Future Father

Big Brother

Our third son, Duffy, was two-and-a-half when our first daughter was born.

He stuck to the baby and I like glue.

That doesn't mean he learned anything . . .

At the tender age of three, Duffy was enrolled in the Sunbeam class in our church.

With eight little girls.

Boys were obviously something new.

Moving on . . .

The scheduled lesson was all about babies. A precious gift from God.

It was a beautiful lesson.

My four-month-old baby, Caitlin was invited into the class.

I came with her.

Sort of like show-and-tell.

But interactive.

And noisy.

Okay, just like show-and-tell.

After the little girls got tired of cooing over the real baby, their teacher (the mother of five girls, herself) brought out a large basket.

Filled with everything 'baby'.

There were dolls by the dozen.

Clothes.

Blankets.

Bottles.

Instantaneous heaven for the budding little mothers in the class.

Duffy was a boy.

And, though his older brother liked cuddling dolls, Duffy was more comfortable with trucks and things 'boy'.

He was handed a baby doll.

Naked.

And a blanket.

He dangled his doll by one foot and looked at the little girls around him.

All had at least one (some had purloined two) little babies wrapped warmly and tucked tenderly into their arms.

Most were singing softly.

And rocking.

Duffy stared at them, then held up his baby.

Still by one foot.

Okay. He could handle this.

He spread his blanket out on the floor.

Then dropped the doll onto one corner and proceeded to roll it up like a sausage.

He then jammed the resulting package under one arm.

Done.

The teacher handed him a bottle.

There's more?

He took the bottle and looked at it.

I should mention here that I nursed my babies.

Duffy had never seen a bottle before.

I can still see his little confused face.

What an earth was he supposed to do with this?

Finally, he pulled out his little, blanket-wrapped bundle, grabbed a corner of said blanket and gave it a pull.

The doll flipped out, spun in the air for a moment, then clattered to the floor.

Duffy again grabbed it by the foot.

This time, he examined it minutely.

Ah. There was a tiny hole in one butt cheek.

Perfect for the strange little bottle he had been handed.

He stuck the nozzle of the bottle into the little hole and beamed happily at me.

All was well.

My son, father to future generations . . .

There is a codicil.

Despite this obviously rocky start, Duffy has proved to be an excellent and loving father.

Gifted with working with children of special needs.

I guess he was watching after all.

While Mom's Away

Mom had to go out for a while.

Actually, her errand should only have taken a few minutes. She needed to go to the DMV and collect her new license. But everyone knows that those places are staffed by sloths (True story. I saw it in a movie once.)

So, she had no idea just how long she would be.

A lot can happen in our home in a short period of time. Just FYI.

In her absence, Mom had put me in charge.

I am eleven months older than Sally, after all.

Sally, the sly thing, didn’t say a word when Mom delegated me. Merely sat there, with that little half-grin she usually wears. The grin that tells me Sally is . . . thinking.

Not a good thing.

The instant the door closed behind Mom’s I’ve-seen-better-days faded pink coat, Sally turned to look at me. “It’s my turn. Give me the remote,” she announced.

“What?” I protested. “It is not! You’ve had it all afternoon! I just got it!”

“But you’re the one in charge and that means that you have to keep whoever’s in your charge happy.”

“Where does it say that?”

“In any babysitting manual you can find.”

“Well I don’t know where to find a babysitting manual!”

Sally’s smiled widened. “Well, until you do . . .”

“Fine! Take the stupid thing.”

“And I want popcorn.”

“Get it yourself!”

“I’m getting unhappy.”

I rolled my eyes. “You were born unhappy!” I decided I’d had enough. “And you know what? I’m going to hold the remote!”

“You have to get it first!” Sally leaped to her feet, jerked the long, black cord out of the console and started to spin the device with it.

Like some sort of modern-day gamer gladiator.

I prepared myself, balancing lightly on the balls of my feet, hands up, ready to pounce.

Swing. Swing.

The remote went past me a couple of times.

Swing. Pounce! I had it!

For a brief, glorious moment, I felt the cool, molded plastic in my hands, then Sally jerked on the cord and both the stupid appliance and my triumph disappeared.

Now normally I would just prepare myself for round two. That’s what you have to do with Sally.

But this time, she miscalculated. And the remote slid right out of her hands, sailing with uncanny and devastating precision through the hole in the front door screen.

Where it smacked into the head of Mrs. Petrie, who just happened to be standing there, arm raised, ready to knock.

Of course neither Sally nor I had seen her.

Our only clue that she was anywhere in the vicinity came when she let out a little shriek

Just before she pitched over backward.

She must have been coming to collect for something because a little basket of papers and coins went straight into the air.

The coins made little ringing sounds as they rained around her.

The papers started to drift across the grass.

Now I should mention here that we have a new and very nosy neighbour, Mrs. Casper, or Mrs. Gasper, as Sally and I like to call her.

Who just happened to be out on her lawn where she saw the whole thing.

And immediately jumped to the erroneous conclusion that Sally and I were attacking and/or trying to rob poor Mrs. Petrie, now out cold on our brick walk.

The old bat didn’t even try to get at the truth. She merely dialed 911.

Our Mom arrived home just a minute behind the police.

She shouldn’t have been too surprised to see the red and blue lights as she drove up.

I mean, she’s seen them before.

Umm . . . maybe.

She started shrieking, though, when she stepped out of her car to see one of the officers apprehend Sally.

Then things just got confused.

Fortunately, Mom’s good at confused.

She has to deal with Sally and me after all.

While she sorted everything out, Sally and I retreated to the living room.

I plugged the remote back in and sat on the couch.

“It’s my turn,” Sally said.

Mid-month Fridays are the best! That's when Karen of Baking in a Tornado and her rag-tag group of followers exchange words.

And get creative.

This month, my words came from our amazing leader herself!

They were:

apprehend ~ collect ~ brick ~ home ~ remote

How'd I do?

Looking for some more fun?
Hop over to my fellow Karenites and see what they've created!

Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles

Southern Belle Charm

The Blogging 911

Cognitive Script

Part-Time Working Hockey Mom

My Brand of Crazy

Climaxed

Thirty

Three. (With sister, Tiana)

Tristan on the left.
Somewhere in the middle years.
With beloved friend, Zack (and brother, Dillon)

How did this happen?
April 7, 1991.
Husby and I were visiting with his mother and other family members in her home in Fort MacLeod, Alberta.
It had been a beautiful day.
Great food.
Lots of laughter.
And birthday cake.

Also somewhere in the middle...

We were celebrating the birth of her son, Husby's youngest brother.
Who was turning thirty.
I was sitting beside her as she shook her head, her eyes on her tall son standing with his wife and several children.
"Wow," she said. "I can't believe my baby's 30!"
I looked at my various children running in and out--the youngest with a second piece of absconded cake in his already-chocolate-coated fingers.
"I can't believe my baby's nearly three!" I said, thinking I was somehow still in the competition.
She smiled.
Move forward a few years.
It's June 14, 2018.
Husby and I were visiting over breakfast. "Wow! June 14," I said. "Tristan's birthday!"
"Yep." He nodded. "What year is this?"
I thought about it for a moment. "Huh. Thirty!" I looked at him. "I can't believe my baby's thirty!"
Yeah, Mom Tolley. I get it now.
Happy Birthday, Son.

Today. With youngest daughter, Twizzle (aka: Elizabeth).

Peace

The thought of Barefoot Days suggests

A time of peace, with sunlight blessed.

Shoeless feet along a trail,

Or treading beach to scan for whales.

Squishing mud between one’s toes,

With no thought giv’n to fears or woes.

What a carefree life! I praise

All simple, sunlit Barefoot Days.

But now I must admit that I,

Find this old world one ‘scary guy’,

From rising, till I find my bed,

The news is filled with fear and dread.

No one to trust and families torn,

And many still to hatred sworn.

I need as I traverse the haze,

A few more of those ‘Barefoot Days’.

Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues the Monthly Poetry challenge and we, her friends/obedient followers, drag our sorry selves jump to the task.

The result is as you see. Several poems on a theme, but with vastly differing results.

It's totally fun!

See what the others have created:

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Barefoot Days

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Barefoot with You

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Barefoot Summer

Dawn of Cognitive Script: My Barefoot Days

Oak Memories

One of the vast displays.
Notice the barrel, off to the right...

I guess if one had to pick a theme for this blog, that theme would be ‘Memories’.

Mostly mine, but occasionally, someone else’s.

Today is one of the ‘someone else’s’.

Throughout his career, Husby worked as a project manager for every one of our amazing world-class Alberta museums. 19 of them. Much of his time was spent in a large, rather stuffy office, but frequently, he was on the road doing actual, physical . . . stuff.

During office time, take-a-child-to-work-day wasn’t possible. But when he was on the road . . .  

Our middle son, Duff, loved to go with his dad to work.

The construction of the Reynolds Museum in nearby Wetaskiwin was nearing completion. The buildings were up. The inside displays were ongoing. And it was this need that was being addressed when Husby loaded Duff into the truck and headed for the nearby farm outfitters.

There they purchased what was, to eight-year-old Duff, a HUGE oak barrel.

Loading it into the back, they headed for the museum, where Duff made a bee-line for his usual hidey-hole in one of the center’s vast closets and switched on the video he had been watching the last time he had come to work with Dad.

He loved it in there. People would come by to get something and greet the small boy with a smile and a ‘which video are you watching now?’ greeting.

Then the big day came for the grand opening, attended by thousands.

As Husby’s family, we were given preferential treatment, being admitted hours before everyone else for a first glimpse.

We wandered through the amazing displays, ooh-ing and ah-ing on command.

One of the kids got thirsty and we stopped at a water fountain to get a drink.

“That’s my barrel!” Duff said excitedly.

Sure enough, the water fountain had been constructed using a large oak barrel as the base. Fitting it right into the ‘farm’ theme of the central floor of the museum.

Perfect.

Moving forward fifteen years . . .

As a young man, Duff visited the Reynolds Museum once more with a group of friends. They wandered through the displays, again ooh-ing and ah-ing on command.

Duff stopped at the water fountain, still housed in the oak barrel. It didn’t seem quite as huge now.

But it still brought back the memories.

Of time spent with his father.

Eternal Sunshine

Twin brothers. One a pessimist, his life’s outlook sour,

And one an optimist. It’s true! Was gladder by the hour.

A fam’ly blessed with healthy sons, one Jonny, one named Joe,

They grew together in the light that fam’ly love can show.

But Jonny, eldest of the twins, a confirmed cynic, he,

Saw ‘life’ in only adverse terms, the worst that they could be.

Now Joe was different. Joe could see the best that life could give,

A ‘glass-half-full’ old chap was he, and happy just to live.

Before I go much further, tell me, which would you prefer?

The optimist or the pessimist? (I’ll probably concur!)

Now on their birthday (ten years hence), their father had prepared

A test for his beloved boys. Their feedback, he’d compare.

For Jon, he wrapped up carefully the best toys he could find,

For Joe, a box of smelly dung with golden cords entwined.

Now when they opened up their gifts, poor Jonny sat and sighed,

“They’ll all be broken in a week!” he, to his fam’ly, cried.

But Joe, he looked inside his box, then started for the door,

His father started after him. “Joe, where’re you headed for?”

Joe laughed as he donned hat and coat and headed for the yard,

“You have to know, dear Dad,” he said. “It really isn’t hard.”

“When I unwrapped that box of ‘poo’, I knew some mastermind

Had left my gift outside and soon, a pony, I will find!”

Which would you choose, the pessimist? The one who’s always sad?

Or would you choose the optimist? Who’s never-ending glad?

Now this is just a silly story, meant to entertain,

And now you’ve had your giggle, but the question still remains . . .

Mondays to get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thought--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week from our happy homes,
We'll celebrate the Garden Gnome!

Getting a Knife

One of Husby's hand-made originals.
Notice the initials at the base of the blade.

Knife shopping in our family is a large deal.

Husby and our second son have their own forge and, when time allows, create their own custom-made cutlery.

Using only the finest of materials.

They have been known to teach classes on the topic.

With every student leaving said class carrying one hand-made (mostly by their own hands) knife.

Needless to say, Husby has a large opinion on the subject. Knife shopping requires research: Where the steel is from. How it was forged. How many times it was folded.

Words like: Point, Edge, Tip, Heel, Spine, Bolster, Scales, Handle Fasteners, Butt, Tang, and Balance are bandied about.

I just nod and smile, then look for the knife that ‘fits my hand’.

Yes. I’m a knife-making family disgrace.

Now I know that most of you will have different knife-procuring traditions than me.

Some may even be like my Husby.

If so . . . ummm . . .

Moving on . . .

In my family’s history, there were other ways entirely.

Let me tell you about one . . .

Great, Great Grandfather, Jeremiah Stringham (notice the 'H' in Stringam), born in Colesville, Broome, New York in 1825 lived a life of Adventure (also notice the capital ‘A’).

He and his growing family moved out to the ‘untamed’ west in the early 1860’s, finally settling in a small place named Manti (in what would one day become Utah) in the latter part of 1863.

It was a time of upheaval, with misunderstandings and disagreements resulting in skirmishes with some local tribes.

During this ticklish time, GG Grandpa Jeremiah was assigned to guard the stone quarry so important to the industry of the area. Just in time to be intimately involved in one of the aforementioned skirmishes.

GG Grandpa Jeremiah was attacked by a man wielding a large knife who seemed quite determined to embed said knife in grandfather’s skull.

Another guard saw what was happening and intervened.

The situation was defused.

The knife remained.

And became the butcher knife of choice in GG Grandfather’s family’s kitchens for many, many years.

Now I don’t know about you, but I think, given the choice, I’d stick with my method of selecting a knife.

Or Husby’s.

Either seems to require a little less heart-pounding excitement.

A little.

Great Great Grandfather Jeremiah
At the age of 65.

Sundays are for my ancestors.

What were yours up to?

I'd love to hear!

Moose-tly Terrified

See? Scary!

Gramma Berg's house had a sunroom.

A wonderful spot.

All windows.

And one permanent tenant.

The sunroom was wonderful.

The tenant wasn't. At least to a very small girl.

It was large.

Dark brown.

With great, glassy eyes, a huge nose, a wooly beard.

And large ears.

Oh, yes, and an enormous pair of antlers.
Yes, I admit it - it wasn't your normal tenant.

It was a moose.

The quite obvious fact that it wasn't alive made no difference to its terror factor.

I was certain that, if I went into that room, the great creature would blink its eyes and 'get me'.

Okay, obviously I didn't think that through. The creature possessed no visible limbs, and for all of my life, had resided in the same place on the wall.

Just exactly how it was supposed to 'get' me, we'll never know.

But the truth remains, it terrified me.

And knowing this, my cousins made great sport of daring me to go into the sunroom.

Something which inevitably sent me screaming to some moose-less part of the house.

I loved Grammas house.

The moose and I tolerated each other.

So long as he kept his place, and I could see that place from a distance, we got along fine.

Kinda like a large spider.

But that is another story.

After Gramma passed, the moose was donated and hung where it could scare scores of other people.

Moving forward fifty years . . .

Several members of my family were holidaying in Banff, Alberta.

We spent a week scrambling about the mountains and wandering through the townsite.

We took the kids to see the 'stuffed animal place'.

Or Banff Museum, as it is officially named.

It houses hundreds of perfectly preserved birds and animals native to the Banff area.

Many of which were present when the museum opened.

In 1903.

On the second floor, it is quite possible to get up close and almost personal with the head of Sir Donald.

A bison.

Several of us were standing, looking at the great animal.

My six-year-old granddaughter peeked out from behind me.

“He scares me,” she whispered, shivering.

“But he's dead,” I said. “He can't hurt you.”

“He's scary,” she maintained.

Quite suddenly, I remembered Gramma's moose. And trembling in fear as my cousins dared me to go into his sunroom.

Yeah. It pretty much looks as though neither I (nor Sir Donald in point of fact) had a leg to stand on . . .

Beard or Blonde

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a tall, lean, man of few words.

Quiet, thoughtful and endlessly patient; when he spoke, you listened.

Usually what he had to say was of import.

But he had an aversion to blondes.

No one knew where this particular sensitivity came from. An unfortunate acquaintance.

A particular experience.

The true reason(s) passed when he did.

His wife, my Mother-in-Law (Ditto: MIL) was a small, dark-haired, bustling person of chatter and good humour.

Living for family and household.

The two of them, together, created a world of peace and calm.

Happy posterity and good food.

But there was one place where they differed.

Noticeably so.

Let me tell you about it . . .

FIL was a clean-shaven man. Never prone to going more than a day or two without face scrape-age. Even during harvest, a time in which many other rules and customs were sacrificed in favour of bringing in the all-important crop.

MIL preferred it that way. She liked to see the lines of one’s face.

But occasionally, FIL would tire of the ever-present razor and declare that he was going to grow a beard.

Anyone within hearing distance would suck in an astonished, slightly apprehensive breath and glance at MIL.

She would smile gently and announce, to no one in particular, “Hmmm . . . I think I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

FIL would silently lift his newspaper and go on with whatever had been interrupted.

MIL would go back to bustling.

And the conversation (so to speak) would die. Right there.

My In-Laws had an amazing rapport.

A friendship.

Companionship.

Truly loving relationship.
Even when they differed.
Interesting. Quietly heading off rebellion using one's partner's own aversions.
Only in the best of families . . .

The Cost of Integrity

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

Pretty. But . . .

Love had paid off and my cow that was once a sick heifer grew up and became part of the herd.

She had a bull calf that also grew up and sold for a sizable sum of money.

And that’s where this story starts . . .

Oh the things that I could do with that money!

A motorcycle.

Stereo.

Maybe a motorcycle and a stereo.

I bought two heifers from Dad’s herd.

Two words: Dad. Convincing.

Sigh.

Okay, that's three.

Moving on . . .

One of the heifers that I now owned was tall and growthy (Yeah, I know, but I have to use that word).  She appeared to be the picture of the perfect cow.  An orphan, she had been raised by a foster cow that had lots of milk. This meant that she had lots to eat and consequently became very big.

And fat.

She became part of the young cow herd on the ranch.

I took her to a couple of cattle shows and won first place trophies.

Eventually, my very fat, very big cow had a very big, growthy (yes, that word again) calf.  It was about then, we discovered why she was a very big, fat cow.

All the feed that she consumed maintained her large body. She had very little milk and her calf did not grow. 

Dad and I decided that she would have to go to market (Can you say Big Mac?). 

About that time, we had a visitor to the ranch. The kind of rancher that always had a good story to tell about his “prize” bull or cow at all of the cattle shows and sales.

The other ranchers would listen politely, all the while restraining the urge to roll up their pants and start ‘shoveling’. (A term used by ranchers when a fellow rancher tells stories that are a little hard to believe. I'd like to go into more detail but I am trying to be polite.)

Ahem . . .

The verbose rancher looked at all of dad’s cows, spotted my very fat, big cow and immediately offered a healthy sum of money for her.

Dad told him she was headed to market and gave him the details. 

The other rancher went pale.

Really.

I think he started to hyperventilate.

He wanted that cow.  He could get around the ‘no milk’ issue by having her calves raised by milk cows.

But dad (and I) had determined if a cow could not adequately feed her calf, she was not worthy of being a cow in our herd.

Or in anyone else’s. If a cow or its calves did not perform well, it would eventually reflect back to our herd.

The rancher was very upset and (once he started breathing normally), left dad’s place in a huff.

We continued with our plans and the very fat, big cow that had no milk went off to auction (burgers). 

And provided a healthy sum from which I bought my motorcycle one or two more calves.

Dad, again.

Sigh.  

70

Mom and Dad.
Yes, they always dressed like that.

Today is dedicated to Mark and Enes Stringam, my parents.

Mom and Dad were married 70 years ago today at the United Church in Brooks Alberta.

Reverend Dixon performed the ceremony, which was attended by family and friends.

But that was only the beginning.

The young couple immediately moved to the Stringam Ranch on the Alberta/Montana border.
Mom knew she was marrying the youngest son of a notable Southern Alberta ranching family. But what she didn't know, but quickly discovered, was that she had also married a clown. A joker. Tease. And all around goof. 
The adventure had begun . . .

On their honeymoon, they chose to camp. Rustic. Earthy. Isolated.
All the perfect ingredients for a newly-married couple.
Then it rained.
And got cold.
Whatever clothing dad took off, mom put on.
Then they moved their tent into a nearby shelter, along with all of the other campers in the area.
Okay, so intimate, it wasn't.
Just at dawn, Dad, always an early riser, got up and made a beeline for the showers.
Mom awoke some time later to the loudly-belted strains of "'Cause some dirty dog put glue on the saddle!" (Still a family favorite.) Shaking her head, she turned over to complain to Dad about the rude person singing in the showers.
But Dad wasn't there.
It was about then that Mom realized just who was making all the noise.
And still she stayed married to him.

* * *

Once she was settled on the vast Stringam ranch, Mom quickly discovered that life wasn't so different from what she had known on the Berg Ranch near Brooks. There, she and her mother had the care and feeding of Mom's father and eight brothers.
Now, she had the similar responsibility for Dad (this new goofball husband), and six hired men.
It was a toss-up as to which group could eat more.
Fortunately, Mom soon proved that she was more than capable of satisfying any hungry person, or persons, who strayed into her kitchen.
She spent a lot of time in that kitchen.
And in her vast gardens, which supplied food for that kitchen.

* * *

There was a bell on the ranch.
A large bell, rung only at meal times and in case of dire emergency. A bell that could be heard, on clear days, at a distance of five miles.
Only authorized people were allowed to ring this bell.
And Mom wasn't, yet, authorized.
But she wanted to be.
The bell's cord draped temptingly through her kitchen window and over her sink. Teasing her with its proximity and, at the same time, its inaccessibility.
She glanced at it. Right there. Just a little pull. Only a tiny ring. No one would even notice . . .
Sigh.
Sometime later, while maneuvering a stack of dirty dishes towards the sink, she inadvertently caught the forbidden cord.
A loud 'clang' made her freeze instantly.
Oh-oh.
Moments later, the kitchen door burst open, revealing a very concerned Dad. "What is it? What's the matter?"
Mom looked at him, red-faced. "Nothing, dear. I just happened to catch the cord . . ."
"What's happened?" One of the hired men had come in just behind Dad.
"Is there a problem?" Someone hollered from the front door.
"Everyone okay in there?" Mom didn't even know where that voice came from.
Two more men bumped into those already assembled in the kitchen. "Someone need help?"
Mom could now hear the pounding of hoofs coming up the driveway.
Could she possibly just sink into the floor?
"False alarm, boys," Dad said, grinning at Mom's red face. "Let's get back to work."
The kitchen emptied out and Mom could hear Dad making explanations out in the yard.
Soon she was alone again.
Well, at least she knew that the bell worked. Sometimes a little excitement was a good thing.
She stared at the cord.

* * *

Dad spent a lot of time out riding. And when he wasn't riding, he was working somewhere in the barns or corrals. Or moving irrigation pipe. Or hauling hay or feed. Or doing one of the million or so things that went into ranching. And when he wasn't doing that, he was, as the area's only veterinarian, making vet calls.
To say that he was busy is a distinct understatement.
We kids saw him at mealtimes, or when we went out to the barnyard to get in his way help.
Often, his duties would call him from the supper table and he wouldn't return until long after we were tucked in for the night.
He would quietly enter the house and tip-toe to his bedroom.
Then he would empty his pockets onto the carved-leather organizer on his dresser, before getting ready for bed. Coins, his jackknife, keys, instruments. Everything contained in those pockets would be dropped into the various different compartments.
They made a 'thumping' sound as they hit the leather. A soft but very distinct sound.
And it vibrated into every corner of the house.
Inevitably, I would wake to the sound of the creaking floor as Dad crept down the hall.
Then I would hear the tell-tale thump of his pockets' contents, hitting the organizer.
I would sigh happily and turn over.
Daddy was home. All was well.

* * *

I don't know how they did it.
Mom and Dad had six children and numerous hired hands. Together, they still managed to organize and direct the various operations that went into running a ranch and household. Feeding, milking, planting, weeding, watering, harvesting, cleaning, sewing, repairing, overhauling, riding, fencing, driving, having babies, parenting, reading, cooking, canning, church responsibilities, veterinarian calls, Hereford club duties, neighborly visits and on and on and on. The only way they could have accomplished it all was to never sleep.
To say that I'm proud of them would be a vast understatement.
To say that I'm grateful, even more so.
Today is their day.
I love them.

I miss them.

The Rules

Our travels continue . . .

Recently Husby and I stopped at the beautiful Stage Stop Inn in picturesque and cute-as-a-button (can one say that about a town?) Choteau, Montana.
The food was delicious.
The company, entertaining and delightful.
And the rules . . .
Rules?
Yep. On the back of the menus the owners had reproduced the rules that, for anyone wishing to be a passenger on one of the famous Wells-Fargo stagecoaches, had been law.
In the 1800's.
Huh.
For your enlightenment, I have reproduced their reproduction:
1. Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink, share the bottle. To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and unneighbourly.
2. If ladies are present, Gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the Gentle Sex. Chewing tobacco is permitted but spit with the wind, not against it.
3. Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the presence of ladies and children.
4. Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort during cold weather. Hogging robes will not be tolerated, and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.
5. Don't snore loudly while sleeping, or use your fellow passenger's shoulder for a pillow. He or she may not understand and friction may result.
6. firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.
7. In the event of runaway horses, remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Natives and/or hungry coyotes.
8. Forbidden topics of discussion are stagecoach robberies and Native uprisings.
9. Gents guilty of unchivalrous behaviour toward lady passengers will be put off the stage. It's a long walk back. A word to the wise is sufficient.

Yep. From the 1800's.
Amazing how many are applicabale today.
I guess manners never go out of style.

Trees. Beautiful Trees.

See? No trees...

It's been a busy time for Husby. And by association, me.

He retired last summer and is now busier than ever with new and greater projects.

One of which requires (a lot of) travel.

As travelling companion of choice, this means I get to go as well.

Presently, in a combination of family gatherings and work, we are in beautiful, green Montana.
Today, travelling from Bozeman to Choteau, we passed some of the most beautiful trees I have ever seen.
And I finally get to the topic of today's Poetry Monday: Trees.
On the ranch, the only naturally-occurring tree was found in the field aptly known as: The Tree Field. Meaning THE TREE field.
We practically worshiped that tree.
From these humble origins came my love of all things tall and green and growing.
In a bit of a departure, instead of crafting my own 'Tree' poem, I'm going to give you my favourite.

Trees.

By Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Daddy also had a favourite 'Tree' poem.
And this is the second (poem-that-I-didn't-write) that I shall share with you today.
Partly because we are travelling, partly because I always loved it.
And partly because . . . tired.
I think the original was by Odgen Nash, but I credit Daddy for teaching it to me.
I know you've probably heard it already, but here goes.

Daddy's Trees

I think that I shall never see
A Billboard lovely as a tree.
Indeed, unless some billboards fall,
I'll never see a tree at all!

The Neighbour's Chickens

It's Ancestor Sunday!

Time for another little step backward into the past.

This week, we're not going quite as far. Just eighty years or so . . .

Call it tomfooleries.

Maybe shenanigans.

Mischiefs. Trickeries. Pranks?

I’m trying to find words other than the obvious—creative borrowing.

Would it help if I told you that many of the participants survived?

You’re right. I should probably explain . . .

Husby’s father was out with his friends enjoying an unusual and far-too-infrequent few hours with nothing to do.

All of them were sons of the country—raised by farming parents in a rural community.

Each fairly familiar with the nearby farms. And farm families.

Who was likely to be home.

Who probably . . . . was not.

A nearby neighbor was one of the ‘was nots’.

Does that make sense?

Moving on . . .

The boys were hungry.

And said neighbour’s chicken yard was full of fat, relatively dim-witted, probably tasty chickens.

Hmmm. What could possibly be done?

Do I need to tell you?

Fine. Remember when I said they were all sons of the country? Well, that becomes pretty obvious here.

They snagged a couple of plump chickens, quickly dispatched them.

Plucked, gutted and sectioned them.

Then cast about to find the best way to cook them.

Wait. The nearby home was empty. The owners gone for a while if not for the whole day.
The neighbour's chickens. The neighbour's kitchen.
It just made sense. Well . . . to them.

They would simply step inside and use the kitchen and supplies.

Clean up.

And be gone.

With no one any the wiser.

You have to know that no one ever locked their doors. That has a lot to do with the success of this caper.

Heading into the kitchen, they hunted out a pan and began to fry up their ill-gotten gains.

Just as things were sizzling nicely, sending the marvelous aroma of frying and deliciousness into the air, they heard the unmistakable sound of the side door.

Opening and closing.

All of them looked up from their preparing/place-setting duties to see the farm’s owner standing there. Looking, quite justifiably, a little surprised.

The quickest thinker moved toward him. “We had these chickens and decided we needed to prepare them. And your house was right here. And your kitchen was handy and . . .”

The young man left it there.

The farmer said nothing.

Another of the chicken-pilferers spoke up. “Would you like to join us? They’re nearly ready.”

“Sure.” The farmer sat down with the young men and, when the golden-browned chicken was served, he ate his fill with the rest of them.

Then, feast finished, they all got up and began to tidy the kitchen.

Finally, when everything was gleaming clean once more, the ring-leader turned to the farmer. “They weren’t really our chickens,” he said, in a low voice. “They were yours.”

“I knew that,” the farmer said cheerfully. “But I thought I might as well get something out of it.”

Huh.

Sometimes it’s not just the mischief-makers who are looking for a free lunch.

A Dad's Joke

Inconsequential day with friends,

A drive along the thoroughfare,

The kind of day you hope n’er ends,

To see the sights and take the air.

Three friends were seated in the car,

Minister, Priest, and Rabbi, too.

Talk of life, both near and far,

And things they’d done or’d like to do.

Sensationalism was a theme,

As the dashboard clicked the miles away,

Discussed atomic problems, schemes,

 The mayhem common to the day.

Then talk turned with sincerity,

(Though nondenominational!)

How to divide with parity

Donations congregational.

Then one proposed a circle made,

Donations thrown aboard,

The coins, which from the circle strayed,

Would be given to the Lord.

The second shook his hoary head,

And gravely said,” Not so!”

The coins inside the circle spread,

He’d to the Lord bestow.

The third man deeply frowned, “Instead,”

“Here’s what I’d do, my peeps!”

“I’d throw the money high o’erhead,

And what the good Lord wants, He keeps!”

Reciting

Me. Swinging. And reciting.

Words are amazing.

Descriptive.

Alliterative.

Explanatory.

Lyrical.

Adventurous.

Romantic.

And I love them.

I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.

Let me explain . . .

My Dad loved to recite.

Poems, mostly.

On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.

Or verse.

I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.

Always there was a story involved.

The boy stood on the burning deck

His feet were in the fire.

The captain said," You're burning up!"

The boy said, "You're a liar!"

The telling was truly magical.

And often educational.

Little Johnny took a drink.

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4.

I should mention that that particular verse earned all six of my children kudos in high school chemistry class.

Moving on . . .

I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.

When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.

Memorizing a poem.

She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim.

A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.

What better poem for a young girl to start with?

As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.

I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.

My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.

I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.

Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.

I followed her around for days.

“What's the next line, Chris?”

She would tell me.

And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.

Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.

I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.

Moving on . . .

By the end of a week, I had it.

All of it.

Then, the fun began.

For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.

In perfect rhyme.

It could only lead to a career in writing.

Or maybe some 'zombie apocalypse/end of the world scenario.

Hmm. Maybe both . . .

For your pleasure –

Jim 

 By Hillaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

P.S. I can still remember it . . .