna.

'Actual' photo of the Ogopogo. You decide . . .

Ready, Aim . . . Chocolate.

How do you relax after dinner?

Okay, I admit it: Our family is weird.

We like theatrics.

And things medieval.

Case in point:

My husband has a collection of catapults.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Catapults.

He loves them.

Oh, they're not large enough to cause havoc.

And certainly not of a size to terrorize the neighbourhood.

Although I wouldn't mention that to him. It might give him ideas.

Moving on . . .

No. His catapults are small.

Suitable for launching little, foil-wrapped chocolates.

Which he does.

Usually after family meals.

Our family is large.

And we have two tables in our dining room.

One round table, built by my Husby and seen here.

And one smaller table, also built by my Husby, which seats all of the grandchildren.

It is to this smaller table that he retreats after the meal is done.

With his grandkids, his catapults and his stockpile of chocolate balls.

Which he and his little army then proceed to fire at anyone left sitting at the main table.

Remember when I mentioned 'weird'?

That would apply here.

I should point out that the balls of chocolate don't hurt.

The little catapults barely throw them with sufficient force to get them to the other table.

Back to my story . . .

The usual targets of the invading hoards are their wife and/or mothers and/or grandmother.

Who have all learned to duck when needed.

I should also mention that, perhaps fortunately, their aim isn't great.

One day, we had just finished one of Grandpa's sumptuous feasts and he and assorted grandchildren had set up a siege at the kid's table.

Several of the moms were still sitting at the main table.

Visiting.

One of our granddaughters, five-year-old Kyra, came to tell her mother something.

Her timing was . . . unfortunate.

She had placed herself right in the line of fire.

So to speak.

A chocolate ball whizzed towards her.

With unusual, but deadly precision.

Thock!

Right in the center of her forehead.

She gasped and clapped one hand over the spot.

Everyone burst out laughing.

She wavered between laughter and tears for a few seconds.

Then her mother told her that she got to eat the offending chocolate ball.

And any thought of tears was forgotten.

She hunted for, and happily ate, the treat.

Then disappeared.

A few minutes later, she was back.

“Mom, can I have another chocolate ball?”

Her mother looked at her. “You have to let Grampa shoot one at you first.”

“Oh.”

She thought about that for a moment.

Then she put both hands, palms out, over her forehead and stood up tall. “Okay, Grampa! I'm ready!”

Bravery.

It comes in all shapes, sizes and ages.

But never more noticeable than in a weird family.

After dinner.