Where Horses Come from

Have you ever heard the term 'catch colt'?
I'm sure you can figure out that it has something to do with horses.
And you'd be right.
Allow me to explain. And to do so, I'll have to tell you a story.
But first a little lesson in land surveying . . .
On the Stringam ranch, at its heyday, there was a lot of land.
A. Lot. Of. Land.
Two and a half townships.
Pastures were measured off in sections. 640 acres.
Sections were grouped into townships. 36 sections to a township.
With me so far?
Well, the ranch covered two and a half of those.
Townships.
Not the largest ranch in Southern Alberta, but up there somewhere.
You've probably heard the term 'wide open spaces'?
That would apply here.
An animal let loose in one of those pastures had a lot of ground to cover.
And an endless selection of things to get into. Good. Or more frequently, bad.
It wasn't unusual for a cowboy out checking the terrain to come across animals in dire need of assistance. Animals that had been attacked by cougars or wolves. Cut by barbed wire. Foundered in a mud pit. Even lamed by an altercation with something as innocuous as a gopher hole.
In fact, with all the room out there for anything to happen, it's a wonder more 'anythings' didn't.
Happen, that is.
Also. When animals are out on the range, hijinks occur.
And that leads nicely into my story . . .
And the Catch Colt.
Our little herd of working mares and geldings (male horses with their 'male' bits removed) had been turned out to pasture.
They lost no time in heading for the nearest far-away place.
And you know just how far-away that could be. (See above.)
A few days later, those same horses were brought back into the ranch for their next work shift.
They came in as they went out.
No more. No less.
Or so we thought.
In fact for several months, we so thought.
Then one of the mares began to show signs of grass-belly.
I mean that girl could eat.
Ten months later, she surprised us by proving her belly wasn't full of grass.
Okay, I'm pretty sure that my dad, he of the veterinarian doctorate, figured it out long before I did.
But for me, it was a grand surprise to see, next to our newly-lean mare, a fine little roan foal.
A little girl whose parentage was very much in question. We didn't own a stallion. (Male horse with 'male' bits intact.) None of our neighbours ( I use this term lightly) owned a stallion.
No wandering stallion had been reported in the district.
Where did this little girl come from?
Her attentive mother hid her secrets behind quiet dark eyes and a far-away look.
I think it went something like this: Tall, dark stranger wanders into the campsite. Wows the ladies with stories of far-away lands and grand exploits. Invites the quiet one out for a stroll and enticing dip in the cool waters of the Milk River.
And . . .
Now you know where 'catch colts' come from.
You're welcome.

Fishy

Oh, fish, you wet and slip’ry folk,

The butt of every smelly joke,

Of small or monolithic size,

You look so good . . . next to my fries.

And now, the jokes I spoke about,

Through all my grandkids, I did scout.

Some downright finny, some, so-so,

If you find better, let minnow.

A seahorse moves from cave to cave?

He scallops through the billowing wave! 

The Tsar’s best fish to eat at court?

Tsardines! They’d serve them by the quart!

A fish of large and ancient mein,

Makes threat’ning gestures at your spleen,

And gives an offer you can’t slight?

The Codfather. Look out tonight!

Where’s the sad and smelly lout,

The octopus that’s down and out?

Well, he’s (Oh, you must be aware),

On Squid Row. In a burrow there! 

What’s a fish that has no eyes?

A fsh! Now that should not surprise.

A nutella spread on salmon called?

Why salmonella. (Be appalled!)

One more, and then I’ll let you be . . .

There’s two fish swimming in the sea,

Into a wall, they headfirst ram,

One says unto the other, “Dam!”

Moving On Up

A room of her own...

Our youngest daughter and her family live with us.

They have been saving for a house and it seemed a logical--and rather elegant--solution.

We have enjoyed these days together, probably more so because we knew they wouldn’t last forever.

But now the house-hunting has started.

Now you have to realize that Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as Mama) has been here since her first marriage crumbled. Her little girl (LG) was just past a year old and Mama needed the support as she went back to work.

Grandma got to spend her days with LG and routines continued unabated. (Ooh. Good word.)

But now, with a wonderful new husband and a desire to ‘add to their family’ (whatever that means…) they are getting serious about finding a place of their own.

There are certain things they would like in their new home. A garage is important so Mama can continue with her theatre carpentry at her own home.

Things like a kitchen, living room, basement are a given.

And bedrooms.

And this is where other members of their family make their wishes known.

LG has some particular demands. For one, she wants the master bedroom to be big enough that her little bed can be parked beside her mother’s. None of this ‘separate rooms’ nonsense.

Also, there must be a room for Grandma.

Soooo . . . at least two bedrooms.

Now we know what a real estate agent goes through.

Lake Summer

More holiday memories . . .

Our family loved staying at our friends' cabin in Waterton Lakes Park.

So much so that my Dad finally felt we should have our own.

Cabin, I mean.

And the rest of us, picturing days happily spent on the lake, were very easily convinced.

Perfect!

He scouted around for a nice piece of property.

And finally found one on St. Mary Lake, just outside of Glacier National Park, Montana – across the border from the ranch.

It was truly beautiful. Clear, icy-cold, blue water.

And I do mean icy. Brrr.

Pure air. Lots of trees.

We fell in love.

The only thing missing was the . . . cabin.

No problem. Dad would build it.

He chose a design and ordered materials which were duly delivered.

And immediately stolen.

Our cabin plans were almost abandoned before they even got off the ground.

But, finally, Dad took a deep breath and ordered some more.

They came. And this time, they stayed.

He moved in a small travel trailer and we took up residence. Then began to prepare the land.

Work commences.

It was hot, hard work - cutting down a few of the trees and tearing out brush.

Sweat ran freely.

I know. Because I was watching carefully, can of black cherry pop in one hand and hot dog in the other.

But before you begin to think I was entirely useless, I must point out that I helped carry some of the rocks over to the lake to help construct our boat dock.

Okay. So...not entirely useless.
That's me in front. Hefting.

Small rocks.

Really small rocks.

Okay, I was useless.

Before too long, Dad and my brothers had cleared a spot large enough for our cabin.

I don't remember much of the building apart from the sounds of hammering and sawing and the wonderful smell of fresh-cut lumber.

Ha! My baby sister didn't help at all.

Mom kept me near her.

Across the road from the action.

My reputation for getting in the way was obviously well known.

Moving on . . .

The cabin went up magically.

In no time, we had a master bedroom where my oldest sister could sit and tell us scary stories.

Two smaller bedrooms with built-in bunk beds for the smaller kids to fall out of.

Which they did.

And a wonderful kitchen/dining/living room where Mom could make the food magic happen.

Mmm. Food.

Oh, and there was also a big, open fireplace . . . thing. I think that, technically, it was a wood stove. But it was screened on all sides. Wonderful for gathering around on a cool summer evening.

For visiting.

Something my family excelled at.

The cabin had huge windows facing the lake. And a large deck.

Another favourite place where we could sit and watch the water.

And dream.

Something else I excelled at.

We spent a few summers at the lake.

I remember evenings on the deck, looking out over the water and just breathing in the glorious air.

Boating.

Splashing around in the frigid water.

Icy cold cans of pop out of the lake.

Games played beside a snapping fire.

Wiener/marshmallow roasts.

Hide and seek in the trees.

Ghost stories.

Visit with the neighbours. (Once, a for-real professional sheepherder drove his flock right past the cabin and we got to see the inside of his wagon.)

It was wonderful.

But it ended.

Several times, when we weren't in residence, the cabin was broken into and vandalized.

The last time, someone smashed the large picture window, leaving blood everywhere.

Dad replaced the window and promptly sold the cabin.

Too bad.

Because it was wonderful way to spend the summer.

There is a codicil.

A year or so after my Dad sold the cabin, a good friend of his stopped him on the street, shook a finger in his face and told him what a bad boy he was.

Bewildered, my Dad frowned at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

The man grinned. “We were boating on Duck Lake (Near St. Mary's) and decided to drop in and visit with you and Enes. Once we got there, we realized that you weren't home, but I remembered where you hid the key, so I opened the door and we went in to see if you had left any pop in the fridge.” The man shook his head. “I can't tell you how surprised I was to find it full of beer!”

My parents were well known for their tee-totalling habits.

Dad laughed. “I guess you didn't hear that I sold that cabin.”

The man's mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. A year or so ago.”

“So . . . it's not your cabin?”

“Right.”

“So . . . breaking and entering.”

“Right.”

Even when it no longer belonged to us, the cabin continued to entertain.

I miss it.

Squirrels on the deck of the Stringam cabin.

Not Forgotten. But Gone.

Because the days of being able to walk (or drive) right to a campsite or cabin and find a place to stay are long gone, we are already arranging our summer holidays.
This brings to mind holidays of the past.
Sigh.

Prince of Wales Hotel at Waterton Lakes Provincial Park.
Paradise.

I have always lived in the shadows of the Rockies.
And by doing so, have been in close proximity to one of many national parks.
Nowadays (real word, I looked it up), that means either the Banff or Jasper National Parks.
In my early years, it was Waterton Lakes.
How our family loved Waterton!
Every summer we spent at least a week there, staying in one of the tiny, rustic cabins perched on the very shore of Upper Waterton Lake or in the 'Madge' cabin, a beautiful old log cabin which belonged to some good friends.
We would swim in the gi-normous (my word) outdoor community swimming pool. Spend endless hours riding around the town on rented tandem bikes or surreys. Visit Cameron Falls or hike to Cameron Lake. Climb Bear's Hump. Explore Prince of Wales Hotel. Shop.
Then there were the lakes. One could fish there. Or boat or 'swim'. (I use this last term lightly because this was a mountain lake, and only a couple of degrees above freezing . . .)
The activities were many and varied.
Paradise for a little girl.
Especially since it was the fifties and crime hadn't been invented yet.
Mom could feed us breakfast and send us out the door, secure in the knowledge that we could play safely throughout the townsite.
Except that we had strict instructions not to go near any wildlife.
And Waterton certainly had that.
It wasn't unusual to open the front door and see a herd of deer lying around the front yard, placidly chewing their cud.
Or to have to retreat into a store because a bear was making its way slowly down main street.
That was especially okay, because ice cream was easily obtained and one could enjoy a treat and a show while one waited for the rangers, or for the bear to move on.
Whichever happened first.
It was no wonder that our annual pilgrimage to Waterton was our most anticipated tradition.
My family went back for a reunion.
I was amazed at what had changed in the years since my last trip.
Oh, there were some fondly remembered places still in existence.
Many of the stores and shops were the same, or at least similar.
The topographical sites were still there. Bear's Hump. Cameron Falls. The hiking paths I had enjoyed as a child.
And the Prince of Wales Hotel still majestically dominating the townsite.
But all else had changed.
We tried renting a tandem bike, but the only one left had a towel for a seat and was so rusted and stiff that riding it was more torture than pleasure.
The swimming pool had disappeared.
In its place stood a great hotel complex.
Our friends' cabin was gone, burned to the ground in a massive and heart-wrenching fire. It, too had been replaced by newer and more modern.
Our little cabins were also gone. The campground had been expanded to include the lot where they had stood.
We wandered around for most of a day, reminiscing.
It was still Waterton.
There was still a lot to see and do.
Watch the deer and other animals wander freely throughout the townsite.
Hike. Explore the great Hotel. Fish. Shop.
'Wade' in the lake. (We now called it for what it was . . .)
Boat.
Swim in the new hotel's grand indoor pool.
Just not the things we most fondly remembered as children.
Who was it who said, 'You can never go back'?
They were wrong.
You can.
Just be prepared for some changes.
Where did you spend your summers?

Waterton Lakes National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, an International Peace Park, and a Biosphere Reserve. The only park in the world that has these three designations.
Visit it!

Buttery Good

Fresh, Tasty, and good for the hands . . .?

We had manners in our family.

Bad manners are still manners, aren't they?

Let me restart.

We had good manners in our family.

And some bad dinnertime pranks.

Better . . .

The evening meal was always special at the Stringam Ranch. Mom was a terrific cook so the food was always good. The conversation, with two parents, six kids and assorted hired men would be endless and, if not brilliant, at least entertaining.

The day's ranchwork was done, so the men were happy and relaxed.

And the pranks and hijinks were ongoing.

There were several tricks that ocurred regularly.

But the favourite had to do with the butter.

Butter?

With such a large group at mealtimes, much passing of dishes from hand to hand was expected.

And necessary.

Most of it was done politely. With a nod and a 'thanks'.

The meal proceeded smoothly.

But occassionally, someone would decide to 'liven things up a bit'.

And this usually accompanied the passing of the butter.

Now, the butter at the Stringam table was always freshly churned and delicious.

And went with everything.

So it was passed frequently.

Now, I should point out here that it was good manners to receive a passed dish directly, especially if one had asked to have it passed. Thus, if one requested the butter, one should then take the dish right from the passer's hand.

Common courtesy.

But the trick at the Stringam table was to pass it in just such a manner that the receiver's thumb would get stuck in the butter.

Okay I don't know what that's called.

Common dis-courtesy?

Or just plain funny.

Inevitably, nearly everyone at the table would end up, at one point or another, with their thumb in the butter.

Good thing Mom made everyone scrub up 'doctor style' before meals or we might have gotten more than nutrition served with our food.

But I digress . . .

With 'butter dipping' a common prank, it was inevitable that the receivers would get more and more creative with their receiving.

A nod and a simple gesture to set the butter down on the table was usually the first attempt.

One that was inevitably ignored as the passer waited patiently for a more polite method of transference.

Finally, the receiver would put out his or her hand, thumb tucked as far out of sight as possible.

It can be done.

It just isn't very comfortable.

Inevitably, no matter how hard the receiver would try to avoid, one digit or another would go in the butter.

And the passer would happily return to their meal, content in the knowledge that they had contributed to the evening's fun-filled mealtime.

While the receiver carefully wiped their fingers on their napkin.

Oh, I forgot to mention – napkins were also a necessary part of the every meal.

Moving on . . .

Finally, because the prank became such a common part of the meals, people stopped receiving.

The passer could sit there forever with the butter dish in their hand.

No one would reach out to take it.

In fact, people had been know to simply put out their knife and take a bit of butter while the passer was still holding it.

Unheard of!

But clever.

But one night, my brother forgot the new order of things. He asked my Dad for the butter and put out his hand to take it.

He did remember to tuck in his thumb.

Dad regarded the outstretched hand for a moment.

No visible thumb.

What to do?

Finally, he simply turned the entire dish over and set it, butter side down, on Jerry's hand.

Mission accomplished.

Dad went back to eating.

Jerry went to wash.

After that, no one went butter-dipping.

I mean, who could top that?

Little Aggravations

Now

Then

Our oldest grandson had to have his tonsils out.

Poor little guy.

But they were so huge that they made it difficult for him to swallow and were constantly getting infected.

There were perks.

For a week, he got to live on freezies and fruit pops and jello and things cold and sweet and delicious.

Paradise.

He is feeling much better now.

And able to swallow, perhaps for the first time in his life.

Bless modern medicine.

It was day surgery. In and out.

The whole experience reminded me of my older brother, George.

Who had the same problem, fifty years ago.

Are we seeing a pattern, here?

George had a big appetite.

And a small throat.

He would chew and chew and chew on a piece of tender, wonderful roast beef.

Chew and chew and chew.

Then, finally, give up in despair and sit there, morosely, with a lump of meat in his mouth that he simply couldn't swallow.

My Dad took pity on him and told him to spit his mouthful into Dad's hand.

Which he did.

And which my Dad then disposed of.

Umm. Ick.

Then George would happily move on to the potatoes and gravy.

For a couple of years, the same scenario was played out at the Stringam dinner table.

George starting out with things chewy and delicious.

Then moving on to things mushy and easier to swallow.

Finally, it became so common that Dad didn't even get the chance to offer to help.

George would chew and chew and chew, then reach for Dad's hand and spit his mouthful into it.

Often without Dad realizing it.

Until it had happened.

Sort of hard to ignore then . . .

When he did it at a restaurant, my parents decided that something had to be done.

Checkup.

Diagnosis: large tonsils.

Solution: Removal.

Back then, though the operation was common, it meant several day's stay at the local hospital.

But with lots and lots of ice cream and jello and things cold and sweet and delicious.

Modern medicine has come so far.

Baby Sister

L'il Sis

I have a little sister.

She looks just like me.

Except that she has red hair.

And big blue eyes.

And a cute little chin.

And long eyelashes.

Okay, she doesn't look like me at all.

I love her anyways.

We grew up together, as often happens in families.

And had experiences.

Which also often happens in families.

When Anita was two, my mother asked us older kids to take her swimming with us.

Brave woman, my mother.

But I guess she thought that Chris, at 16, was responsible.

And she was.

Really, really responsible.

When she was awake.

A bit older. Just a bit

On this particular occasion, she had her radio. And her dreams of her current boyfriend.

And the warm sun. And the hot sand.

You're right. It wasn't her fault.

She dozed off.

The rest of us played happily for some time.

I was standing knee deep in the milky water, trying to catch a fish that insisted on swimming tantalizingly close.

Closer. Closer.

Then a strange sound intruded.

A sort of . . . gasping.

I looked up.

Five feet from me, little Anita had toddled off the sandy shelf where she had been sitting, playing, and fell into the river.

She was just coming up for the second time.

Nonchalantly (I like that word), I reached out and grabbed her swimsuit, pulled her out and plopped her onto the sand once more.

She gasped and coughed a couple of times, then went back to her toys.

I turned back to my hunting.

It wasn't until years later that I remembered the incident.

And shivered with 'what might have happened'.

*  *  *

When I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, moved out.

I suddenly had that hitherto (real word) unheard of treat - my own bedroom.

It was wonderful.

During the day.

But, being alone at night for the first time, I made a discovery.

At night, things looked vastly different.

The darkness held many suspicious creaks and shadows.

And, unfortunately, my imagination was always awake.

I needed a companion.

Someone who would protect me from . . . whatever lay in wait in the dark.

My sister's room was right next door.

Okay, she was three, and who knew what she would be able to do if we truly were confronted with . . . whatever lay in wait . . . you understand.

But she was warm.

And breathing.

She was all I had.

Carefully, I would creep into her room, lift the sleeping little girl from her bed, and tuck her into Chris' side of the bed.

Then I would happily snuggle into my side and fall immediately asleep.

If Mom asked in the morning, I simply told her that Anita had crawled in with me in the night.

Everyone was happy.

And no one knew that Diane was afraid of the dark.

Until now.

Oops.

*  *  *

Who wouldn't trust that little face!

A few years later, we were in the river.

Again.

And Anita was with me.

Again.

This time, it was my turn to be in charge.

And think about boyfriends.

Because my boyfriend was with us.

He and I were sitting in the sand at the edge of the water, visiting, when a sound intruded.

Again.

Only this time, it had just a bit more volume behind it.

"Diane!" someone shrieked.

I looked up.

Anita, who had been floating quite happily close to the shore in an old inner tube, had strayed too far out into the river.

She was now in the grip of the current.

Nonchalantly (that word again), I waded out. Then swam that last few feet towards her.

This time, however, when I grabbed her, she grabbed back.

And nearly drowned me.

Finally, I managed to turn her and her inner tube away from me, then kicked the both of us to the shore.

Then really shivered with 'what might have happened'.

Why do so many of our near-misses happen in water?

*  *  *

Almost a Teen!

Today, Anita is a wife and mother. She is a flight attendant and cub leader and community organizer.

And still has time to run and keep fit.

But when I think of her, I still see the little girl who broke the lamp for which Blair took the blame.

Who was bright and cute and smart.

And who gave Mom the last of her grey hairs.

The little girl who loved to organize.

And wrap packages.

And get into my things.

And who's middle name, though she would claim it's Faye, is really Trouble (notice the capital 'T').
Huh. In some ways, she hasn't changed.

But now, she lives most of a continent away.

I miss her.

I love her.

Today. Or at least not many days ago . . .

Have you heard the news?!
Daughter of Ishmael has sold, in its first week, 1500 copies! A new record for my publisher!
I'm so excited I can't speak. (Another first!)
Do you enjoy Bibical fiction?
Order yours today:

Amazon, both .ca and .com

Barnes and Noble

Deseret Book

Books and Things

And at all LDS Bookstores!

The Cool Place

Quick - pick out the cool kids . . .

At the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the playground, halfway between the elementary and junior/senior high schools was a rock.

A big rock.

Huge.

It didn't belong to anyone.

It was just there.

Doing rock stuff.

It had 'sit' down pretty well. And 'stay'.

It was the gathering place for the 'cool' kids in grade five.

I was in grade five.

I wasn't cool.

Every recess, the group of boys and girls who were the most popular would scurry down and claim the rock. For the entire 15 minutes, they would clamber (real word) about, or sit and talk.

And look cool.

I wanted to be with them more than anything.

I wanted to be cool.

Sigh.

I, too, had a group of friends.

Like me, my friends were not considered the 'popular' group.

But they were good friends. Loyal. Fun.

Often I would catch them casting longing looks towards the rock.

And the cool kids thereon.

I knew what they were thinking.

Sometimes, our disappointment and frustration would boil over into something more proactive.

Gossip.

One occasion stands out . . .

We 'seconds' as we had begun to think of ourselves, were grouped around the monkey bars.

Talking.

Okay, we called it talking.

We were making great sport of tearing the distant cool kids apart.

Everything was fodder for our nasty little grist mill. Their looks, their clothes, their personalities, their classroom standing, even their pets.

Yep. We were grinding at a pretty feverish pace.

I said, in a loud voice, "Well, I wouldn't go with them, even if they begged me."

The others nodded in agreement.

Than another voice broke in. "Diane?"

We all turned. Two of the popular girls were standing there.

"Um . . . yeah?"

"We wanted to invite you to join us. Lloyd really likes you."

I'd like to tell you that I simply smiled and refused. Or that I turned a slightly disdainful shoulder and stuck with my friends.

I did neither.

Faster than you can blink, I was one of them. They put their arms around my waist and I did the same and the three of us headed off to the rock.

I didn't even look back.

For many weeks, I lived as a cool kid.

Hung out at Danny's like everyone else but, because I did it, it was cool. Wore the same clothes as everyone else, purchased at Robinson's or Woolco, but because I did it . . . you get the picture.

And I loved it.

Every minute of it.

No longer did I have to worry about what I said.

Because I was cool, everyone laughed and forgave me.

I didn't have to worry about what I did.

Ditto.

I was in heaven.

Then . . .

Lloyd decided he liked someone else.

And, just like that, I wasn't cool anymore.

The rest of them dropped me like a hot . . . rock.

It was my very first lesson in relationships.

It wouldn't be the last.

But it was the most painful. Because when I tried to go back to my old circle of friends, I found that they were afraid of me.

Afraid to trust me.

Now, I was truly alone.

Oh, my solitary state didn't last long.

Only the eternity of about a week.

Fifth graders have short memories.

But I did a lot of growing in that week.

I realized that I had learned four things:

            1. True friends are important.

            2. Don't burn your bridges.

            3. The rock is really hard and uncomfortable to sit on.

            4. Even if you're a cool kid.

Whose Line is it

Quoting Quirks

We watch movies.
Old movies.
A lot.
Our family was raised on the crazy antics of Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Jack Lemmon in The Great Race.
The hilarity of Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.
The magical song and dance of  Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in Brigadoon.
The comic timing of Red Skelton in The Fuller Brush Man.
And these are only four of the hundreds we sat through together as a family as they were growing up.
Inevitably, these movies had a great influence on our lives.
When the characters made mistakes and paid dearly for them, my family suffered alongside. When a story ended, inevitably, in triumph, we celebrated.
We lived their lives. Learned their lessons. Grieved and cheered with them.
The stories became very real to us.
We discussed them endlessly.
The lessons learned. The principles taught.
And our conversation became peppered with noteworthy lines.
I do mean peppered.
Our youngest son, three-year-old Tristan, was playing with a small, battery-powered railroad with a friend. "Push the button, Max!" (The Great Race)
Friend, "My name's not Max."
People visiting our household would often gape in confusion as quotes cropped up in the conversation.
We knew what was being said.
They didn't.
Oops.
Occasionally, someone would join us who knew that the answer to, "And there was much rejoicing" was a subdued, "Yay!" (with appropriate hand movements) from Search for the Holy Grail.
Or that, when asked to do something specific, would know to quip, "I'm smokin' a salmon!" from Oscar.
And that, with the end of a meal, the appropriate gratitude was voiced by the words, "The meal was good. The wine was excellent. I must send the Cardinal a note." (Again, with appropriate hand gesture, this time, hand kissing.) A noteworthy quote, though we weren't wine-drinkers, from The Three Musketeers.
We were the family who would break, unexpectedly, into song.
And everyone would know the words.
Occasionally, outside of our home, others would take note of our unique (note that I'm using the PC term) customs.
For good or bad . . .
Our daughter, Tiana, was in kindergarten.
Almost five.
Her teacher heard her singing, "Goin' Courtin'. Goin' Courtin'." (From Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)
She pulled her aside and asked her to repeat it.
Tiana obliged.
The teacher frowned and asked her where she had heard that.
Tiana stared at her.
This was probably her first experience with someone who didn't eat, breathe and sleep movies.
So, not like her family at all.
"It's from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." she said finally. "Just before they learn how to dance."
Her teacher was puzzled. "Do you know what it means?"
"What?"
"Courting."
Tiana smiled at her. "Oh, yes, it means 'dating'."
"Ah." Still puzzled, her teacher let her go.
But brought up the subject at our next parent-teacher conference.
I have to point out that it wasn't the only time I had heard from confused elementary school teachers.
Moving on . . .
But as the kids grew into junior and senior high school, our family quirk became more acknowledged.
Even occasionally appreciated.
Especially when a teacher would pose a question or repeat a quote from an old movie or program and our child was the only one in the class who knew the answer.
Or who laughed.
They became the universally-acknowledged 'experts' on old movies.
And, more importantly, quotes from movies.
It was a fun way to raise a family. And now I see my kids doing the same with their kids.

It is a fun way to live.
I think its time for another one.
"Push the button, Max!"

Going

I think the Person who receives evening prayers must look forward to those being offered by the children.

You want to talk entertainment?!

Last night, following a day that included church attendance, swimming at West Edmonton Mall, the eating of assorted junk and the wind-down of puzzlemaking with family, five-year-old (hereinafter known as 5YO) disappeared into the bathroom to ‘take care of some business’.

She came out a few minutes later with a strange look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” her mother asked.

“It looked really strange,” 5YO said.

“Strange, how?”

There followed a short conversation of strange-appearances-from-the-past.

I’m editing because—yuck.

“But this was different,” 5YO said.

“Well next time you see something different, please tell me before you flush.”

“Okay.”

5YO happily went back to puzzlemaking.

And the subject was, thankfully, dropped.

The evening wound down.

Bedtime approached.

Routines were adhered to, even though the day had been anything but normal.

Teeth brushed, hair braided, hands and face washed, pj’s donned, journal updated, story read, song—sung.

5YO was on her knees to say her evening prayer.

Now you have to know that this is often the highlight of the day for whoever is putting her to bed.

Usually momma.

The prayer rambled around for a while. Thank you for my mommy and daddy. Grampa and Gramma. Thank you for cousins and pets and toys.

Then the unexpected. “Please don’t let any more yellow stuff come out of me. Amen.”

Ummm . . .

All I’m saying is: I wouldn’t mind being on duty when those prayers start to arrive.

I’ve got my notebook.