Soothing the Savage Soldier

 Since today is the anniversary of VJ Day, I’ve had my soldier’s son’s experiences on my mind...

Our Engineer - far right.

Our son, an army engineer, was on his Combat Leadership course.

It was gruelling. 

Months of training.

An adrenaline rush of enacting scenarios.

Strategizing.

Analyzing situations.

Digging in and getting dirty.

Gruelling.

And added to the daily duty roster, morning inspections.

Not only must they learn how to survive, even thrive in battle situations, they had to look good while they did it.

So each evening, after dinner, was spent in cleaning oneself and one's gear in preparation for inspection directly after breakfast the next morning.

For the most part, the soldiers enjoyed it.

It was a chance to unwind.

Kibitz around a bit.

Laugh and joke.

And keep their adrenalin up with pounding, exhilarating music.

At least that was what they called it.

Loud. Fast. Heavy.

Followed immediately by bed.

Needless to say, it took some time to wind down.

Except for our son.

Whose choice of music was a little more . . . conservative.

He would drift away almost immediately to the soft, soothing strains of Loreena McKennitt.

Or Enya.

One evening some time after lights out, the men were restless.

Knowing that their morning would come fast, not to mention early, they were anxious to get some needed sleep.

And it was proving elusive.

Again, except for our son, who had his stereo by his ear and had already drifted away.

To Enya.

One of the soldiers noticed.

And commented.

It had given him an idea.

The next evening, the group completed their usual day-end tasks.

To their usual music.

Then crawled into their bunks.

Lights were doused.

Then, out of the darkness, a voice.

“Hey, Tolley. Play us some of your music.”

Our son turned up the song he was currently listening to. 

Only Time.

Enya.

Within seconds the sounds of snoring filled the dorm.

After that, immediately following lights-out, the strains of choice were something soft.

Soothing.

And sleepy.

The magic of music.

Stand-ing for Something

My middle son, who lives on the West coast, was talking about seeing a lemonade stand where he lives.

Said son was lamenting because he wasn’t carrying cash when he spotted the stand and thus wasn’t able to offer any monetary support.

“I hate to not give them anything,” he told me.

I was surprised, not because he isn’t known for his generosity, but because he was so upset about it.

Then he explained:

He had been operating a lemonade stand in his dim and distant youth. (I’m sure I had something to do with it, though the details are a lot fuzzier for me than for him.)

Picture it, if you will. Little eight-year-old dwarfed by the table before him, flanked by paper cups, too-large pitcher of sparkling yellow juice but armed with a big grin and tons of enthusiasm. A large, hand-printed card is prominently displayed. ‘Lemonade: 25¢’.

A construction worker approached and asked for a glass. It was carefully poured and handed over. The man produced a five-dollar bill and passed it to the small boy, who promptly produced his little cash box and started to count.

“Never mind,” the man said. “Keep the change.” Smiling, he walked back up the street.

Leaving his little server staring at the bill, an incredulous – but happy – smile now covering his face.

That small boy never forgot that act of generosity.

And now, every chance he gets, he pays it forward. 

Husby and I were touched by his story.

The weather here in Northern Alberta has been just lovely. Warm. Sunny. Perfect for the little lemonade stands that periodically dot our town.

A couple of days ago, Husby and I spotted one. A brother and sister. Little budding entrepreneurs smiling hopefully at everyone who passed.

They were doing a brisk business.

We gave them all our change. It just seemed the right thing to do.

But even our little act of kindness was eclipsed by a story Husby and I watched last night on the evening news...

David Hove, 10, dreamed of earning enough money to buy an X-Box and had started a little muffin stand in front of his family home in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Nature called and he grabbed his cash box and made a quick trip into the house.

In the few minutes he was away, a white SUV pulled up and a man got out and helped himself to the boy’s table, cooler, stock and even his little water bottle.

David came out of the house to discover that his little dream had disappeared.

But the story went out through the neighbourhood and across the country.

And soon people were bringing donations to help him get on his feet again.

In almost less time than it took the thief to steal David’s dream, it was restored. 

In fact, someone came with a spanking new X-Box and handed it to the boy.

With a smile that could be seen across the country, David hugged his prize. When asked if he was going to stop selling now that he had achieved his goal, he replied, “Nope.”

“What are you going to save for now?” the interviewer asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a car?!” David said, grinning.

Good luck, David. 

My faith in human kindness is restored.

Going in the Woods

Ahhh! Romance!

Our good friends had been dating for some time.

For a young man deeply in love, a despairingly long time.

He had decided that the moment had come.

In a surge of love and commitment, he had purchased . . . the ring.

Then, being a man of imagination and daring, he plotted . . . the proposal.

He would take his love to their favourite place and pop the question there.

Where was their favourite place? 

The woods.

Brilliant.

All had gone according to plan.

They had rambled along the woodsy paths.

Had a picnic.

The time had come to hide the ring, then lead his love to the magical spot.

And propose.

He excused himself, citing ‘having to take care of some business’.

Now I don’t know about you, but if I was walking with someone in the woods, and he excused himself saying . . . that . . . I know what I would think.

His soon-to-be-if-all-went-well fiancée thought the same thing.

He disappeared.

She sat on a log among the pink, white and indigo flowers and waited.

Finally, a large grin of satisfaction on his face, her date returned.

She stood up.

“So!” he said heartily, thinking of the ring he had just so cleverly hidden. “Do you want to see where I went?”

Now, in his mind, all was sweet, romantic and full of promise and anticipation as he led his love to that beautiful, magical little clearing.

In hers . . .

“Umm . . . no,” she said, giving him a strange look.

It took a moment to register.

His well-planned, uber-romantic idea had just fallen flat.

‘Business in the woods’ flat.

And looking in from the outside, I would have to side with her.

Oh, they did get engaged.

And married.

Enjoyed parenthood and are now enjoying grandparenthood.

He just learned, when planning surprises, he had to be more careful of how things look.

And how he worded them.

Lemon-ed

It’s ‘Back to School’ time hereabouts.

The Sweet and Innocent Grade Ones. Really.

In the sixties, schools had strict rules.

Breaking said rules carried punishments.

1. A severe ‘talking to’.

2. Being kept in at recess or lunch hour. Or *shudder* 

3. being sent to the *gasp* principal’s office. Where there was always the looming specter of ‘THE STRAP’.

Which, I should point out, none of us had ever seen. But which our entire class had heard on one occasion. But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

I started grade one in the fall of 1960.

There were three of us Stringams in Milk River Elementary at that time.

Myself. My next older brother, George, in grade three. And our eldest brother, Jerry, in grade six.

Our eldest sister, Chris, had just graduated to Junior High. Because she had reached the unbelievable and unreachable age of twelve.

Wow.

Jerry and his classmates ruled our school. We lowly serfs in grade one observed their doings with awe bordering on worship.

I should mention that this was the brother who teased me mercilessly at home. And who Mom chased around with the broom.

But at school, he was a lord.

He could do no wrong.

We spent hours in observation.

And mimicry.

Until . . . the event.

Remember when I was talking about rules/punishment?

Well that comes into play here.

In Milk River Elementary School in 1960, the principal had instituted a bold new form of punishment.

Lemons.

I am not making this up. We really had punishment by lemon.

And no one was exempt.

No one.

On Friday mornings during Assembly . . .

Oh, I should also tell you we had Assembly every Friday morning.

Ahem . . .

On Friday mornings, any malefactors were marched to the front of the gym, before the entire school population, and handed a lemon. Which they then had to peel and eat.

For most of them, it was a painful process.

For those of us watching, it was a painful process.

Let’s just say it. Rules in Milk River Elementary weren’t often broken.

But one time, it was my brother, Jerry who had transgressed. It was his turn to stand there.

And he had company.

Let me explain . . .

Jerry’s teacher was busily doing 'teacher' things at her desk. Jerry and his friend, Stan had made a paper jet. Okay, yes, they were supposed to be doing school work. This was more fun.

They threw it.

And watched, proudly, as it flew, straight and smooth. Then, in dismay, as it sailed neatly out into the hall.

It landed at the feet of the Principal, who just happened to be standing there at that precise moment.

He picked it up.

The boys held their breath and watched.

The Principal looked at the clever little plane. Then, forgetting himself for a moment, threw it back into the room.

In full view of the teacher, who chose that moment to look up.

If there was a punishment bell, it would have clanged loudly at that point.

Paper planes were on the ‘forbidden’ list.

And all three ‘launchers’ were guilty.

At that Friday’s Assembly, my brother and Stan--and the Principal--all took their places at the front of the gym.

Each was handed a lemon.

Which Jerry and Stan peeled and ate at lightning speed. Just to get out of the spotlight.

The Principal took his time. Wincing with every bite.

The assembled students were screaming with laughter by the time he was done.

Finally, he waved for silence and dismissed us.

Then probably hurried to the bathroom to gargle.

We never forgot.

And school crime hit an all time low.

Genius.

Working On It

 With the crazy price of gas these days,

Our scientists must find a way

To either make our fuel improve,

Or other schemes to help us move.

 

They had some promising success

With electricity, not gas,

And solar, wind, to name a few,

Each looking like the new breakthrough!

 

But one group thought they’d like to know,

What Grandma’s garden had to show,

Gathered herbs of every kind,

For something new they had in mind.

 

And so they ran experiments,

With cinnamon and peppermint,

Then basil, turmeric and kelp,

And many more they thought would help.

 

They’ve pretty much come up with zip,

Nothing we would call ‘blue chip’.

They’ve tossed the cloves, bay leaves and lime,

At least their trains all run on thyme!

 

P.S. 

A little note to follow up,

For human fuel, those herbs are top!

Cause they won’t cause our hearts to halt,

They are a step above the salt! 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

It comes just once a year, you know,

So, Labour Day, we'll have on show!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29) Today!

Labour Day (September 5)

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

When Furniture is Fun

You know I love my furniture, I’m just a fixtures hack,

Why, me and my recliner, we two go way, way back!

A guy was just caught robbing the local furn’ture 'lair',

The law was swift in acting—that bad man got the chair.

 

A friend of mine makes furniture, ‘tis there he spends his days,

He fell into the upholstery machine. He's recovered now, they say.

 

To whoever stole my polish, ‘bout the outcome I won’t hedge…

Please know that I will find you. And that’s my final Pledge.

 

Someone stole my credit cards, in the chairs wing spent some time.

I found out when the bank told me my card had been reclined.

 

Saw some sea birds ordering stuff—for people, they were labeled,

I thought Ikea sold to folks, but I guess the terns have tabled.

 

The furniture factory said they were a ‘mirror inspector’ wooing,

I told them I had interest because, "That, I could see me doing."

 

A ventriloquist dummy died, t’was polish made the lad diminish.

It was a slow death, certainly, but had a lovely finish!

The salesman said, “This sofa will seat five with little strife.”

But I don’t know that many without troubles in their life!

 

My boss said, "After what you did. You're fired! You’re toast! You’re banned!"

But I’m regretting nothing. Sometimes one must take a stand.

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's the Bee's Knees!

And we love her, you know that’s true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,

With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,

Each month we write and have such fun

We can't wait for another one,

Sooo...this month, how well did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

Baking In A Tornado: FavoriteChair

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Making A Friend

The Hill. Picture taken before the erection of 'The Tower'.

The Stringam ranch buildings were ringed on three sides by high cliffs, and dominated on the fourth by a high hill. 

As a result, there were only two entrances to the ranch, on either side of said hill.
As a fortress, it would have been ideal. Easily defended and defensible.
As a playground, it was perfect.
From the top of the hill, one could see, quite literally, for miles. The lack of any trees or large vegetation allowed for a completely unbroken view to any horizon.
And if one climbed up the tower perched firmly, but terrifyingly on top of the hill . . . well the possibilities were endless.
As I well knew.
From much experience.
On many occasions, my heroic mother did the sprint to the top of the hill, scampered up the tower, and plucked her small, but adventurous, daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Death being the sudden stop at the foot of the tower.
I just thought I'd point that out . . .
There was much of the Olympiad in my mother. I think of the numerous air and land speed records she broke, all without the witness of a single stop-watch or measuring stick.
But I digress . . .
The hill was also the resting place for the moldering bodies of many, many derelict machines, both agricultural and civil.
Parked neatly in rows were such identifiable things as threshers, mowers, combines, tractors, rakes, cars and trucks, all having outlived their ‘best before’ date.
They had all been replaced by something new and improved, but had not been sent to that great ‘tribute to rust’ that is the local parts yard because of the possibility, however slim, of still being useful.
It was this collection of . . . old and intriguing, that drew my older brothers and myself day after day.
They, to explore and dismantle.
I to . . . get in the way and fall on something sharp.
Our responsibilities were clearly laid out, and we did them with a will.
From my brothers’ point of view, imagine the potential.
Armed with nothing more than a screwdriver, wrench and pliers, you could attack and dismember any of the inmates of this glorious, magical place.
You could tap into engines and other secret places and uncover intricate systems hidden to the incurious and unaware.
You could emerge, covered in grease, but triumphantly holding aloft something unidentifiable.
(Four years old. Remember?)
Moving on . . .
The three of us spent many happy hours there.
They in their grease and machinery parts.
I exploring and imagining worlds.
For three ranch kids growing up on the prairies, it was truly the place where dreams come true.
And then, into our peaceful little world came . . . the rabbit.
It wasn’t anything unusual, as rabbits go. A large jack. Cream and dark brown fur. Long ears and . . . really jumpy legs.
I should mention here that I was - and am - crazy for animals. Any animals. This rabbit would be the perfect pet for me.
At least from my point of view.
It had other ideas.
At first I approached it slowly, hand out, friendly smile firmly affixed. 

Coaxing.
It sat up and eyed me, nose twitching.
Then when I was still several steps away, it hopped. 

In the wrong direction.
Stupid rabbit.
I moved closer once more. It waited until I was, again, several steps away, then it . . . you get the picture.
This went on for some time.
Finally, running short of patience, I increased my pace.
It caught on to the change in strategy with astonishing speed, and also moved faster.
I ran.
It ran.
This was getting us nowhere. I finally flopped down on the ground and scowled at it.
It stopped and looked at me again.
I stood up hopefully.
It ducked into an irrigation pipe.
Ha! My . . . erm . . . strategy had worked! It was mine!
I carefully blocked both ends of the pipe and ran to get Mike’s cage.
A little background here.
Mike was our Saint Bernard.
He was huge.
But he hadn’t always been so.
When he had first come to live with us, he had been a puppy. For about two weeks.
Then he had outgrown his little wire mesh kennel and moved right into the only other place big enough to house him.
The garage.
That had left the kennel vacant.
And totally right for a pet rabbit.
I lugged it to the top of the hill.
Now the tricky part. How to coax the rabbit into his palatial new home.
I opened the door of the kennel and pulled one end of the pipe inside.
Then I went around to the other end of the pipe and began to lift.
Fortunately for my four-year-old muscles, aluminum irrigation pipes are fairly light. I lifted the pipe higher and higher, until I was stretched nearly to the limit of my height.
It wasn’t far.
But it worked!
I could hear the rabbit scrabble for purchase inside the pipe and finally give up and slide downwards.
I smiled broadly as his furry rump emerged from the end of the pipe.
He landed in the cage.
I was filled with triumph.
And elation.
And dismay.
The moment his feet touched the mesh of the kennel, he was off like a shot.
Through the bars of the cage.
Who knew that a four-inch wide rabbit could fit through a two inch wide space?
I watched, disappointed, as my pet headed for somewhere far away.
I kicked at the cage.
Stupid cage. 
Then I noticed that some of the rabbit’s fur had caught in the mesh. I plucked it off and examined it. I rubbed it on my cheek.
Soft.
I stuck it in my pocket and patted it tenderly.
My rabbit.
A few days later, when Mom was doing the laundry, she discovered the little patch of rabbit fur in my pocket. But, being my mother, she just shook her head and smiled.
And later, when Dad was loading pipe to start irrigating and found one with an end stuck inside Mike’s old cage, he did the same thing.
After all, they were my parents.
They knew me.

Aunt June

Doing what she does best . . .

There's one in almost every family.

That wonderful Aunt who collects children and adults around her like a rock star.

Our family has one.

The Aunt, I mean, not the rock star.

I will call her Aunt June.

Or AJ for short.

Where she is, there are changing hair colours.

Plenty of hugs.

And much laughter.

She might be tiny, but she's mighty.

She was one of the last to join my mother's family, marrying the youngest brother, Leif.

And has been a joy to the entire family ever since.

AJ was a city girl.

She and my Uncle met at a dance class.

It was love at first . . . step? Twirl? Swoop?

All of the above.

They courted.

People did that back then.

Married.

They did that, too.

And set up housekeeping.

*  *  *

AJ knew that her new husband came from a long line of ranch stock.

Known horsemen and women.

She decided that she need to fit in.

She would take riding lessons.

Presenting herself at the local stables, she was paired up with a gentle horse.

She groomed it.

Talked to it.

Hugged it.

Even got up on its back.

When telling the rest of us about this experience, she exclaimed, “It was such a sweet gentle horse. I could climb all over it and it never even moved!”

Whereupon (good word) Uncle Leif, in his quiet, dry manner said, “Because it was stuffed!”

That earned him a smack on the shoulder.

* * *

AJ has long been a great favourite with my children.

Have I mentioned that my children have a rather bizarre sense of humour.

Heaven knows where that came from . . .

When our eldest son was married, AJ and the rest of the great Berg family were all invited to the festivities.

Two of our sons brought a clipboard to the party.

I wasn't sure why.

Until AJ showed up.

She was met by the aforementioned sons . . . and their clipboard . . . as she queued up to enter the building.

“Name?”

“Aunt June.”

Obvious checking of a 'list'.

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, you're not on the list.” Turning to Uncle Leif. “You, sir, you're okay to go in.”

“Oh!” Aunt June said, laughing. “You come here! I'll show you a list!”

Remember where I said tiny, but mighty?

That would apply here

* * *

At the time of my eldest daughter's wedding a year later, our second son was deployed in Bosnia. We had a life-sized picture of him made and hung on the wall in the foyer of the church.

Life-sized is, for him, really, really tall.

In the picture, his hand was extended.

Written beside this hand were the words, 'You must be this tall to get into the reception. Except for you, Aunt June. You have KP. Get to the kitchen!'

We were all standing in the reception line, greeting and smiling.

Suddenly a loud cry emanated from the front foyer.

“Oh!”

We all looked at each other.

“Aunt June is here!” my Husby said.

* * *

When our military son was preparing for his overseas tour, AJ was more than a bit concerned.

She insisted that he couldn't go unless he received her 'official permission'.

Finally, my Husby drafted up a letter for her to sign.

In it, our son's 'commanding officer' agreed to:

1. Ensure that Erik ate well and was happy and healthy.
2. Was in no danger.
3. Was tucked in at night.
4. Jammies donned.
5. And Teeth brushed.
6. With his teddy bear.
7. And that said CO would read him his bedtime story.

All in return for her support.

AJ signed.

Reluctantly.

Then kept close tabs on our overseas son.

* * *

I was recently at a gathering of my wonderful Berg family.

AJ was there.

Warmly welcoming everyone – and I do mean everyone - with a firm hug and lively interest.

Ahhhhh!

Does your family have an Aunt June?

If not, we loan her out.

Sort of a 'Have Hugs – Will Travel' program.

There's certainly plenty of love to go around.

P.S. Aunt June just celebrated her 80th birthday! Happy Birthday to the sweetest woman I know! We love you, Aunt June.

The Electronic AGE

For three days, we had been travelling across the country with a one-year-old.

It was a wonderful, educational, exhausting time.

And I learned something about electronics.

Yes. Electronics.

Maybe I should explain.

First, a little background...

Kids now seem to have an affinity for anything ‘electronic’.

If I have any problems with my computer or anything that attaches to the wall with a plug or adapter, I hit ‘control-alt-delete’. Then shout for my son or son-in-law.

They hit a couple of keys and I’m once more off and running.

And these abilities start at a very early age.

Our four-year-old grandson was nearby as his father typed in the password for his computer, then loaded and played a game.

Only nearby, mind you.

A few days later, his mother walked into the family room and found her son playing his father’s game.

I should mention that this is a bang-bang, shoot-shoot game, but not spectacularly gory or detailed.

“Hey!” she said. “How did you get on there?!”

The son giggled and fled.

A short time later, his mother called his father at work.

“You left your computer on!” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you must have! I just caught our son on your game!”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I haven’t been on the computer for days,” he said. “The computer would have long gone to sleep.”

“Well then how . . .?”

“He had to have watched me type in the password.”

“But he’s only four!”

“It’s the only explanation.”

“Huh.”

Now, back to that day . . .

Compared to our one-year-old, our four-years-old was . . . old.

And this incident, I watched, seated beside said one-year-old in the back seat of the car.

She grabbed her mom’s cell phone.

Flipped it over.

Switched it on.

Slid the lock.

And immediately started punching buttons, rearranging some, cancelling others.

All as fast as you could blink.

Faster, even.

Electronics.

So simple, even a child could do it . . .

This Gramma needs help.

Is there a child out there?

And she's good with other things as well!

Almost an Angel

“Be an Angel, Teddy-Bear!” I told her as she rose,

And as I changed her diaper and her pjs for some clothes,

But she just grinned her toddler grin, already off to seek

That something new to get into—a step ahead of me.

 

I tidied up the table, tucked away her little things,

Knowing, as I did so that her tiny feet had wings,

And she already was ahead, cause, though her stride is small,

She compensates by moving fast as she runs down the hall.

 

Her first stop was the bathroom, and though I grabbed her fists,

Already she was soaked with toilet water past her wrists,

Then, dried and clean, she made a fateful dash for the milk pail,

(I’d tried to tend it earlier, but clearly, I had failed.)

 

Another wash, another shirt and she was off again,

This time, headed for the playroom and her fav’rite train,

I took the time to catch my breath, what harm could Teddy do?

With toys designed to entertain, and none to break or chew.

 

But she managed, Teddy did, somehow she broke that train,

Then made a bigger mess by flushing spent parts down the drain.

I know you’re thinking what is wrong and why can’t I keep up?

You have to know she’s not alone, I’ve others—plus a pup.

Oops, sorry, while I stopped to talk, my Teddy Bear made tracks,

I'll tell you, she does not allow her Mama to relax!

This time she found the diaper creme. And something you should know,

It's covering propensities when applied from head to toe.

 

And so my day goes by, I’m pulling her from scrape and scrape,

By supper time, I feel as if I’ve earned a hero’s cape!

Between my household duties and attempting to keep watch,

I mostly end up far behind in toddler hop (and) scotch,

 

And all my begging: “Teddy-Bear, just be an angel, please!”

Falls on heedless ears as off she scoots on hands and knees,

And though I manage to corral (at meal times and such),

It never lasts quite long enough to help me out that much...

 

Then finally, bedtime rolls around, she’s had her bath and book,

And prayers and cuddles and she’s safely tucked in bed in nook,

A sleepy kiss and off she drifts. Then, as she slumbers soft...

I realize she IS the angel I requested oft! 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week we'll have to make a choice...

It's 'bats' or 'herbs'! Let's hear your voice!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Be an Angel Day (August 22) Today!

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Labour Day (September 5)

Chocolate Milk Shakes (September 12)

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19)

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Egg Plant

 I’m on a bit of a ‘Daddy’ kick right now...

It was supposed to be:

A) Easy.

B) Efficient.

C) Convenient.

It was:

D) None of the above.

Maybe you’d like to hear about it . . .

When he was eight years old, my Dad’s daily chore was the gathering of the eggs.

The household used many.

And the extras were sold.

It was an important job for a small boy and Dad took it seriously.

Well, most of the time.

One Christmas, after church services, the family was invited over to Dad’s Aunt’s house for Christmas dinner.

The food was plentiful.

The cousins, ditto.

Dad was in small boy heaven, playing.

Five o’clock rolled around. Egg gathering time.

And no, chickens don’t get the Sabbath off . . .

“Mark,” his mother said. “Time to go home and gather the eggs.”

Dad wheedled a bit, knowing that his chances of getting out of the chore were slim to nil. Finally, the two of them agreed that, if he was quick, he could gather the eggs and return for a bit more play time.

Happily, Dad put on his coat and headed out into the frosty air.

Now, I should explain here that his mother was an accomplished seamstress.

And yes, this will be relevant . . .

She had taken one of Dad’s Dad’s old suits and made it smaller for her youngest son. It fit perfectly.

All that remained the original size of the original suit were the pockets.

But Dad never complained. More room to hide/store things.

It was this suit Dad was wearing as he charged out the door.

I should also explain that the chicken coop was nestled snugly half-way between his Aunt’s house and his home.

What could be more efficient that to gather the eggs on his way to his house.

Only one problem needed to be addressed. He had nothing to carry the eggs in.

Then, with small-boy ingenuity, the solution popped into his head.

He had oversized pockets! And pants pockets for any extras.

Genius!

Dad proceeded to stuff the fresh, warm eggs into every available space. By the time he had finished, he had 37 of the little moneymakers somewhere about his person.

Carefully, he waddled home, excited at the prospect of delivering his cargo and returning to his play.

He opened the kitchen door.

The warm air rolled out to envelop him as he stepped forward onto the linoleum.

Disaster rolled out with it.

Frosty shoes refused to grip the shining clean and very warm floor.

Both feet shot out from under him.

There was nowhere to go but down.

Picture it if you will.

37 eggs.

Stuffed into various compartments.

None of which were intended for egg transport.

One egg survived.

One.

Yeah, his mother was fairly disgusted as well.

Let’s just say he never made it back to play with cousins that night.

Seeking Safety

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.