An Angel Boost

You get the picture . . .

On the ranch, riding horses was pretty much a daily activity.

When I was a wee lad, whenever I would walk up to the barn, I always found horses there.

My father had 2 or 3 that were quiet and safe enough for children to bridle, saddle, and adventure on.

Coco was one of these. She was a beautiful Chocolate color, tall and long.

On to my story . . .

My friend Ian and I wanted to ride a horse out in the pasture. Of the horses that were ‘in’, Coco was the only one I could bridle and saddle. Fortunately, her nice long back worked well for riding double.

However, we had a problem. Cocoa was tall so putting on a saddle was difficult for my seven-year-old body. Besides, a saddle didn’t work well for riding together.

After getting a bridle on her, we needed to get up on her back.  Remember when I said she was tall? With no saddle, we weren’t able to step into a stirrup. So we walked Coco to the pole fence and climbed from there onto her back.

One has to be resourceful when one is seven and height challenged.

Once we were on Coco’s back we headed off for adventure, crossing the river into the pasture.

It was a beautiful afternoon in Southern Alberta. A very good day until some partridge suddenly jumped out of the grass in front of us.

Coco started and because we were not in a saddle, we slid off of her back, *wump* right onto the Prairie floor—a long fall for two seven-year-old boys.

We picked ourselves up and I grabbed the reins.

Now we had a problem.

There was no fence close by to help us climb onto Coco’s back.

Now this may not be a big deal even considering we were about a mile from the horse barn.  However, we needed to cross the river and the water was a little too deep to wade through.

I boosted Ian onto the horse, then found the largest rock and brought Coco alongside. I stood on the rock, grabbed Coco’s mane and pulled as hard as I could.

But I could not get up onto her back.

I decided I would have to lead Coco—with Ian on her back—across the river.

I started out but the water soon got high enough that I was afraid of going any further.

We turned around and tried to consider our options.

Now I suppose that I could have had Ian ride back to the barn and get help but that didn’t cross my mind. Maybe I was afraid that I would get into trouble for riding out where we were.

What to do?

We decided to pray.

Ian got off the horse and we said a little prayer out on there on the Prairie. That somehow we would both be able to get on Coco and ride home.

Once we finished praying, I boosted Ian up onto Coco. 

Then I tried to find the biggest rock that I could. (I think it was the same one I used before or one that was much the same size.)

I pulled Coco up beside the rock. Then I stood on the rock, grabbed onto her mane and pulled for all I was worth.

I got part way but couldn’t seem to manage the Last. Little. Bit.

Just as I was about to give up, I suddenly slid up the rest of the way onto Coco.

I was so relieved.

Happily, Ian and I rode back to the barn and turned Coco out into the coral.

I have thought about this from time to time. Did I really have my prayers answered?

Some may claim that I determined I had no choice but to pull myself up onto her back.

As I put myself back into that situation, I remember the frustration of having such a small body that did not seem to have the strength to get up on Coco.

I remember thinking as I tried to pull myself up onto her back: I just can’t do it. I just don’t have the strength.

Then suddenly I slid up the rest of the way.

You know what I think?

I think my guardian angel was there to give me a little boost.

This story is courtesy of  Little brother Blair.
I love his view of things! :)

Roasted History

A repost from two years ago. By request . . .

A whole new meaning to 'roasted grains'.

May 9, 1969. 6:45 am.
When most of the world still sleeps, or is just beginning to stir, the ranching families of Southern Alberta are already up and out.
Stock to feed, cows to milk.
Diving into the day’s first chores with unfettered enthusiasm. A smile - brought by the pure joy of work most satisfying - firmly fixed on weather-beaten faces.
Not.
“Spring!” Dad’s first words of the day, spoken with that aforementioned ‘unfettered enthusiasm’.
There he would be, the light from the hall behind him making him into the shadowy cut-out of some avenging God of Mischief, dressed in a white terry-cloth bathrobe and sent to ruin the final minutes of a good night’s sleep.
“Spring!” he would say again, in case we didn’t hear it the first time.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he would disappear. Evil summons completed.
Actually, I just made up that ‘puff of smoke bit’.
The evil summons?
Truth.
This morning began like any other.
A new spring sun just peeping over the horizon filling the clear, blue sky with breathtaking slices of pink and orange.
We humans blissfully ignorant.
Dad’s unfailingly cheerful, completely irritating voice calling happily down the stairs.
The summoned moaning and complaining and beginning to twitch in their beds.
The call came again.
The summoned were throwing off the heavy bonds of sleep by degrees.
Some were actually finding their voices. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet a third time.
The responses growing equally louder and more understandable, “Yeah, yeah!”
And then the final call. The one sure to either freeze the faithful in their beds, or galvanize them into movement.
“The elevators are on fire!”
I should mention here that the town of Milk River’s elevators stood directly behind us, across our pasture. A short few hundred yards away.
Within toasting distance.
The mere thought of them engulfed in flames struck terror into the hearts of every member of the Stringam family.
Certainly it did that day.
“Yeah, Dad, good one!” A pause. Then, “Dad’ll say anything to get us up!” Laughter.
Perhaps I was a bit more trusting than my brothers.
Perhaps the idea of something exciting happening in our sleepy little town was enough to draw me from my bed.
Whichever.
I scurried into my parent’s room, bounded across their bed and joined my mother at the window.
The entire horizon was a blaze of light.
Two of the six elevators were already burning and, as we watched, a third began to smoke.
Dad was out on the deck, his face a mixture of disbelief, excitement and dismay.
It was an interesting face.
By this time, our cries of . . . disbelief, excitement and dismay . . . had finally drawn my brothers to their window.
“Holy Smoke!”
Truer words were never spoken.
For a moment, fear washed over me.
Were we in any danger from the flames? Those elevators were awfully close.
Dad was quick to reassure.
The wind was favourable for us, pushing the fire, and its attendant sparks to the South, away from the Stringams.
Towards the Garbers, actually. And their barn.
But that is another story.
Chores were given a lick and a promise.
School was . . . poorly attended.
The time was spent watching the fire.
And the fire-fighters.
The entire population of town stood across the street, eyes locked on the incredible sight.
I found my Mom there and went to stand beside her.
“Good thing it’s spring,” I told her. “Harvest hasn’t started.”
My ignorance of the whole ‘grain storage’ thing was woeful.
“They’re right full of grain!” my Mom exclaimed.
As though to prove her statement, a long split appeared in one corner of the elevator nearest us. Followed immediately by a golden stream.
Then pieces of flaming elevator began to rain down.
The crowd gasped and stepped backwards.
Our Sheriff tried his best to keep us away.
Keep us safe.
He even went so far as to order all of the kids back to school.
We scampered to obey.
I'll let you believe that for a moment . . .
He couldn’t have driven us away with a stick. Maybe if he had pulled his gun . . . no not even then.
The elevators burned for days.

When the glow was finally out, the ruined grain was raked into piles and sold for a pittance, for cattle feed or whatever.
But to those of us who witnessed it, the fire would never be extinguished.
Even after the smell of roasting wood and grain finally washed away.
Even after new, modern elevators were built.
All one would have to say was, “Remember the elevator fire?”.
It was the most excitement our town has ever had. Before or since.
Okay, so ‘Thrill Central’ wasn't our town’s middle name.
Meanwhile, the Stringams were back to hearing, “Spring!” every morning.
Once or twice, Dad would try to inject a little excitement by shouting, “The elevators are on fire!”
But he was never believed.
Kind of like that first time.

Charlie's

Charlie's. The dive formerly known as Danny's.
But, in reality, the Canadian Cafe.
All the teenagers in Milk River went there. The little, dark, hole-in-the-wall storefront with the half-dozen booths, a couple of pinball machines, dusty dingy floors, dim lighting and the long glass-fronted counter on the north wall.
It was the 'after-school and sometimes Saturdays' place to be.
To just hang out and be cool.
Maybe get a snack. A bottle of pop. Fudgecicle. Chocolate bar.
Play pinball. I should mention here that this was where I learned there is a fine line between 'encouraging' the pinball game and making it 'tilt'. There's a dime I'll never get back.
Moving on . . .
One could listen to the latest hits on the giant jukebox that greeted you as you stepped in the front door. Those fresh and new and those that instigated a store-wide groan because they had been played a little too much. *cough-Honey!*
It was to Charlie's I went to meet my friends whenever I had a loose nickel.
Or--more often--when I didn't have any money at all.
Of course, at those times, we were at the mercy of the moneyed because they got to choose all the music. *cough-Honey!*
Charlie's was the place to let it all hang out.
The first place I saw someone my age smoking.
Gasp.
Where you snuggled into one of the booths on a vinyl-covered bench with your sweetie-of-the-moment.
Okay, I never got to do that, but I dreamed . . .
It was also the place my friends and I discovered that one could actually square dance to 'Ode To Joy'.
True story.
Also my brother tells me it was the place for the finest chop suey known to man.
Who knew?
What was your Charlie's?

One more time. Honey:

The Elves and the Shoemaker

It's play time again!
And by that I mean that my little group of Thespians are nearing performance for this year's show: The Elves and the Shoemaker.
And what fun we've had putting this little musical together!
Late Tuesday evenings.
Early Saturday mornings.
Sleepy little elves.
Sleepier shoemakers.
I'll keep you posted on how it goes . . .

Pulling Off Memories

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.
He had slaves.
At least that is how his children saw it . . .
Dad worked hard doing . . . ranch stuff.
It took him most of the day.
Every day.
When he came in, his recliner looked really, really good and it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.
Great motivation.
Silly little things like removing one's work boots or tossing things in the garbage weren't nearly big enough. Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.
That's where we came in.
His six little, willing slaves.
Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.
Fortunately, this was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.
Don't get the wrong idea. There was no kicking involved . . .
The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.
The standing smaller person would turn their back, straddle said foot and grasp the boot.
That's where the large foot came in.
While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.
Small person would be pressed away from the large person and the boot would slide slowly from the foot.
Until, at last it would drop to the floor.
The boot, not the foot.
Surgery completed.
The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.
And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have had to move out of his chair.
Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)
Moving on . . .
Dad was also reluctant to leave his chair for such frivolities as throwing things in the garbage.
Call in the slaves once more.
Dad always finished the evening meal with a toothpick.
I know, I know, the rest of the world would infinitely prefer ice cream, but what can I say? Dad even followed his ice cream with a toothpick.
That's just Dad.
He even had a preference.
For toothpicks, I mean.
He liked the wooden ones.
Which he would then proceed to chew into a little ball of pulp.
Umm . . . ick.
Now in our earlier years, we kids could always be counted on to receive the little ball of 'ick' and drop it into the proper receptacle.
As we grew older, we got, for want of a better term, smarter.
We found other places to be when Dad got to the end of his little splinter of wood.
Dad had to get . . . creative.
My Mom had a plant. A beautiful pineapple plant. She had grown it from the cut off top of a pineapple imported from her and Dad's trip to Hawaii.
I think the rules for bringing fruit across the border were different then.
But I digress . . .
It was large.
Really large.
And it sat in a tub on the floor right beside Dad's chair.
He's only human, he can't be blamed for what happened next.
He finished with his toothpick and called out for a child.
Any child.
We were all hidden in the family room.
Giggling.
He sighed and briefly considered getting up. Then looked for someplace to deposit his little, wooden offering.
Huh. A large, leafy plant right beside him.
If Mom hadn't wanted it tampered with, she should have found somewhere else to put it.
He hid his little lump of sawdust in the pot under the convenient leaves.
Mission accomplished.
Hey, that worked great! And there wasn't a sign of anything!
He had discovered something new and wonderful. Especially when one was blessed with slacker children.
Like us . . .
He did it the next night.
And the next.
And for many, many nights afterwards.
Then, one day, when Mom was taking care of her beloved plant, she noticed that it wasn't looking very healthy. She pulled out the pot to investigate.
I don't have to tell you what she found. At this point, the layer of chewed up bits of toothpick was a couple of inches deep.
The plant was obviously as fond of them as we kids were.
And protesting in the only way it could.
By dying.
Okay, yes, that is a bit extreme, but it was a plant. You have to admit it really didn't have many options.
Huffily (real word), Mom moved the plant somewhere . . . not close to Dad.
And put a garbage container beside his chair.

We all moved away from home.
Dad still had the garbage can conveniently beside his chair for his recycled toothpicks.
But he started wearing shoes that he could remove by himself.
One time, when we were visiting, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.
For the rest of us, it was a short stroll down memory lane.
All that was missing were the work boots.

Dimming the Bright Lights

Mondays are for poetry!

Can you think of a better way to start the week?

And what subject could be more fun than one of Dad's favourite stories?!

Ready?

Go!

The movie flashed and flickered on the silver picture screen,

The movie-goers hoped it’d be the best they’d ever seen.

But one cowboy seemed determined on disturbing one and all,

And laying out across three seats in a mean and thoughtless sprawl.

When Usher—with his usher’s light—was directed to him there,

He said, “My man, you’ll have to move! You cannot have three chairs!”

“And I really do not care if you are drunk, or stoned, or ill.”

“This ain’t the way that things are done, even here in ol’ Hicksville.”

His light showed him a quiet face, with cowboy hat askew,

He said, “You understand, my man? You’ll simply have to move.”

But the cowboy just ignored him, clearly would not be dethroned.

And though the usher gave him time, he didn’t talk, he groaned.

The usher straightened with a huff, and management, he sought,

Returning with his boss would give that cowboy food for thought!

When Usher and his boss came back, primed and prepared to teach.

The cowboy still used up three chairs and groaned in lieu of speech.

The manager reached out and tapped the cowboy on the arm,

He said, “Young man, we are not bad and don’t mean any harm.”

“But what the usher said is true. You must vacate this place.”

“He wasn’t being foul, it’s just: We simply need the space!”

If he thought that his proposals, soon the cowboy would apply,

He must admit the end result did not quite satisfy.

For though he spoke with kindly mien and quiet, gentle tone,

The cowboy did not move and only answered in a groan.

The cowboy did exasperate, t’was not their sought outcome.

Said Usher, “What’s your name, my man, and where did you come from?”

“I’m Joe,” the cowboy said to them, with next to no esprit.

Then he raised a hand and pointed. “I came from the balcony!” 

Want to join in?

Direct us in your comments!

We'd love to include you!

Unexpected Answers

Daddy on Heinrich.
(With my eldest sister who doesn't appear in this story...)

The Stringam ranch covered a lot of ground.

A lot.

Going out to check the cows was an event.

Usually requiring hours. If not a whole day.

And prairie weather is—ummm---let’s go with capricious.

It sounds a whole lot better than unpredictable. Or just downright volatile.

On to my story . . .

Daddy had gone to ride through the herd, checking that no one was AWOL.

Or hurting.

Or dead. It was nature, after all.

It had been a beautiful day when he left. With no weather channel or satellite imaging, there was no way of knowing that this could change. Dramatically.

Sigh.

About five miles from the ranch, a storm blew up.

Now you have to know that the prairies are known for their endless stretches of grasses.

And notable absence of trees.

When a storm starts, it can get a really good run.

In a matter of seconds, one can go from happily basking in the winter sunlight to being mercilessly buffeted by cutting winds and blinding snow.

That’s what happened here.

Daddy’s world was instantly blotted out.

No landmarks. No solar guide.

Up and down were even difficult to differentiate. 

Daddy stopped his horse. There was only one thing left to do.

Have you ever heard the phrase: “There are no atheists in foxholes”?

Well that would apply equally to ranchers stuck in snowstorms.

Daddy needed to pray.

He did.

Then he waited.

All at once, he felt the distinct impression to let go of the reins.

Yep. Cross them over the horse’s neck and leave them there.

I expect you realize that this is a tall order for a rancher. You let go of the reins, you lose control of the situation.

Again, the impression came.

Sighing, Daddy did as he felt impressed to do. Then hunkered down in his coat and tried to pretend he was somewhere warm and sunny.

The horse started to walk.

Slowly. And steadily.

Occasionally, Daddy would poke his head out to stare at the great featureless wall of snow that hemmed he and his horse on every side.

Then, as his mount kept moving, he would slide back into the comparative warmth of his coat and start praying again.

All at once, the storm seemed to lessen. Daddy frowned. Yes. There was a definite break in the wind.

The horse stopped moving.

Daddy poked his head out.

They were standing in front of the barn.

I believe in answered prayers.

And in the Guardian Angels sent to our aid.

They appear in all sorts of ways.

Sometimes with four legs and a mane and tail. 

Let Them Be Little

It should probably come as no surprise that I love children.
And that I had (what I consider) a stellar childhood.
I was raised with peace.
Security.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Good food.
And a lot of adventure.
Today, I'm thinking of those children throughout the world who have none of these things.
And my heart breaks for them.
In my opinion, children should never have to fear.
Suffer.
Die.
I donate my money.
I offer them my prayers.
I keep them in my heart.
Today, I'm thinking of them.
Be little.

Tough Ranchers

We depended on our horses on the ranch.

They were usually well trained and quiet, something you needed when you worked cattle. A jumpy horse would rile up said cattle and get them nervous.

This made them difficult to handle. They may hurt themselves or just go running in some crazy direction and lose lots of precious weight that Dad had just spent many feed dollars trying to put on their bodies.

Because, let’s face the hairy truth: Cows aren’t the geniuses of the ranching community . . .

It takes many years to make/train a quiet cattle horse.

You start with a colt that is full of lots of energy and you train and train using various techniques to develop a well-behaved horse.

Having said all that, somewhere in the training/breaking process, you have to use the ‘green broke’ horse to work cows as part of their schooling.

Our family had a friend that I’ll call RG, who was in the middle of one of these young-colt/quiet-horse processes.

On a beautiful spring day RG and several members of his ranch crew were taking a large herd of cattle from their ranch headquarters to the spring pasture—a trek that put Dad’s ranch at the half way point.

Our friend dropped by earlier in the day and left his green broke colt, planning to trade his well-trained cattle horse for the green horse at the halfway point. This would give the green horse the opportunity to work with cows, but the cows would be tired and quiet and not likely get excited if the horse got a little jumpy.

I was up at the barn when our friend rode up to exchange horses. He quickly saddled the green horse and mounted.

I guess his horse was not quite ready for any cattle drive because he pulled his head down and started bucking.

Now, initially I thought that this wouldn’t be a problem. RG was a seasoned cattle rancher and he could manage a green horse.

Then I realized that RG was also 75 years old and maybe not as strong as a young rancher.

The horse bucked several times.

I held my breath. With every hop of the horse a word popped into my head.

Don’t!

Fall!

Off!

The!

Horse!

You!

Are!

Old!

And!

Will!

BREAK!

I hoped and prayed that RG could get things settled before he was piled.

And I would have to call an ambulance.

But RG couldn’t hold on any longer and the horse piled him good. He groaned and let go of the horse’s reins.

My body hurt just seeing him get planted.

It seemed for a brief moment that RG was down for the count and I was afraid that my greatest fears had come true.

I was about to run over and ask him if he was ok when RG pulled himself up, spun around and grabbed the reins of the horse. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

It was like a reflex action. I was sure that RG was hurt and would have liked to come into the ranch house for a rest.

I thought: ‘RG is going to be sore tonight.’

Once RG was back in the saddle, his horse settled. He said, “I’ll be back later for the other horse.” Then headed down the road after the herd of cattle.

I watched anxiously as he rode away, not wanting to see a repeat of the piling episode.

I didn’t.

I learned something from this: These old ranchers are tougher than my generation.

Marlboro man you ain’t got nothin’ on RG!

It's fun to see stories of the Stringam Ranch from a different set of eyes.

Today's adventure is courtesy of my little brother, Blair.

Stu Stories: The Adventures of Dirt Clod and his Sidekick, Bird Bones

When we were growing up, we all had that friend who was just a bit larger than life.

That kid who tried things.

Adults loved them. Kids loved them.

Bad things never seemed to affect them.

They lived a charmed life.

And we sidekicks desperately wished we could be the same.

Stu Stories, the Adventures of Dirt Clod and his sidekick Bird Bones is a fun, crazy, highly entertaining series of adventures featuring just such a kid.

Stu Sanderson, alias Dirt Clod. 

Who, on his way to becoming an eighth-grade legend, challenges knights, does magic, kidnaps the teacher’s marker box, reads minds, disappears in the middle of class . . .

And never uses a door to enter his home.

Even when life goes horribly, terribly wrong, Stu never loses his charm. Or his sense of humour.

I want to be just like Stu.

About the book:

Stu Sanderson is no ordinary eighth-grader. Not only is he seven feet tall, but he also vanishes into thin air, duels knights and ninjas, lifts the downtrodden, and woos the best-calved girl in school. Become a middle-grade legend with Stu and his sidekick, Bird Bones, on the journey of a lifetime in “Stu Stories.”

About the author:

Patrick Hueller has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Minnesota. His fiction and humor have been published fairly widely (sometimes under the pen names “Paul Hoblin” or “P.W. Hueller”). Fun fact: he’s Cedar Fort author Andy Hueller’s identical twin brother. They like to do readings together whenever they can. He’s been a middle school teacher and is currently a college English professor at Hamline University.  

Stu Stories can be found at these fine stores:

Amazon 

Barnes and Noble

Books and Things

Definitely Not Friends

Spiders and I get along very well.

As long as there is space between us.

Lots and lots of space.

When I can see them ‘over there’. And I’m quite sure when they can see me ‘equally over there’.

Perhaps we could call it a mutual respect? Reverence? Esteem?

Nope, I think ‘aversion’ fits in here quite well . . .

When I was in grade seven, my seat was the last in the row next to the windows.

As far from the teacher as I could be and still be considered ‘in’ the class.

On this sunny day, a large spider had been happily parked in his web high up in the window closest to my desk. For a reason known only to his tiny little spider brain, he decided it was time to leave said window, travel down the wall and begin a journey across the floor.

Now, up to this point, my eyes had been glued to the little eight-legged cretin. That whole ‘over there’ scenario (see above).

But just as he reached the floor and started to cross between me and the student in front of me, the teacher asked me a question.

Requiring my attention.

Really?

You’ve been ignoring me this whole morning and you ask a question now?!

It was a dilemma. Fear of the teacher vs fear of the spider.

Hmmm . . . that’s a toughie.

I decided on the half-way approach. One eye on each.

Yeah. It didn’t work.

I gave a bit too much attention to the teacher and lost sight of my busy little friend.

Partway through my answer, something touched my leg.

I am not making this up.

My brain equated said touch as ATTACK OF THE DEADLY SPIDER!!! EVERY MAN (or woman) FOR THEMSELVES!!!

I leaped up out of my chair and did a week’s worth of cardio in only four seconds, to the amusement of my fellow students and astonishment of the teacher. Finally, seeing no spider, I returned to my senses.

And my seat.

The spider never appeared.

I figure that means one of the following scenarios:

1.  My impromptu tarantella flung the little monster to the far side of the sun.

2.  He was never on my leg. Which also raises the question: What—or who—touched me?

3.  Spiders don’t exist and are merely little brain aberrations. (Preferred.)

Which do you choose? And what scares you?

P.S. I also have a little ceremony in which I shake out my shoes before putting them on. You never know where those sneaky little beggers will be hiding. 

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!

In the Beginning...

It's time for 'Poetry Monday' again!

Let's face it, Mondays need the help!

In the Beginning:

When Father made the donkey, He said, “Fifty years is yours!”

“And you’ll eat only grass and do all the heavy chores.”

“And you will not be known as the ‘sharp knife in the drawer’ . . .”

The donkey said, “That time’s too much, gimme twenty years. No more.”

Then Father made the dog and told him he’d look after man,

He would be known as man’s best friend and serve the best he can.

He’d eat whate’er they gave him and live twenty years. Plus five.

The dog said, “Twenty-five’s too much. Just ten I’ll be alive.”

Now Father thought He’d have some fun and so the monkey made.

Who’d jump around from branch to branch there in the jungle glade.

He’d silly act and silly walk and live twenty silly years.

The monkey said, “That’s twice too much. For ten, I’ll volunteer.”

And then when he’d made the others, Father finally got to man.

He said, “You’ll be a thinker. With a twenty-year lifespan.”

“You’ll dominate the others, be the top guy everywhere.”

But man, he said. “No disrespect, but hold your horses there.”

“Twenty years is not enough, so can we make a deal?”

“The creatures cast their time away, those years I’ll gladly steal.”

And Father nodded thoughtfully and said, “That sounds okay.”

The two shook hands, their bargain made, and still it stands today.

So, man lives twenty years as man, then to an adult, turns,

And lives his thirty ‘donkey’s years—his daily bread he earns.

Then caring for his house and eating anything he’s given,

He spends his fifteen ‘doggie’s’ years, just thinking he’s in heaven.

It’s time to use his ‘monkey’s' years soon after he retires,

To silly be. And playing like his hair's been set afire.

This last decade, he gets to do the ‘dos’ he never ‘dids’,

This time’s the best of all, he spending it with his grandkids!

       

A Golden Rule

Me. Far right, second row. Renee, directly behind me.
One of us was perfectly dressed.
It wasn't me.

I'm a horrible person.

I mocked/made-fun-of someone.

I have repented . . 

It was my first day of school.

I was breathlessly, happily, finally in grade one.

I had just enjoyed my first bus ride.

It was bumpy and dusty.

But magical.

I had been duly delivered to the sidewalk outside my brand new school.

Where I stood in indecision.

Okay. The other kids were lining up at the doors.

I followed.

A tall, slender woman was calling for all of the "Grade Ones!"

I saw several kids about my size line up beside her.

I followed.

The bell rang and Miss Warnoski turned and went into the school.

We all followed.

In Miss Warnoski's room, we toted our book bags (mine was homemade by my Mom) to our first desk.

I was in the second row.

Second seat back.

It had my name pasted onto it.

D-i-a-n-e S-t-r-i-n-g-a-m. I spelled it out by tracing with a finger.

Yep. That's me!

I watched to see what the other kids were doing.

Unpacking.

Okay. I could do that.

I began to pull out thick, red pencils and half-lined scribblers.

Cool. There was a cubbyhole under the desktop that could hold a mountain of stuff.

Soon it was home to my stuff.

I hung my bag over the seat back, sat down at my desk, folded my hands together on top, and let my legs swing.

School was a breeze.

Miss Warnoski began to teach.

Okay, not such a breeze.

Then, it was time to line up for Recess.

Capital 'R'.

The great unknown.

I followed.

We filed back outside. And kids began to run and play.

This was Recess?

Pffff. What was I worried about?

This was just like playing with kids at home.

In fact, I recognized some of the kids from playing at home.

Suddenly I was in my element.

And that's when the trouble started.

I should point out, here, that I didn't always get into trouble during recess.

It just seems like it.

Moving on . . .

There was a tall, very slender girl in my new class.

Renee.

She had long, silky, platinum-blond hair, perfectly groomed.

And she was dressed in the very pinnacle of fashion.

Something that would remain a trademark with her throughout our school years.

And something that would pass me by throughout . . . you get the picture.

Today, she had on a poofy pink dress.

Which I secretly thought was very pretty.

And of which two or three of the other kids were making fun.

They called out jeers and snide remarks.

A five-year-old's version of insulting.

And none of which I can remember.

Probably a good thing.

But it looked like fun!

I would join in.

"Renee, you look like a big, poofy candy floss!"

Renee just smiled. As she had been doing all along.

And suddenly, I didn't feel all that clever.

In fact, I felt stupid.

I had made fun of someone.

And I didn't like it.

I handled my new feelings of embarrassment and chagrin with aplomb and maturity.

I went and hid.

Till the bell rang and Miss Warnoski came to gather all of us.

I've forgotten much of what I was taught in grade one, I'm sure, but one thing stayed with me.

Don't say anything you wouldn't want said to you.

Okay, I never had to worry about anyone teasing me about my 'candy floss' dress. Or any dress for that matter.

But you get the point.

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!