Clothes of the Kitchen

Mom, with Chris and Jerry.
Mom's the cute one in the middle.

Mom liked cleaning.
With six kids, one husband, assorted hired men and various other duties and hobbies, she did a lot of it.
A lot.
I think she did it in her sleep.
Certainly, she did it in ours. If we lay down on the carpet in the front room for a nap, we would be picked up and cleaned.
That's just how Mom was.
But, as with any demon cleaner, sometimes the clutter and rubble would get away from her.
Particularly if she was busy with a project and unable to follow us around, picking up and tidying after us.
I can remember two instances when this was brought hilariously to my attention.
The kids in the neighbourhood had been playing at my house.
I don't remember what we were doing, but it involved toys and games.
And mess.
After most of the kids had left, Mom came out of the kitchen and surveyed the detritus that can only be the result of many small bodies . . . having fun.
While she was standing there, Laurie, from next door, twitched her apron.
Mom looked down.
"You sure have a messy house, Mrs. Strin-gam!"
I don't know what Mom said in response.
Probably something tactful, knowing my Mom.
But the story lost nothing in the retelling.
Another time, George and I were playing under the kitchen table.
One of our favourite places...
Mom was bustling around in the business area of the room.
She opened a cupboard.
And pulled out something . . . unexpected.
"What the . . . who put this underwear in my cupboard?!"
What she was holding was actually a pair of swim trunks.
Light grey.
With sharks printed on them.
But why quibble over details.
George and I stared at them.
Then laughed uproariously.
Mom snorted, folded them neatly, and carried them to their proper home.
We never found out who left them there.
Over the years, I've made up several scenarios that would account for it.
None practical.
Or believable.
But after that, at least once a week, George and I would hide something 'underwearish' (not a real word - I made it up) in Mom's cupboard and wait for her to find it.
Then laugh ourselves silly when she did.
Okay, we were little.
Things were funnier then.

There is an addendum.
I was busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning.
One of the myriad duties that accompany the care and feeding of six kids and one husband.
I set a pot in the sink and opened a cupboard door.
"What the . . . who put these dirty socks in my cupboard?!"
It had happened. I had become my mother!

Named

Mom and Dad, with Pimple Pants, Rusty, Jerry and Bert

Parents put a lot of thought and even prayer into the naming of their offspring.
Why, then, do they go to such lengths to never use those names?
My name is Diane. Mom loved that name, so, when I made my appearance, she was happy I was a girl. Now she could use it. Let's face it, 'Diane' for a boy just doesn't fit quite as well. But that's another story.
As a second name, she chose Louise, after my Aunt Louise. A really, really, sweet lady.
So, Diane Louise.
Works for me.
I called myself Tony. I'm not sure why.
My Mom's working name for me, however, was 'Pixie'.
?????
Occasionally, she would vary it.
“Oh, here's my little Pixie-Girl.”
Or, “What do you want, Sweet-Little-Pixie?”
I think it might have had something to do with my size.
Okay I know that, looking at me now, one would find this hard to believe, but, at one time, I was under height. And definitely under-weight.
Those were the days.
Sigh.
Moving on . . .
Later, when I was nine, I got my hair cut. Really short.
I loved it.
So did my Dad.
He changed my name to 'Mike'. I'm almost sure it had nothing to do with our dog. He of the same name.
Mom was horrified. “Mark! She has a perfectly good name. Use it!”
I know he was as bewildered as me. Ummm . . . which name? Diane? Louise? Pixie? Tony?
Are you beginning to see why I'm such a confused person?
So, 'Louie' I became.
????? again.
Mom retaliated by calling me, 'Diane'. For the first time in my life.
Then, my brother, George, got into the game.
His name for me was Bert.
Because.
Coming from someone whom Dad called 'Dard', and Jerry called 'Pimple Pants', I wasn't worried.
Rusty, or Chris as she had been christened, had no opinion.
Neither did Blair . . . er, 'Bare Blue', or 'The Great Root Blair'. Of course he was only two, so he could be excused.
And Anita was a baby. She was 'Sweetheart' or 'Sister'. One day to be known as 'Nutty Nita'.
Jerome got off easy.
Actually, that's a story in itself. He was always, 'Jerry' to everyone. Except when Mom got angry.
Then, he became Jerome Allen, or worse, Jerome Allen Stringam.
All the 'angry' names, as they are truly known.
But I've wandered from the point.
Which was me.
So, I've been through Diane, Louise, Tony, Pixie, Mike, Louie and Bert.
Now, my Honeybunny (don't ask) calls me, Honey. And my kids call me Mom.
Or grandma.
The best names of all.

My Hero

Over forty years ago, my first OES (Old English Sheepdog, for the uninitiated) was my constant companion as I left the small lights of my home town for the larger lights of the metropolis of Calgary.
It was my first job away from home.
Huge learning curve.
Something that my six-month OES puppy, Muffy, helped me with immeasurably.
In one way in particular.
Let me tell you about it...
You have to know that OES puppies get large.
Rather quickly.
And even at six months, Muffy was already the size of a good-sized black lab.
Just furrier.
Now the important part of the story . . .
I had gotten back to Calgary at around 1 AM. Yes, I know. I should have left home earlier.
Ahem . . .
I was unpacking my car at the curb in front of my rather run-down apartment house.
All right, it was clean and comfortable and affordable and had once been new.
The hour really didn't bother me. I had lived all my life on the ranch. Anyone walking around at that time of night was either checking up on a sick animal.
Or running the fox out of the henhouse.
Either occupation was totally harmless.
To any humans in the vicinity.
It didn't occur to me to be alarmed by the two men approaching along the sidewalk.
Hey, my apartment was, literally, right there!
Muffy spotted them, though, and went rigid.
Then she threw herself back against my legs, pinning me against the car and placing herself between me and the strangers.
Her head lowered, she glowered menacingly at the approaching men, a deep, vicious growl emanating from . . . somewhere.
I stared down at her in surprise. This was new.
The men were watching her as well and both of them slipped to the far side of the sidewalk and hurried past.
I'll never know what was in their hearts and minds that night.
If it was something awful, Muffy scared it right out of them.
Now the reason I am bringing this all back was because of what happened just today. With Pandy.
My newest generation of uber-protective OES. (See Above.)

Muffy would be so proud...

Frozen Assets

We just got a new freezer. Upright because we're no longer able to stand on our heads to reach for things in the bottom of the good old 38 year-old chest style. And also because said chest style no longer froze things. 

A technicality, but an important one. 

I was reminded of my first freezer. The one my parents had from the time I was small . . .

Admit it - this strikes terror into your heart!

Mom and dad had a freezer.

Chest style. 26 cubic feet.

Whatever that means.

To me, that just meant that it was large.

They had had this behemoth since they were married.

It had far outlived its 'best before' date.

Oh, it still froze anything and everything that was put into it.

It just didn't stay closed anymore.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad's freezer, aptly named 'Frigidaire', sat in solitary glory, in the downstairs bathroom.

In a space created especially for it.

Beside the shower cubicle. And across from the 'porcelain throne'.

For years, it had been humming busily along, doing . . . freezer stuff. Keeping cold things cold. And slowly filling with ice.

Every couple of years, Mom would take out whatever food was left in it, stack it all neatly aside, and attack the ice build-up with an ice pick and a butter knife.

Then, she'd scrub it shiny, replace the food and start the whole cycle over again.

It was fun to watch.

Okay, yes, I probably should have helped, but why deprive Mom of something she so obviously enjoyed?

Well, that she appeared to enjoy . . .

Okay, I should have helped.

Geeze.

One thing of note: when one closed the freezer, one had to be very careful to push the handle in till it clicked, or in the middle of the night, or some other equally inconvenient time, the door would open. All by itself.

With scary amusing results.

One afternoon, the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I was in the bathroom . . . minding my own business.

Without warning, the lid of the freezer opened.

With an appropriately eerie squeal.

Eeeeeeeeeeee . . .!

Now, my head knew that Dracula never really existed, except in the brilliant mind of Bram Stoker. And certainly, if he did exist, the last place he would appear would be in an old freezer.

In the middle of the bathroom of the Stringam ranch house.

By no stretch of the imagination would that be . . . romantic. (Does that word work here?)

But, no matter how frantically and reasonably my head was whispering all of this to my heart, my heart was still expecting Count Dracula to sit up, in all his dark majesty, maybe with a touch of real frost in his dark hair, and say, “Good evening!”

My business of the moment forgotten, I charged out of the bathroom, frantically zipping my pants as I flew.

Once in the family room, I stopped.

Sanity returned.

And I started to laugh.

And laugh.

I went upstairs and told my Mom.

She laughed.

One by one, we told it to every member of the family.

They all thought it was a huge joke.

Okay, we're weird.

I did remember to go back into the bathroom and latch the freezer properly.

Later.

And every time thereafter.

But now, years later, whenever I see a glistening white freezer, I half expect the door to open and to see Dracula sit up and smile menacingly at me.

It still makes me want to . . . mind my own business.

Wild West Pirate

I live in land-locked Canada, the pirates here are few,

Unless you count the people who, sound ethics, they eschew.

And so I’ll tell you all of someone, though he never sailed,

When’er his gang came into sight, the population quailed.

Outside Fort Sumner, way down south, there sits a lonesome grave,

A testament to Someone who could never quite behave.

Fatherless for most his life—an orphan at fifteen,

This young man was a lot of things, and all of them were mean.

He started as a laundry thief (when first he got arrested),

He soon broke out and roamed the west. The law this boy detested,

It didn’t take six years before he brought the country grief,

He’d murdered 21 and been a gunslinger and thief.

He loved to sing, but breaking law sure was his fav’rite thing,

He seemed to thrive on violence and the chaos that it brings.

He stole cattle, he stole horses and he shot a man or ten,

Caught and sentenced, shot some more, escaping from the ‘pen’.

His crimes earned him a bounty and they finally locked him in.

Sentenced to be hanged, he was to pay for all his sins,

But once again, those jail walls, they simply didn’t hold,

Killed two deputies escaping. You know, wow! this guy was bold!

His luck ran out a short time hence, when good old Sheriff ‘Pat’,

Shot him once right through the heart and laid the boy out flat.

The celebrating started then, throughout the ‘wild west’,

Sighs of relief and happiness and gratitudes expressed.

But sadly, in the after years, this boy became a star,

The Man who finally shot him was despised both near and far.

The story’s gotten twisted and now Pat’s the nasty one,

‘He caught this young assassin in the dark and with a gun.’

  

But now you’ve heard the story of young William McCarty?

His six-year reign as outlaw, his assassinating spree.

Cause Billy the Kid was many things. And all of them were bad...

So who really was at fault that day? The sheriff or the lad?

Our new po-e-try challenge had a fun, pirate-y theme,

For Karen and her followers, a captivating dream,

And now you've read my take on it and judged it bad or fun,

Go now to others in my 'hood' and see what they have done! 

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Pirate Table for One Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Argh Matey

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: A Pirate’s Booty

This One's For You

You’re Favourite Drink’s our subject and I really must admit

My favourite drinks have morphed around. And not a little bit.

When I was young a chocolate milk would satisfy my wants,

And was the first thing ordered when we hit the restaurants.

From there, I guess I’d have to say that soda pop became

The chosen drink at movies or when cheering at the games,

In orange, grape or lime the flavours all would satisfy,

With na-tur-al ingredients (not one additive or dye).

Then Mountain Dew took over and I couldn’t wait to see

Who bottled it: from Ann and Bill to Harriet and Zee.

It claimed that it would ‘tickle yore innards’. So this I will state,

It seemed to make the grade and Wow! It tasted really great!

I must admit about that time, I started mingling things,

Discovered brand new tastes that mixing orange pop could bring,

Before you try to guess, I’ll take this time to clarify,

Swamp Water’s made with root beer—goes with Teen Burgers and fries!

From Seven-Up which took a hefty portion of my wealth,

I moved to fresh, fruit juices and their claims of ‘improved health’,

The juice of vegetables then beckoned. I was so surprised,

That I was drinking something I, in younger years, despised.

And now I stick to water. When I do, then nothing hurts.

And bodily functions can’t be weighed in ‘small’ or ‘mega’ hurtz.

No extra shots are needed from a glass or in the vein,

And no one bothers me or asks my actions to explain.

But . . .

I must admit that if I had my ‘druthers’, I would choose,

Another drink with calories, and not a hint of booze,

And strange enough, the one I loved from birth, now to my grave

Has followed me Full Circle. Again chocolate milk’s my fave!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts. Perhaps a grin?
So all of us, together, we
Have posted poems for you to see.
Please go. See what my friends have done.
I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

MotherOwl

Mimi

So now you've seen what we have brought.

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Thanks so much for the topic, Jenny! This was such fun!

Next week to celebrate Mud Pack Day,
We'll tackle 'beauty' in our own way!

Snipe(d)

Dad (right) and Ruel.
Who could fool these two?

As a young man, Dad spent his summers working on the ranch.

It was these summers that convinced him ranching was in his blood.

Something he could make his life’s work.

Even with its embarrassing moments . . .

Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.

Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.

He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.

The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness--they were mesmerised by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.

Slick.

The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.

They waited for over two hours.

Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.

Only then did they realize they’d been had.

They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.

They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.

Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.

It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.

Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.

But being cowed.

P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

I-Spy(d)

We live a ten-minute drive from a large city.

A city that has more stores than our bustling little town.

Stores we occasionally need to shop at when we need something more than groceries.

Enough background . . .

We (Husby, Daughter, Granddaughter and me) were heading ‘into town’.

For a three-year-old, it is a long, exhausting trip.

A game of I-Spy was indicated.

For the first few turns, all went well.

Granddaughter would pose, “I spy with my teensy-tinesy little eye, something that is . . .”

You know the game.

She posed. We guessed.

We posed. Everyone guessed.

Then it was Husby’s turn.

He started out all right. “I spy with my little eye . . .”

But then it all fell apart, because he ended with: “. . . something that is red but not red like Mommy’s bicycle.”

There was a momentary silence in the back seat as this riddle was digested.

Then a high little three-year-old voice said, decisively, “That’s not right Grandpa!”

I want to emphasize the word ‘decisively’. Because nothing else better describes a little three-year-old playing a favourite game.

This statement was immediately followed by: “You’re out.”

What? No warning? No yellow card?

Straight to the red (but not red like Mommy's bicycle) card?

Huh.

Did you know it’s possible to be immediately ejected from a game of I-Spy?

By a three-year-old?

Well, it is.

Take note.

Oh, sure. They look sweet and innocent.
But give them a striped sweater and a whistle?
Then watch the claws come out...

Guilty

Husby and I are empty nesters.
It's a fairly new experience. One that we are enjoying immensely. Maybe because we get all the perks (quiet evenings) with all the blessings (grandkids over daily).
But what we didn't have was a four-footed furry.
Maybe I should explain...
For over thirty years, we raised Old English Sheepdogs. We love the breed. Smart, loyal, protective, easily trained.
And highly amusing.
When our last puppy bid us farewell and crossed the rainbow bridge two years ago, we decided our 'furry' days were over.
We were truly empty nesters.
Then, back in March, our friends got a puppy. An OES cross.
And quite suddenly I knew my own dog days weren't done.
A week later, I was the proud owner of the newest generation of Old English Sheepdog.
Her name is Pandora, but we call her Pandy. Among other things...
Ahem...
She is everything we've come to love about the breed.
And has settled into her own little corner of my heart.
Enough background...
Yesterday, Husby and I were in the family room, watching the movie 'Dragonslayer'. I was multi-tasking in that I was also working on a puzzle.
Pandy was rousting around, nose to the carpet.
A habit of hers, I must admit.
She rousted herself into Daddy's office.
Now, normally, this isn't cause for concern as usually, Daddy is in there with her.
This time, he wasn't. (See above.)
I allowed the normal amount of time necessary to wander into the room, realize that your beloved person is not there and wander out again.
That time had elapsed.
"Pandy!" I called.
She came out immediately.
But the reason for her tardiness became immediately-and painfully-apparent.
And yes, that's an Eat-More bar wrapper stuck to someone's furry face.
I've heard of wearing your guilt.
But never quite this accurately.

The Gorilla in the Room

Ahh, Sinbad. Hero. Heartthrob.
Nightmare.

Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I'm hooked on them.
And have been since . . . well . . . forever.
In Milk River, we got movies twice a week.
First run movies.
Which was a real scoop for a town of 499.
My Dad told me it was because there were a limited number of prints and that the theatre owner in Milk River had been around longer than the bigwig in Lethbridge, so had seniority.
Yes. I’m sure ‘seniority’ is the word he used.
I only knew that we got all the cool movies first.
For example, when ‘Lassie Come Home’ was released, everyone in Southern Alberta came to Milk River to see it. I remember the theatre owner setting up rows of folding chairs all down the aisles and across the front.
Fire regulations were obviously in the conceptual stage in the late 50s and early 60s.
But the theatre was crammed full and everyone cried together when Lassie finally came home.
Lassie came to Lethbridge several days later.
Na-Na-Na-Na-Na.
But I digress . . .
Every Bonanza Day (Milk River’s fair day) the theatre owner would offer a free movie to everyone in the town.
Usually, it was the hit flick, ‘Santa Claus Meets the Martians’, but sometimes, he would get creative and offer, ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I don’t have to tell you which I enjoyed the most.
Or which one inevitably gave me nightmares.
I think it was the scene when my hero Sinbad and his men had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed themselves back into a tiny crevasse in a stone wall.The Cyclops, a little piqued that his lunch would have had the temerity to run, was hunting them.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad or one of his men, who would press themselves a bit tighter back against the wall.
This time, the creature would get him!
No. This time!
I was into it.
And it didn't seem to matter how many times I saw the picture, I still gasped and grabbed my Mom’s arm every time the huge hand reached.
At the end, with Sinbad safe once more and kissing the pretty girl, I would shiver with delight.
And that night and for the following several nights, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling-muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . not scary.
No, my dreams inevitably starred a huge gorilla.
And he was going to eat me.
Okay, yes, I know that they don’t eat little girls, but I was four.
And they had teeth.
Enough said.
My gorilla would chase me through our house and finally, corner me underneath the dining room table.
I would shrink back to the far side as that hairy, dark hand reached for me.
And missed.

Barely.
He would move around the table and bend over, looking at me. Then he would stretch out his arm again.
I would slide to the other side of the table and stay just out of reach.
This would go on until I finally awoke, dripping with sweat and whimpering.
And still, I was the first in line when the theatre showed ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I think the term ‘Glutton for Punishment’ was coined by someone who knew me.
Maybe the Gorilla.

My Criminal Past?

1.  I was four years old. Grocery shopping with Mom. I wanted an orange gumball. She said no. Thought I could fool her. I was wrong.

2. I was in grade three. Forged a needed note to go downtown to buy treats for Jody’s and my ‘Fair’. Yeah. The principal wasn’t amused.

3. My parents didn’t smoke. One of my friend’s cousins did. She had cigarettes. We decided to hide and try it. Moms can see through walls.

4. Dad told us not to ride the pigs. We all thought we could fool him by sheer sneakiness. Turns out Dads know everything. True story.

5. In grade eleven and stony broke. Window shopping with friends. Unbeknownst to me, one pocketed two pomegranates. We all got blamed. I’ll never forget it.

6. Mom had some expensive toenail clippers that lived on her dresser. I wondered if they could cut a straight pin. They couldn’t. I never confessed.

7. I absolutely loved my friend’s ‘elephant pants’. She even let me wear them on occasion. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t steal them. Ha!

8. Dad told me getting paid but not working was theft. At times I’m pretty sure I was the only one in the office occupied. Sigh.

9. Do you think it’s stealing to come home weekly for food, fun and a fill of gasoline? My parents didn’t think so either. Thank goodness…

+1. I have decided I could never be a criminal mastermind. I have too much imagination. All I can visualize are the consequences. None very good. Yeah.

Word counters is a monthly word challenge, issued to us by our noble Karen of Baking in a Tornado.

Doesn't she have the best ideas?

My word count this month was 26 and given to me, via Karen, by Sarah Nolan.
Thank you, Sarah! This was such fun!

Wanna see what the others did with the challenge?

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Wandering Web Designer

Messy Mimi’s Meanderings

Sarah Nolan

Fowl Language

A woman wished to buy her husband something really neat,

To celebrate his birthday and to show him he was sweet.

She knew that he liked birds so to the bird shop she did go,

To find a wondrous gift that on her man, she could bestow.

While there she saw a lot of birds, some colourful, some plain,

(She needed something really grand, so he would not complain.)

The salesman showed her one, he said, was smarter than the rest,

She cocked her head and looked at it, then tried a little test.

“Pretty bird,” she whispered. “Pretty bird. Please say it now.”

“Well, *bleep*!!” The old bird shouted. “Why’d I want to anyhow?!”

The woman blinked, then smiled and said, “This is the one for me.”

“I’ll take the cage as well and then we'll see what we shall see!”

In the corner of the living room, she set the bird and cage,

To celebrate her husband’s advent into middle age.

When he came home, he took one look, said, “What the heck is this?”

“Your birthday gift,” his good wife said. “Now come give me my kiss.

 “He’s smart,” his wife went on to say. “I know you will be glad!”

“Nice bird!” the old guy told her. “Well, I guess it ain’t that bad.

“Hey, fella! Gotta name?” he asked. “I think I’ll call you Fred.”

His new pet turned and looked at him. “*Bleep* off,” the old bird said.

“I won’t have this! I’ll show you!” said the husband, now enraged,

He grabbed, then stuffed, him in the fridge (instead of in his cage).

“This will show you!” Husband barked. “I’ll frost your beak a mite.

“And perhaps when you’re released you’ll be a little less ‘forthright’.”

A short time hence when Fred came out, said shak’ly, “I admit,

“It’s cold as *bleep* in there and I don’t like it one *bleep* bit.”

“Still swearing? Well, let’s see the freezer change your nasty tone!

“And if your words get better in the dark and cold alone!”

This time when Fred came out, and as he straightened frozen wings,

And clacked his frosty beak and picked some frost off toes and things,

He looked up cautiously at his new owner, and he said,

“Thank you for freeing me. In one more minute, I’d be dead!

“But could you answer just one question for me now, I pray?

“I have to ask…what the *bleepy-bleep* did the turkey say?”

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So all of us together, we,

Have posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, it will be fun, I think,
Our topic is our favourite drink!
Thanks, Jenny! 

Early Scamming

Ever been scammed?

I have.

It's a terrible feeling when you realize what has happened.

But it's nothing new.

Allow me to illustrate:

Gramma and Grampa Berg on their wedding day

My Maternal grandparents emigrated from Sweden.

Grampa came first and started farming/ranching in Idaho.

Gramma followed later and they were married.

A short time afterward, they headed north, enticed by offers of beautiful farm land in Alberta. They settled on a half-section they acquired in the Brooks area.

Soon afterward, they met another couple who had been farming unsuccessfully in the area for some time and were ready for a change.

The man had a scheme.

A sure-fire, can’t-miss scheme.

“Trapping is the answer,” he said knowledgeably  “I’ve done it before. Get yourself a trap line and, in one winter, you can make enough to pay cash for the equipment you will need to farm.”

Grampa was intrigued by the idea.

No stranger to hard work, he was excited by the idea of trading long winter hours for the chance to start his farming operation with such a leg-up. He and Gramma decided they’d do it.

They studied the maps and decided on a tract of land further north of their new home place. A spot near Lac La Biche. They staked out their claim and moved into a small cabin near the train tracks.

Originally, the cabin had been erected for the use of the crew when they were laying said tracks. Their new friends (Remember the guy with the idea? Him.) had used it before.

It was . . . cozy, but it had every amenity. Walls and a roof. And a window and door. It also had a little stone oven that Grampa built. Outside. Gramma would build up a fire, let it burn down, then bake bread by the heat that remained in the stones. Beautiful bread. It was the one perk of living in a tiny cabin at the back of beyond.

Gramma Berg and her bread

For many long winter months, they and their friends/partners lived there and ran the trap line. Gramma’s first son, my uncle Glen, was born there.

They had a measure of success. In fact, by March, they had an abundant supply of furs.

The winter drew to a close. Even in northern Alberta, it does happen . . .

Plans were discussed to take the winter’s catch to the city to trade.

The decision was made that Grampa would stay at the cabin for one more week to take whatever animals he could in those last few days.

His partner would haul their furs to the city to trade.

The partner left.

Grampa caught up with him a week later in the city.

And that’s when things fell apart.

The partner claimed that he had lost their entire catch in the river when his boat swamped.

Their entire catch.

There was nothing Grampa could do.

He loaded up his wife and new son and their few belongings and headed back to his land near Brooks. One wasted, useless winter behind him. And a new farming operation ahead to be started without the leg-up he had counted on.

He did make a success of it and he and Gramma raised eight sons and my mom.

I’m sure the pain of that first set-back was completely overcome in the ensuing years.

That’s what we all count on when the scammers hit.

Sigh.

Putting the 'Buff' in Buffet

It was supposed to be a quiet dinner, just the three of us.

It didn’t turn out that way.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Sally, Mom and me had had a rough week.

Let me start again . . .

Mom and me had had a rough week.

Because . . . Sally.

I know I don’t have to explain . . .

Mom decided it would be a nice change to have someone else cook and clean up.

A dinner out was indicated.

We had a bit of a ‘discussion’ over where we should go.

Our choice was made by the least decisive—but loudest—person in the group.

I’ll give you a hint. Not Mom. Or me.

Soooo Sally wanted to go to Rocky’s Buffet.

And that’s where we all went.

I will admit I like it. The food is replenished often and is fresh, hot and plentiful.

And we can eat at our leisure.

At first, all was well.

There had been minimal fuss and NO damage.

You have to know that this, in itself, is cause for celebration.

Mom and I had just returned to our table with a second stage plate of deliciousness each and Sally was standing in line for her third shot at the amazing pork dumplings.

Suddenly, there was a . . . scuffle . . . at the cash register.

Okay, you’ll probably understand why my first thought was, “Oh, no! Sally?!”

But then I spotted her. Standing peacefully beside the dumpling display, plate at the ready, deftly spooning up a mountain of little globules of tastiness.

And yes, that doesn’t happen often.

The ‘standing peacefully’ part, I mean.

I’ve seen her consume a mountain of dumplings many times . . .

Ahem . . .

I remember frowning, then turning to look over at the check-out again.

A young man was there and, for a moment, I thought he was just paying for his food. Loudly. Wearing a ski mask.

Then I saw the gun. And the tears on the hostess’ face as she scooped cash out of the register and dumped it into a Rocky’s Buffet take-out bag.

The young man swung the pistol around and someone in the restaurant screamed. If I know people (and, hey, I have been Sally’s sister for most of my 16 years), panic was not far behind.

Mom shrieked at Sally, then grabbed me and tried to haul me to the floor under our table.

I resisted, my eyes on my sister.

Sally, calm as ever, had her head cocked to one side, studying the young man.

As he turned back to the weeping hostess, Sally, carrying her filled plate, walked quickly over and upended her mountain of dumplings. On him. Then she grabbed the heavy plate in both hands and broke it over his head.

Now I don’t know about the protective qualities of your average ski-mask. Certainly they are designed to protect one from cold and other uncomfortable-ness.

But I think their effectiveness vis-à-vis—say, a blunt object, is vastly . . . less.

Needless to say, the young man went down like a sack of hammers.

Possibly he was thinking he’d just been hit by one.

As he fell, Sally swooped in and wrenched the gun from his hand. Then held it up triumphantly.

Which was nearly as scary for me as when the young bandit was holding it.

A couple of very large men dove for the guy on the floor and sat on him.

Mom ran for Sally, taking the gun from her hand and laying it carefully on the counter.

I started breathing again.

Mom put her arms around Sally. As I joined them, I could see that Sally was totally unruffled and unconcerned by the whole experience.

While Mom was trembling so hard I thought she would fall. “Sally! Sally! Sally!” she was saying over and over.

“I’m okay, Mom,” Sally assured her, giving her a quick pat on the back.

“You did well, Sis,” I said. “But please don’t ever do that again!”

Sally just shrugged.

Flashing lights lit up the windows and moments later, several police officers burst through the front doors, guns at the ready.

"Hey, guys!" Sally called out. 

“Sally?” they all said in unison. “Is that you?”

She grinned and nodded. “There is your prisoner, guys. Under those two.” She pointed and they all turned to look. “I grabbed the gun!”

“This gun?” One of them pointed to the weapon on the counter.

She nodded.
With the would-be weapon sitting innocently on the counter, and their alleged perpetrator helplessly pinned beneath two . . . . erm . . . buffet patrons, the officers holstered (is that the right word?) their guns.

One looked at Sally, then at the weapon, rolled his eyes and shook his head. Muttering something that could have been ‘crazy dame’, he donned gloves, produced a plastic bag and tucked the gun into it.

Another officer grabbed his handset. “Cancel the helicopter, Mac,” he said. “It looks like everything is wrapped here.”

The other policemen proceeded to free, then cuff and remove their prisoner. And gather statements.

Sally moved off, her goal obviously the dumpling table.

Taking a fresh plate and humming happily to herself, she started dishing.

Use Your Words is a challenge. Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado collects and re-distributes words. And we have the fun of doing something with what we receive!

This month, my words: damage ~ replenish ~ helicopter ~ panic ~ goal ~ stage, came to me from my amazing friend, Jenniy at Climaxed

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Wandering Web Designer
Spatulas on Parade
The Bergham Chronicles  
Climaxed
Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Baking in a Tornado