Stray Cats

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was evening. Just before bedtime.
And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.
Something she did a lot.
Especially at night.
We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.
It was . . . annoying.
Finally, I set my book down and got up to see what could be bothering her.
Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby?
A cow bawling?
Water running in the canal?
Wind in the trees?
Crickets?
Dumb dog.
I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport with two walls: one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.
The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.
It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

See? Carport. Without the cars...

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.
Something I usually did.
Tonight I . . . didn't.
I don't know why.
I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.
There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.
And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.
My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.
Still barking her fool head off.
Stupid dog.
I sighed and pushed the screen door open.
Then hesitated.
And did something I had never done before. I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other neatly-placed garden tools.
Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.
I paused at the edge of the carport.
Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased. I could see her clearly now, even in the dim light. Hackles raised. Whole body stiff with intent.
I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.
And I do mean shattered.
It was the scream of a cougar.
Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.
It's . . . scary.
This scream was five feet away.
Above me.
At the very edge of the carport roof.
See? Shattered.
I froze instantly.
Then started to back up, one step at a time.
Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.
I called my dog and she came running.
Still barking.
The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.
Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”
I was staring out the window.
Cheetah was now standing behind me. She continued to bark.
“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.
“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”
“Are you sure?”
I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”
“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.
I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.
My dad appeared. Calm as always.
“Where?”
“Well it was on the carport roof a few minutes ago.”
“It'll leave.”
I stared at him. “You're not going to go out after it?”
“Not while it's on the roof.”
Good point.
Dad got a flash-light and pointed it out the window.
The roof was snared in a noose of light.
Empty.
I cautiously opened the door.
Cheetah shot through and into the night. Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and toward the foothills.
Our visitor was obviously headed home.
Everyone present heaved a sigh of relief. With some visitors, that's just the way it is.
Less is more.
Moving on . . .
I will add that this was the first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.
And not being offered a warm meal.
Oh . . . wait.
I guess that's a good thing.

Mondays are Poetry days!If you'd like to participate, you will be so welcome!I'm writing about BEGINNINGS. 

Message me your link in the comments before Sunday evening. Let's do this! :)

(S)Licked Up

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

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'. Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.

But especially tacos.

Mmmmm. Tacos.

There was only one problem. I couldn't get them hot enough.

I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.

Not enough.

Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.

Still not enough.

A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)

Almost there.

Seven drops.

Perfect.

And that's the way I ate them the entire nine months.

My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.

I think I burned it off.

This is relevant.

Moving on . . .

After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.

Mmmmm. More food.

I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest toasty and comfortable.

Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.

My dinner arrived. 

I looked at the loaded plate. Then at my baby.

I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.

But that would take effort.

And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.

Hunger decided.

I would just eat.

Over the baby. It was just like being pregnant again.

Sort of.

All went well.

The mushy peas went first. That was easy, I just held the bowl close and spooned.

Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.

Mmmm.

And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.

With ketchup.

Paradise.

Dip.

Munch.

Dip.

Munch.

And so it went.

Then . . .

Dip.

Splat.

Oops.

Right on the top of my baby's bald head.

What to do?

I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.

Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.

Done.

I happily went back to eating my chips.

That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table. Looking at me. A frozen expression of horror on her face.

Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.

I remember being a trifle embarrassed. And briefly uncomfortable.

Then I shrugged.

In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex.

It's all a matter of perspective.

Mine.

Just Like Her

We are impacted by other people. It’s just a fact of living.

Sometimes for good. Sometimes bad.

And sometimes, it changes your life.

I have a friend. I’ll call her ‘Carmen’.

She is one of those people you can call a true friend. Kind. Understanding. Patient. Incredibly talented.

And there when you need them . . .

The small community in which I lived was peopled primarily by farm folk.

Men and women who had settled the land, carved out the acres.

Planted crops.

And raised families.

Many of their children had returned to raise their families.

The circle of farm life.

Husby and I were a part of that secondary group.

We had several small children. Husby had a full-time job. I ran the household and sold stitchery.

And we both had community and church commitments.

At times these duties necessitated our leaving our children in the care of others for a few hours.

Mostly, we left them with grammas.

But occasionally, that avenue wasn’t available.

And that was when we would throw ourselves on the mercy of our friends.

The conversation usually went something like this:

Me: “Hi! It’s Diane.”

Friend: “Hi!”

Me: “I’m sorry to ask you this on such short notice, but I need to ask a favour.”

Friend: “What is it?”

I would proceed to ask the favour and they would accept or refuse and I would (A) Bring them my kids, or (B) Start dialing again.

But there was one household in which the conversation went—a bit differently. ‘Carmen’s’.

There, it more closely followed these lines:

Me: “Hi! It’s Diane!”

Carmen: “Hi!”

Me: “I’m sorry to ask you this on such short notice, but I need to ask a favour.”

‘Carmen’: “Sure! I’d love to!”

See the difference?

Though she probably suspected what I was about to ask, she never made me feel as though my upcoming question was an imposition. (And, let’s face it, it probably was.)

I decided I wanted to do the same.

Be the same.

Make whoever asked me for a favour feel they were doing me said favour.

I’m sure I stumble. I’m sure I have, at times, been ungracious.

But I’m trying.

Someday, I’ll be like ‘Carmen’.

Playing Chicken

Eldest Granddaughter (hereinafter known as EGD) and I were standing beside the guinea pig cages at the local pet store.

We had made faces at the fish.

Chirped and squawked at the birds.

And had now started down the ‘furry’ aisle.

“Did you know that Gramma can talk to guinea pigs?” I asked her.

Wide-eyed, she looked at me. “You can?!”

I nodded. “Watch.” I proceeded to imitate the low-to-high-pitched squeak common to the modern short-legged furry.

“Squee-eeek! Squee-eeek!”

It sounds more convincing than it looks.

Moving on . . .

The little furries in the cage began to react. Kicking their feet and running about.

EGD, mouth open, again looked at me. “You’re amazing, Gramma!”

Hey. I’ll take it where I can get it.

“Great Grampa could talk to chickens.”

Again, that wide-eyed stare. “Really?”

“Yes. He said if you listen really hard, you can understand what they are saying. Especially after they’ve laid an egg.”

“They’re saying stuff?”

“Yep. But you have to listen really hard.”

Sceptical frown. Then, “What are they saying, Gramma?”

I smiled. “Look-look-look-look-look-look-what-I-did!”

Listen closely next time you see a chicken.

Great Grampa was right.

There is a lot of 'stuff' going on in the world.

You won't find any of it here.

I want this blog to be a little oasis of peace and good humour.

Thank you for visiting!

Toot. Too

Happy Valentine's day!!

I don’t often write about bodily humour.

Okay, you’re right. This makes twice in one week.

It was just so cute . . .

Momma and Little Girl (hereinafter known as LG) were having a ‘sleep over’.

They had enjoyed a fun evening of movies.

Popcorn.

Treats.

Pillow fights.

And staying up way too late.

Morning had arrived, as morning often does.

Early.

Both were lying in bed. Momma, trying to get the energy to roll out of said bed.

LG watching Momma.

Someone tooted.

Momma looked over at LG. “Was that you?”

LG giggled.

“You just tooted in my bed!”

More giggles.

“You’re not supposed to toot in my bed!”

LG looked coy. “That’s okay, Momma,” she said. “I’m on Daddy’s side of the bed!”

There is a lot of 'stuff' going on in the world.

You won't find any of it here.

I want this blog to be a little oasis of peace and good humour.

Thank you for visiting!

Toe Dancing

I love poetry.

The rhythm. The cadence. 

It's like dancing. With words.

Because of this love, I've decided to implement Poetry Monday.

The day when I get to rhyme. All the time.

To start things off, a poem dedicated to the person who gave me the love of words. 

My dad.

Enjoy . . .

When I was four, my dad adored, and followed him around,

The things he did (to this small kid) did fascinating sound.

From ‘doing chores’ and things outdoors, to office work. With pens.

Well, I’d appear, interest sincere, and lots of time to spend.

Our barn, it burned, all were concerned, that year that I turned four.

Soon things were bought and experts sought. A barn was built once more.

Then we ranch folk (in a masterstroke) with this new elbow room,

Thought we’d have fun, perhaps some sun would clear away the gloom.

We’d have a dance. Some wheel and prance, was what was needed now.

Our neighbours, too, would gloom eschew, and our new barn endow.

We hired a band who took command, and music did ensue,

We ate and twirled and stomped and whirled from hello through adieu.

I don’t recall that much at all, I do remember this:

My dad was there, in shined footwear, and nothing was amiss.

He took my hands and had me stand upon those shiny toes,

Then slowly lead (my fears all fled), and love for Daddy rose.

The days have passed, the years amassed, I don’t remember much,

Though far I gaze, that’s day’s a haze, of people, stuff and such.

I know they had both good and bad, some happiness and woes.

One thing that’s best above the rest. I danced on Daddy’s toes.

My friend Delores has made a suggestion. Would anyone else like to join in? I can include your URL here on my page. I'd love to have you with me!The rules are simple. Poetry. Any type. Any topic. Any length.Monday morning. 'Cause what Monday wouldn't be a little better started off with rhyme?Let me know in the comments!

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