Dating Never Works...Until It does

Are you dating?

Have you ever?

Would you like to be?

Does the prospect sound . . . scary?

There is help.

Fun, funny, practical, conversational, direct, real, sympathetic, encouraging, helpful help.

From a young man who has done it.

Again and again and again and . . . you get the point.

Zack Oates has compiled the lessons gleaned from sincerely trying to find—not the perfect girl—but the one who will walk with him through everything that life can throw. Over 1000 times.

This book is like sitting down with a friend. A good friend who will point out your strengths. But also your faults.

How can you go wrong with chapters such as:

You Don’t Stink at Dating, You’re Just a Good Person

Dating Is like Passing Gas—If You Try Too Hard, It Hurts

Six Ways to Know That You Are the Straight Gay Best Friend

Kindness Is the Most Important Trait for Your List

Girls Go for Bad Boys Because Good Guys Are Idiots

Be You . . . But in Doses

Pepto-Bismol Your Relationship

True Love Isn’t a Fairy Tale—It Does Exist!

And finally (because it is going to work!): BONUS: Great Date Ideas

After reading Zack Oates’ utterly delightful book, Dating Never Works . . . Until it Does. 100 lessons from 1000 Dates, I almost want to go back and try it all over again.

Maybe I’ll just try his dating advice with Husby.

It’ll certainly be fun!

I was given an electronic copy of Dating Never Works...Until it Does in exchange for my honest opinion. Well, I honestly loved it!

About the book:

Tired of mixed messages, confusing signals, and of playing the dating game? Dating expert Zack Oates has experienced it all in this comical guide that will keep you happy and laughing. Perfect for audiences in dating situations of all kinds, these encouraging steps will help you find your perfect mate.

About the author:Zack Oates is an entrepreneur, hot tubber, and blogger. He has started six businesses, which have been featured in Wired Magazine, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal. He has an MBA from BYU with an emphasis in innovation and a bachelor’s in advertising and marketing. He was voted one of the top 100 entrepreneurs by VSpring Capital and received first place at the largest university business plan competition in the world (over 800 teams participated). After living in Ukraine for two years serving a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he started a nonprofit in 2008 called Courage to Hope, which works with victims of domestic violence in Ukraine. In addition to being a finalist and then “Love Guru” on the Mormon Bachelor and Bachelorette, he has an inspiration and dating blog called Bowl of Oates.

Dating Never Works...Until It Does can be found at these fine stores:

Amazon

Deseret Books

Books and Things

Barnes and Noble

I Do

“Well, I think you’re crazy, Man.”

I gave my co-worker a rather weak smile. “I think so, too.” I slid into my van, silently cursing cupid, love and every other word or emotion associated with the day, then put the van into gear and pulled out.

Considering it was such a busy day for those of us on the delivery end of things with our packages and flowers and—yes, even our hate mail—I had managed to hit a lull in the traffic and my trip to her building was quick and relatively painless.

Did I mention quick? In too short a time, I was parked and staring up at the four floors between she and me.

Four floors.

Could I make it?

Did I really want to?

I gripped the package in one hand and continued to stare. Then I took a deep breath.

Better get it behind me.

I climbed out of my van and entered the building.

There were a couple of well-dressed women waiting for the single elevator and I joined them just as the door slid open.

“Ha! Do you really think that?” the one said to the other, pressing the button for ‘2’.

I waited for her to back away, then pressed the ‘4’ and stared up at the lights above the door. Man, this elevator was slow.

“I truly do. That woman is a whack-job.”

“Well, at least she doesn’t report to you.”

I tried not to listen, but you know how it is when you are enclosed with strangers.

In a painfully slow elevator.

“Poor Rebecca. I think she is at her wits end.”

The other woman shrugged. “Well, Rebecca didn’t have that many wits to start with.”

Both women laughed as the door slid open. They disappeared and the doors closed again.

There was a grinding sound as the elevator lurched into action once more.

The light flashed behind the ‘3’ and I sighed. One more floor.

Just as the ‘4’ lit up, the elevator jerked to a sudden halt. I put a hand on the wall to brace myself, then stared at the doors, willing them to open.

They didn’t.

Suddenly, something poked between and wrenched them apart slightly. “Is anyone in there?” a disembodied female voice called out.

“Erm—yes,” I said.

“I’ll have you out in a jiffy!” The voice went on, muttering. “Stupid elevator. How could we be cursed with such a thing?” There was a pause. Then, “I ban you to the depths of hell!”

“What?” I gasped.

“Not you! This miserable *grunt* stupid *grunt* box! Of course it would die on THIS day. This day of heart break and misery!”

Whatever had been slid between the doors continued to wrench at them. Then something clanged and fingers appeared. Stubby, capable fingers.

Familiar fingers.

The doors finally opened enough that I was able to catch a glimpse of a wide, reddened face topped by thinning grey hair scraped into a bun at the back of her head.

White teeth were clutching the woman’s lower lip as thick arms strained to pry the doors apart. “Just. One. More.”

The doors were finally wide enough that I was able to duck and slip through. Or so I thought. When I was part way, her grip slipped and the doors slid shut.

“I’ll save you!” the woman shrieked. Releasing her hold, she grabbed my hand, braced her feet on the doors, and pulled.

I popped out--leaving at least one button and I think a bit of skin behind--and landed on my knees. She had fallen heavily onto her fairly broad backside. We stared at each other for a moment.

Then I held up the package still clutched in my left hand. “Erm—I have a d-delivery.”

She frowned and reached for it. “For me?”

I nodded.

“Where’s your clipboard?”

“Erm—I forgot it.”

She raised thinning eyebrows. “Forgot?”

I felt warm colour rush into my face. “It really wasn’t necess—”

She was already tearing the envelope open. A velvet ring box slid out into her hand. She opened it and looked at me, rubbery lips a round ‘o’ of surprise. “Bruce?”

“Erm—Clara will you—?”

“I do.”

Want a little more of Bruce and Clara?
Bruce and Clara have visited us twice before. Here. And here.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado collects words. From fellow writers. Then she shuffles and re-distributes and voila! USE YOUR WORDS.

My words this month are: love ~ cupid ~ flowers ~ hate mail ~ heart break ~ I do

And they came from my friend, Dawn, of  Spatulas on Parade. 

Enjoying this? Read what the others have done with their assignment!

Baking In ATornado                        

Spatulas on Parade                   

The Diary of an Alzheimer’sCaregiver        

Dinosaur SuperheroMommy              

The BerghamChronicles                  

Confessions of a part time workingmom      

Not That SarahMichelle                            

Climaxed                                       

Toot

Colouring

What would the world be like if the children were in charge?

Daughter (hereinafter known as ‘Daughter’) and her five-year-old daughter (5YO) were discussing a mutual acquaintance.

“He always gets mad,” 5YO said. “He shouts at people and throws stuff. I don’t like it.”

“It is hard to be around people who lose their tempers,” Daughter agreed. “They make us uncomfortable.”

“They do!”

Both looked over at their husband/father seated nearby.

“Does Daddy ever get angry or make you uncomfortable?”

5YO shook her head. “He never gets mad. He just says, “Oh, my goodness!”

Daughter nodded. “We like to be around Daddy, don’t we?”

“Yup.” 5YO nodded. Then she got thoughtful. “Even though he does burp and toot a lot!”

Tooting over shouting.

She does have a point.

Toast

Her man and she were getting on in years, I’m forced to say,

The two of them were speaking with a friend the other day,

Explained to him that they had problems with their memory,

And he said writing notes would help the wife and her Husby.

They decided they would try it out, and write things faithfully,

Improve communication ‘tween he and his Honeybee.

I’m here to say the trial could be labelled a success,

For though they spurned their friend’s advice, they were happy, nonetheless.

When sitting watching ‘telly’ Husby got up for ice cream,

Politely asked his wife if she would like to share the dream,

She said, “I’d like a bowlful, Dear. But you should write it down.”

He shook his head, “No I’ll remember. What am I, a clown?”

She shrugged and said she wanted toppings on her frozen treat.

Some whipped cream and a cherry, both, would make her bliss complete.

“And please, my dear,” she said again. “You’ve simply got to write.”

He said, “I think that I’m detecting just a note . . . of spite.”

And off he went, quite message-less, into the kitchen there.

And she heard fridge and cupboard doors as something was prepared.

When he’d spent some time, she thought, an inordinate amount,

At last returned. She looked at him. “What have you been about?”

He handed her a plate containing ham and scrambled eggs.

She stared at it, then up at him and calmly crossed her legs.

And reaching for the plate, she said, “Your mind’s a sieve, at most!”

“And, my dear, you’re getting old, ‘cause you forgot the toast!”

Each month, our good friend, Karen, gives us challenges to share.

And we sweat hard in our attempt to get from here to there.

Our theme this month was 'family' with 'friends' somewhere nearby.

So, tell me now, just what you think? Because, you know, I tried!

And here are the others:

Karen of Baking in a Tornado: Hugs and Kisses
Dawn of Spatulas on Parade: Friends and Family "How I love ya"

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Friends are family
Kristina Hammer of The Angrivated Mom: Influenced Insanity

Water. And Soap

Okay, yes. This is different generation. But the dirt is the same . . .

For many, many years, Husby served as a scout leader.

Babysitting. With sticks.

And fire.

Their experiences were many and varied.

Their close calls?

Equally many and varied . . .

For one of their camps, Husby had chosen a spot in the mountains.

A stream fed by a slowly-melting glacier flowed musically past their camp.

A tiny trickle that begged the building of a dam.

Which, with great industriousness seldom seen by any of the boys’ families, was finally completed.

Water began to pool.

Now they had a pond.

Did I mention that said water issued directly from a glacier?

Right. I did.

Well, that meant it was cold.

Or more accurately: C.O.L.D.

Husby, ever the leader, told the boys they would need to use their new construction for the purposes of cleaning their camp-begrimed bodies.

They smilingly declined.

At the end of three days, his urging took on a more—insistent—note.

Let’s face it. Three days of camping with no soap and water can make even the least fastidious among us—umm—cringe.

And head upwind.

Husby was standing with one of his older scouts on the edge of the pond.

I should probably mention that Husby had already ‘done the dirty’—or the ‘clean’ as it probably should be called—when he had scrubbed himself shiny in the frigid waters the day before.

Now he was encouraging his boys to do the same. Admittedly, his ‘encouragement’ was couched in the form of: “Son, you have two choices. You can go in willingly. Or I throw you in.”

The young man’s response? “It was easy for you, Scouter. You have much more body fat than I do.”

I will close with these words: The young man only got one choice.

P.S. On a more positive note, he and his laundry were cleaned at the same time.

Little Helper

Kids pick up on everything we do whether we like it or not.

And my Husby likes to build things.

These two facts will come together later in this story . . .

Sooo . . . building things. Big things.

Husby made our dining room table.

Our games table and assorted other furniture.

Our birdcage.

A pirate ship.

Then he turned his attention to a cedar-log sunroom.

He does these things because it’s . . . fun.

Moving on . . .

This project required spending the days outside.

And making assorted loud noises.

Our kids grew up with Dad’s building projects and the accompanying rackets.

Our almost-two-year-old granddaughter who was living with us was just beginning to.

She adapted quickly.

Whenever there was a loud noise in the street (ie. Mower, weedwhip, atomic explosion) she ould gasp excitedly and say, “Grampa! Working!”

Then she learned something new.

Did I mention that Husby’s project keeps him outside all day?

Oh, right, I did.

Perhaps I should emphasize the words OUTSIDE ALL DAY.

Because one couldn’t drag him inside, even for meals.

Occasionally, I would poke my head out the back door and ask, “How are you doing, Honey?”

But that was the sum total of our ‘Husby-has-a-project’ communication.

Strawberry pals.

My granddaughter and I were in the front room. Me, reading. She, plotting to overthrow the world.

Suddenly, she jumped down from the table where she was playing with the Playmobil castle and ran to the back door.

There followed the sounds of effort.

Then the squeak of the door.

Then a little voice, “How you doing, Honey?”

Who says they’re not watching.

And learning . . .

 

Inside. Cozy!

Outside. Ignore the family members about to do battle . . .

Old Shoes

Istanbul. Our room with a view.

Recently, Husby and I made a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Istanbul.

A fantastic, astonishing, amazing, astounding, surprising, wonderful, beyond-our-wildest-imaginings trip.

I guess telling you we enjoyed it would be moot by this point.

We stayed in an old mansion (built in 1835) turned hotel in the old city, overlooking the Golden Horn and just down from the Galata bridge which marks the boundary between the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus Straight.

Husby studied the life of Suleiman, the Magnificent when completing his doctorate, so the area and the people and the architecture are very, very close to his heart.

We explored the old city. The mosques. The museums. The markets.

And it is this last that I wanted to talk about . . .

The markets in Istanbul are amazing. Crowds of people sandwiched and moving slowly between piles of goods. The scent of spices, roasted meat and corn, coffee, incense and perfume in the air.

I guess you can guess I loved it!

At the end of the day, the markets were closed. The people somehow stuffed the contents that had been spilling out into the narrow street back into their shops.

And the ‘blanket’ shops appeared in front of the stores.

Anywhere there was a sidewalk, these intrepid salesmen spread blankets and arranged piles of goods. It wasn’t unusual to see some man stripping off his shirt to try on one from the neatly-arranged stack before him. There were hardware supplies, kitchen utensils, food stuffs, knickknacks, leather goods, glassware. Everything you could imagine that could be easily carried and that someone could find useful.

But one man stood out from the rest.

Or rather, sat out from the rest.

An elderly man, we found him daily on his frayed, but spotless, blanket with pairs of used shoes spread neatly about him. Shoes meticulously cleaned and just as meticulously arranged.

Now to the rest of the story. My fellow traveller and good friend, Carol, and I had scoured the shops for a bargain on shoes. We had found one. And each purchased a pair.

Then Carol had the brilliant idea of taking our used shoes to our elderly salesman.

We did so.

Yeah. I’m, a follower.

He took them and looked them over. Testing the soles. Studying the uppers closely. Finally, he looked up at us and, through the kindly interpretations of the shopkeeper next to him, asked us our price.

“Oh, nothing,” Carol said, quickly. “We’re giving them to you.”

Then we saw the biggest smile we’d ever seen break over that seamed, elderly face. A smile with few teeth but lots of heart.

He got up and shook Carol’s hand. Then mine. Nodding and continuing to smile. Then he looked at Husby, who was wearing cream-coloured walking shoes, and pointed to his shoes. He then indicated his own well-worn, but still stout boots. His gesture was obvious. Trade?

Husby laughed and shook his head.

The salesman laughed, too and spread his hands in a ‘can’t hurt to ask’ gesture.

After that, whenever we walked past, he would greet us, his ‘Canadian friends’.

Now I don’t know what he could have gotten for our old shoes. A few lira perhaps.

But the funny thing? When I think of that amazing, stupendous trip, that is the experience that stands out the most.

I wonder why that is . . .

Squeaks

Stringams. At Gramma's house.

My Gramma Stringam lived in a house in Lethbridge.

She and Grampa had built it and moved there when their older sons took over management of the ranch.

By the time I entered the world, they had lived in it a number of years.

And when I had reached an age to remember, it was already ‘seasoned’ and had received additions to the original structure.

It was a beautiful, comfortable home, with junipers growing on either side of the front door, stuffing one’s lungs with fragrance whenever one entered or exited into the wide hallway that ran from the front to the magical kitchen at the back.

To the left were the doorway to Gramma and Grampa’s room, the entrance to the upper staircase and the entrance to the laundry room and lower staircase. To the right were the double glass doors to the living room. Grampa’s recliner perched directly behind these doors in the corner. A long couch sat in front of the wide window beside his chair. Along the back wall was a white ‘fireplace’, a mirror and some book shelves.

On the opposite side of the room were some comfortable chairs and a ‘piecrust’ table with little figurines that little fingers itched to play with.

Ahem . . .

Also on that wall was the wide opening to the sunny dining room. Which contained a great sideboard that held dishes and linens. And, for those same little fingers, a drawer full of candy.

Don’t ask me how I know this . . .

The dining room was sandwiched between the great, sun-filled kitchen and the comfortable ‘sun room’ filled with books and chairs and . . . sunshine.

I loved this house. It was sparkling clean, warm, bright and welcoming. Endlessly filled with the fragrances of freshly baked bread and/or cookies and/or homemade soups and/or roasting meats.

But my reasons for describing all of this to you is because I wanted to talk about the floors.

Yes, it takes me a while.

The living room, in fact, most of the rooms, were floored in hardwood strips, polished and gleaming. Each room was additionally covered by a wide rug with reached very nearly to the edges. Only a brief, tantalizing glimpse of shining floorboards was visible near the walls.

One walked on woven carpets mostly.

But even as your stockinged feet tread along those carpets, you could hear the creak of the wooden floors beneath you.

I loved it.

It was the ‘sound’ of Gramma’s house that went along with the fragrance.

In our home, Husby replaced the carpets with hardwood flooring many years ago. They have now developed squeaks.

And whenever I hear one, I am again that little girl, happily crossing the living room at Gramma’s house.

The piecrust table and its prohibited, fragile residents are there, just within reach. The candy cupboard sits in the sunshine a few feet away.

And Gramma and Aunt Emily are in the kitchen, where, shortly something delicious will emerge.

All recalled with the single squeak of a hardwood floor.

Arrived

Then . . .

Now . . .

Ringing a little bell here . . .

I liked to read with my children.

But more than that, I liked to sing to them.

Little songs that told a story.

I did it a lot.

One, The Biplane, was a particular favourite.

And therein hangs a tale.

So to speak . . .

When our eldest son was three, our family attended a family reunion.

People were getting re-acquainted—talk and laughter filled the wooded area where we had gathered.

Food was set out. A vast array. And talking lessened as gullets were filled.

An impromptu program began.

Someone recited and a couple sang.

My little three-year old stood up in front of that group.

And sang.

The Biplane.

All five verses.

With choruses.

People clapped and cheered.

And enthused.

I hadn’t realized he knew the entire thing. It was a proud moment for his dad and I.

Yesterday, I sat with his father in a crowd and watched that same son, now a man holding numerous degrees in music and education, working with a choir.

His knowledge, talent and skill were obvious. The choir responded and the music was amazing.

It was another proud moment.

He sang one difficult passage for the group, helping to clarify and, in that moment, I suddenly remembered the small boy who had stood in front of the large crowd—all alone—and sang.

All five verses of The Biplane.

Maybe it had something to do with our singing together when he was little.

And maybe he just got there on his own.

Do we ever really know what path we’re steering our children along?

Until they get there?

The Biplane

Way out in London airport in hangar number four

A lonely little biplane lived whose name was EvermoreHis working days were over no more would he sailUpon his wings above the clouds flying the royal mail

ChorusBye bye biplane once upon a sky planeBye bye hushabye lullabye plane

All the mighty jet planes would look down their noseThey'd laugh and say oh I'm so glad that I'm not one of thoseAnd Evermore would shake away the teardrops from his wingsAnd dream of days when he again could do heroic things

Chorus

Then one day the fog and rain had closed the airport downAnd all the mighty jet planes were helpless on the groundWhen a call came to the airport for a mercy flight'Twould be too late, they could not wait, someone must fly tonight

Ah they rolled the little biplane out to runway number fiveAnd though he looked so small and weak he knew he could surviveAnd as he rose into the storm the big jets hung their wingsAnd they hoped someday like Evermore to do heroic things

Chorus

And so my baby bundle I have spun a tale for youYou must learn there's nothing in this world that you can't doDo not be discouraged by circumstance and sizeRemember Evermore and set your sights upon the skies

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.