My Slithery Best Friend

My Dad and older brother and sister at The River.
Circa 1952 BD (Before Diane)

I caught a snake. Garter variety.
The banks of the river abounded with such things, as well as frogs, tadpoles, minnows and other slithery, slimy denizens of the milky water.
It wasn't unheard-of for my mother to be the calm recipient of a bullfrog, salamander, and cup full of minnows . . . all on the same day.
Okay, so, squeamish, I wasn't.
And my mother was a saint.
But snakes, we usually had a harder time catching. Actually laying hands on one was a treat. An achievement.
I know. I know. We probably should have explored other hobbies . . .
I was understandably excited about my snake. I wanted to share.
I decided to take it to school.
I can't remember just how I managed this. Perhaps my Mom helped me by putting it in a shoe box. But it, and I, somehow made it safely on the long bus ride.
Then I was the center of attention as everyone on the playground crowded in for a peek. In fact, my snake was so popular that my teacher arranged for me to take it to every classroom to show the kids.
For the first time in my young life, I was the center of attention. I was popular. I was famous.
Yes, well, it rather went to my head . . .
To make my snake a bit more visible, the principal offered me his own glass fishbowl. Now it could be seen at all times.
I thought it was terrific.
I don't suppose the snake was very impressed.
I walked into each of the six classrooms, filled with importance. Then I would talk about my snake . . . ummm . . . knowledgeably.
"This is a garter snake. I caught it by the river. It's kind of cold and . . . smooth. It can swim. It eats frogs and other stuff."
Hey, I was six. That was as knowledgeable as it gets.
Then I would reach in, grab my snake by the end of its tail and lift it out for everyone to see. The snake would, obligingly, stretch up and flick its tongue.
Ooohs.
This went on for the lower five grades.
Then, the last class. My oldest brother Jerry's class. The grade sixes. The big guys.
I was more than a bit intimidated.
I carried my sideshow exhibit into the class and went into my spiel. Then I lifted my snake. And stared in horror as the last two inches of its tail . . . broke off.
The poor thing dropped to the floor and began a frantic slither towards somewhere else.
Several girls screamed.
I quickly pounced on it and scooped it up, dropping it back into the goldfish bowl.
Order was restored.
Then I realized that I was still holding the piece of the snake's tail. Flushing, I dropped it in with the snake, then quickly seized the bowl and scurried out of the room.
My 15 minutes of fame were over.
For the rest of the day, my snake sat on the shelf at the back of my grade one classroom.
After school, my Mom was waiting for me at the bus stop. She loaded my brothers, George and Jerry, my snake and I into the car.
On the way out of town, she pulled over into the campground beside the river.
"Okay, Diane," she said, "let the snake go."
I stared at her, horrified. Let him go? But he was mine! We'd been through so much together!
She nodded.
Heaving a sigh, I opened the car door and carried my prize to the riverbank.
I looked back at her.
She nodded again.
Now, I should point out here, that I could have simply taken my slithery friend out and laid him in the grass beside the river. Or even set the bowl down and let him crawl out there.
But no. Instead, I made my way down the very edge of the river and tipped up the fishbowl to drop my companion and friend into the milky water.
And unwittingly added an exciting postscript to the story.
Because I also dropped the fishbowl.
My principal's fishbowl.
I did try to make a grab for it, but it quickly slid out of my reach and disappeared. I stared at the place where it had last been seen.
I was in so much trouble.
I remember looking at my mom, horror written across my whole face. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head.
She was so accustomed to me.
She must have sorted things out with my principal, the first of many such exchanges, because I never heard anything of it and it was soon forgotten.
But I often think of my little garter snake friend and wonder just what happened to him. Dropped into a foreign world, miles from his home. Part of his tail snapped off.
Did he survive? Even prosper?
I like to think so.
But more thought provoking is the fact that I had absolutely no fear when catching and handling my snake.
If he had been a chicken?
Totally another story.
Go figure.

The Root Cellar

Somehwere inside that red circle was . . . the stronghold

Under the floor of the old garage was a dark, mysterious, magical stronghold. A place of adventure. Of devious deeds and dead bodies long kept hidden. Where pirates, coming down the Milk River in ships, hid their treasures. And their secrets.

A place of adventure. Of wonder.

And vegetables.

Accessed only through a solid, well-camouflaged wooden door, this place was known only to the best and brightest . . . and bravest . . . that the ranch had to offer.

I was definitely one of those.

Okay, I admit that I had to wait until one of my larger, stronger minions actually grasped the great iron ring and pulled the door up on its protesting hinges to grant me entry, but from that point . . . I. Was. In. Charge.

Yes, okay, so they also had to reach up to the single hanging bulb and pull the string because it was too far up for me, but from then on . . .

Geeze.

I spent hours there.

Or at least as long as it took my mom to collect her baskets of vegetables and start back up the stairs.

At that point, I would abandon whatever scheme I had launched and scamper up behind her.

I could conquer worlds. Defeat any foe. Accept any challenge.
I just had a bit of a problem with being left in the dark.
The heavy door would be lowered into place with a theatrical thud, and the hideout's secrets would once more be hidden.
Entombed. Quietly, patiently waiting until the next time the sunlight briefly, piteously exposed them.

I loved the root cellar. I loved its mystery. Its possibilities.
But I should probably mention here that the south fork of the Milk River never, ever could have floated anything larger than a rowboat.
Well, except, maybe during the flood of '64. But a pirate raid, then, would have had to be brief. And fast.
So, my stone-walled, dirt-floored stronghold probably never concealed a treasure. Or a body.
I think a cat got mistakenly shut in once for a few hours, but as it emerged unconcerned and completely unscathed, I don't think that counts.
I don't know if that particular root cellar still exists. It had been years since I was back there. But my memories of it are still sharp and clear.
The damp, cool air. The 'heavy' feel of the stone walls and dirt floor. The . . . fuzzy-looking boards that formed the staircase.
But most especially the smells. Earth. Fresh vegetables. Wet, aged wood. Things growing. Things crumbling back into earth.
There is a addendum.
My husband and I have spent many hours travelling on the underground in London, England. It is a remarkably run, efficient system.
But in the deepest tunnels, we met with an unexpected bonus.
Stepping off the escalator, I took a deep breath.
Earth. Old timbers. The natural smells of molder and decay.
I smiled.
It smelled like memories.

Lady and Other Horses I Have Known



My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With another of our horses, King Prancer . . . and a friend





Age or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.

The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"

A little background . . .

Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . rear . . . of the herd.) and could keep the entire herd going.

With or without human guidance.

So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher.

All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns.

If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat. Less, if your heartbeat is slow.

Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was, more or less, sitting in her saddle. Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under. Her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.

For a moment.
Then he, or she, would end up finding out just how hard the prairie can be. Usually on their backs. Staring up at the sky, and completely devoid of breath.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath. Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup.
To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim. Tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco. Another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds. Steamboat. An enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gate that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth. The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings. Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on.
These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching.
Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes.
And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true. We had Lady. She of the very, very apt name.

My Summer of '64

The summer I turned nine was supposed to be the most exciting of my life. And it was.
For all of the wrong reasons.

First, the bridge.
Just a few yards down the road from our ranch gates, across the south fork of the Milk River, stood an aged iron bridge, painted black.

It had great metal arches over it and many intricate bends and joints that invited exploration and/or concealment. On a hot summer afternoon, one could climb under the bridge, swing on the rope which dangled temptingly and drop down into the cool water below.

We kids on the ranch thought it was our playground.

Very early in the spring of 1964, great machines and earth-movers began to assemble next to our beloved bridge.

And a large crew of men accompanied them.

For days, we watched from what dad deemed a 'safe distance'. (Actually, to him, a safe distance was the top of the machinery hill, but who could see anything from there? And who was listening?)

Of course, if I'd realized then that this crew was actually there to replace our great and marvelous playground, I probably wouldn't have been quite so enthusiastic.

As it was, this was almost more excitement than my nine-year-old self could handle.

Life just didn't get any better.

They toiled away on it for several months.

Then, the movie crew.

Dad announced that he had some really exciting news.
A movie crew was coming to the ranch to film.
Movie crew?
Suddenly everyone began to act strangely.
The hired men actually polished their boots. And availed themselves of the showers and laundry services.

My older sister spent hours in front of the mirror, trying new 'looks' and fashions.

My brothers practiced lines from westerns.

Mom, ever practical, began bringing in truckloads of food.
I got in everyone's way. Okay, this was normal, but I didn't want you to think I wasn't proactive. The ranch was suddenly antiseptically clean. (Well, not quite, but you get the picture . . .)
The expected day grew closer. And closer.
I stopped sleeping. Well, actually, Mom stopped sleeping, but I did feel sorry for her.
The anticipation was palpable.
The day arrived. The movie crew didn't.


Rising water



And finally . . .

But everyone's stretched nerves and feelings of anticipation were not wasted. The movie crew might not have shown up.
But the flood did.

Oh, Dad had been keeping an eye on our river as it . . . grew.

Finally, it became clear that our quiet little trickle had officially turned into . . . something much bigger. Something huge and brown and scary that threatened everything in its path.
Including us.

And several of the bridge-building machines that had been sitting placidly in the shallow river beneath the bridge, but I didn't think about them.

My motto has always been 'panic first, think afterwards'. And it has served me well.

Banished to the balcony overlooking our back yard, I alternately cried or moaned as Dad, my two brothers and assorted hired men struggled with shovels and mud.

The normally milky, now chocolate-brown river crept nearer and nearer.

Yes, that's our yard -
there's usually a road, (and a cliff)
between us and the river.

It topped its banks. It started flowing across the lower pasture. Higher. Higher. Finally, it reached our yard and began lapping at the tiny bulwark of sand bags. The barricade that had seemed so huge only moments before.

Dad and his crew worked frantically, trying to reinforce what now looked like a pathetic little mud pie, against all that water.

All day, they worked.

And finally, the waters peaked. Then slowly began to recede.

We lost part of our yard. A small part.

The bridge crew had some equipment damaged, but nothing that couldn't be repaired or replaced.

Unfortunately, the same wasn't true for the rest of Alberta and Montana, wherever the Milk River flowed. Communities suffered millions of dollars in damages and at least 30 people lost their lives. In fact, the June, 1964 flood remains in the history books as one of the greatest disasters ever to hit Montana.

But the waters receded.

Back on the ranch, everything wasn't as pristine as it had once been, but was soon put to rights.

Our new bridge was finished and the old one demolished and hauled away. The crew left.

We kids scampered around on the cement marvel for a short while, but soon discovered that its smooth surfaces provided few hiding places and absolutely nowhere to hang a rope.

It was abandoned.



Old bridge, new bridge
and very, very wet equipment

Often, our family would stand on the balcony and watch the river as it curved gently around the ranch.

Once more, it was the calm, quiet flow that watered our stock and our crops, cooled us on hot days, and supported us in our floundering efforts to swim. Once more, it was the color of the sediment that gave it its milky hue and its name.

Eventually, I even lost my fear of it.

Yes, for me, the summer of 1964 was an exciting, memorable time.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget it.

My George



Then



My big brother, George and I are two years and four days apart.

When I was born, he wasn't quite ready to have a younger sibling. But, eventually, he accepted me.

It only took fourteen years for us to become best friends.

In our early days, George and I mostly avoided one another. Whenever we tried to play together, we inevitably ended up fighting. Usually the fights were over who started the fights, but why quibble over details?

Fortunately, living on the ranch, there were numerous other opportunities for mischief than playing with siblings.

George had his things mechanical, I had horses.

It was a perfect world.

* * *

When I turned twelve, the magical world of 4-H opened up before me. Finally, I, too, could belong to that tantalizingly exclusive club that my older sister and brothers all enjoyed. I, too could choose a calf and raise it for a year. And go on tours. And calf-club meetings.

Life just didn't get any better.

Dad brought in a group of weanling calves for us to choose from. I instantly decided on the little red-and white-one. No, that little red-and-white one. There. The one next to the other little red-and-white one.

Okay, so they were all red-and-white.

I finally made my choice and my calf, along with my siblings' calves, was shut into a special pen.

For the first day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't stop looking at my calf. He was perfect! He was going to be a champion.

He was mine!

I watched as George hauled feed into the pen, both morning and evening.

This was exciting! This was fun!

He offered to let me carry the pail.
This was work!

And I think that was the last time, ever, that I fed my own calf.

If it weren't for steady, reliable George, all of my 4-H calves would have starved to death.

And, oddly enough, he never complained.

* * *

Fourteen and I was able to attend my first dance!

George drove us there.

I think I danced twice. (One was 'Hey Jude', the customary and interminable last song, which one would inevitably end up dancing with someone who smelled.)
After the dance, George and I stayed in the kitchen and talked until four am.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

After that, we spent hours every day, just talking. Movies, books, friends, dates, music. The topics were endless and interesting.

And fun.
We never seemed to run out of things to discuss.
Which of my girlfriends had a crush on him this week.

School. (Miss Mueller, my English teacher loved my brother, but hated me. Go figure . . .)

Dating. When I turned 16, this was a new and wondrous world for me. George guided me through some of the pitfalls and heartbreaks. Once, when my date abandoned me for another girl at a dance, George provided a ride home. And a shoulder.
He got me through.

* * *

In his twenties, George decided to travel down another road. In black leather, long hair and a beard. And on a Harley.


Still then

 He was still my beloved brother. Just a bit . . . scarier to look at.
Once when he was coming for a promised visit, my second son Erik, then six, waited up to greet him. When this long-haired man appeared, Erik took one look and fled down the stairs to his bed.
It was very shortly afterwards that George asked me to give him a haircut.
And not long after that when he decided that he needed to settle down.
For many years, he struggled with relationships and church attendance/standards. Then, just before he turned 50, he decided that he needed to make some serious changes.
Which he did.
And then he met Mikenzie.
She, too had experienced hardships in her life. But, like George, she was ready for something . . . eternal.
I was a witness as the two of them, dressed in white, knelt at the altar and gave their vows to each other. And to God.
I couldn't help but think of my former long-haired, black-leather-clad brother as he took his new wife into his arms and kissed her.
And accepted her daughter as his own.
Forever.
Today, as always, George is busy, organized, and frightfully clean.
But perhaps for the first time in his life, he is happy.

And that makes me happy.

Now, with Mikenzie

My First Drive



My first stylin' ride



The grocery store in Milk River in the 50's was on main street.

Parking was on the street. Angle only.
I know this doesn't seem to have much to do with my story, but wait for it . . .

Mom usually came into town once a week to do the grocery shopping.
For me, it was a magical time. Mind you, I was born with unfettered enthusiasm.
For me, everything was magical. But I digress . . .
On this particular occasion, my brother George was with us.
The two of us had been separated because he was causing fights.

Not me.

Never me.
So George was in the back seat and I was in the front.
Mom parked the car in front of the AGT building and got out.
When we made to follow her, she put out her hand and told us to stay where we were.
As punishment for being so disruptive on the trip into town, both of us were forbidden from going into the store.

Mom was only going in for a moment. We could sit in the car quietly and think about what we had done.

George pouted. Arms crossed, face fixed in a frown of displeasure.
I did gymnastics.
I should probably point out here that the seats of our late-model Pontiac could easily have doubled as twin beds. They were wide. And long. And bouncy.

I started out small. Bouncing up and down in a sitting position.



Then I discovered that I could get more height if I got up on my knees.

Finally, I was standing, hands on the back of the seat, jumping up and down. I think I hit my head numerous times on the roof, but no brain, no pain. I continued to bounce.

I should point out here that, in the 50's, crime hadn't been invented yet. It wasn't unusual for people to leave their kids in a car. With the keys in the ignition.
And the car running.
Don't condemn my Mom. She was a product of her time.

I bounced closer and closer to the steering wheel and wondrous, automatic gearshift attached to it.

Closer. Closer.
And then . . . one bounce too many. I came down on the gearshift.
The car lurched into action, bouncing over the curb and across the sidewalk on fat, whitewall tires.
I think I screamed, but I can't be sure. It all happened so fast.
There was a distinct 'crunch' and the car came to a sudden stop.

I don't remember George's reaction. I think he remained stoically silent in the back seat.

I picked myself up off the floor and began to cry.
And suddenly, my Mom was there. Holding me in her arms and telling me that everything was all right.
Mom was really, really good at that.
After she had calmed me down, she set me back on the seat and put the car into reverse and edged back off the sidewalk. Then she put it into park and, this time, shut it off.


We all got out and gathered around to survey the damage.

The bumper had pierced the stucco, leaving a half-moon crescent in the wall of the building, just below the front windows. Where the entire office staff had assembled.
They waved, cheerfully.
Mom sighed and towed us into the office to explain.
The office workers were remarkably forgiving of the whole incident. Even laughing about it.
Red-faced, Mom was soon able to drag George and I back to the car.


I think I received a lecture on using the inside of the car as a playground, but it wasn't very forceful. Probably because Mom realized that the whole thing wouldn't have happened if she hadn't left the car running.

The mark I had made in the wall remained there for many, many years. Until the building was renovated and re-faced, in fact.
Some time after my escapade, a second crescent appeared in that same wall, just a few feet from mine, obviously from a similar source.
I examined it carefully. It was a good attempt.
But mine was better.


2011 AD (After Diane) Note the damage . . . or not



Mark and Enes Stringam

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

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

Mom and Dad were married 63 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, I mean.
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.
Dad 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.

Me, the Mud and the Spanking



Daddy and Me




Spring had finally arrived at the ranch.
Let me describe it to you . . .
The snow has melted away. Even the drifts which filled the ditches have finally succumbed to the encroaching sun.
Everywhere on the prairie one can see the signs of spring. New green in the prairie grasses and in the occasional and solitary trees. An infrequent blossom. The smells, in the prairie wind, of things growing . Scurrying animals. Birdsong.
And knee-deep mud in the barnyard.
But I am getting ahead of myself.

It is a wonderful time. A time of anticipation. Of wonder.
For a four-year-old who had been cooped up in the house since time immemorial, it is a wondrous opportunity for freedom.
And I took it.
Anxious to put a new accomplishment (that Mom and I had been labouring over) into practice, I disdained my ugly, black gumboots and stuck my feet into my brand new running shoes and triumphantly tied the laces.
I was free!
I dashed out of the house and into the spring sunshine.
The day was filled with endless possibilities for exploring. There was the ice-house. The riverbank. The blacksmith shop. The feed sheds. Hayloft. Pig sty. Chicken coop.
Okay, maybe not the chicken coop.
All my usual haunts.
But today, my first day of freedom, I chose . . . where else would a horse nut go? . . . the horse barn.
Where I would find the . . . ummm . . . horses.
It started out all right. I walked down the hard-packed driveway to the grass of the foreman's house.
So far, so good.
From there, I crossed to the fence. Still fine. I climbed the fence and looked across the barnyard to the tempting building just over there . . .
I jumped down.
And that is where everything fell apart. I watched my feet disappear into the morass that the barnyard had become.
For a stunned moment, I stared down. What had happened?
I tried to lift one foot. It didn't move.
I tried again. Same result.
Panic threatened. Was I going to be stuck here for the rest of my life? I was perilously close to tears.
Then I saw my dad. He of the strong arms and wisely gum booted feet.
He worked his way over to me. I can still remember the sucking sound of his boots as he pulled them from the mud.
Ssss-thook. Ssss-thook.
My saviour.
He plucked me from the mud and set me back on the fence.
Then he frowned and looked at my feet.
“Where are your boots?”
I, too, looked down.
Muddy socks and pants, but no shoes. Huh. Maybe my lace-tying wasn't as good as I thought.
I looked at the mud.
Dad sighed and felt down into the mud that had so recently held me, and found, first one, then the other shoe.
He stood up and held them out.
“Are these your new shoes?”
I nodded silently.
“Where are your boots?” Boots that would have been vastly easier to clean, by the way.
I looked towards the house.
Dad sighed. “You take these and head to the house. I'm going to come later and give you a spanking.”
My eyes got big. I stared at him. A spanking?!
I should point out here that I had never had a spanking from my dad.
But I could imagine it. Unspeakable pain and torment.
I grabbed my shoes, jumped down from the fence and lit out for the house at my best 'four-year-old-I'm-in-trouble' pace.
I threw the shoes down in the front entry and headed for the closet in my room.
Dad never gave me my spanking.
I guess he thought that I'd been punished enough when I spent the entire morning in my closet, hiding from him.
And I never again tried to wear anything but my gumboots into the barnyard.
I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

First Night out - or - The Night We Cheated Death

Anita, Jerry, Me, Chris, Mom, Blair (in front of Mom), Graham (a visitor) and George

My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

It was our first foray into town . . . without parental supervision. For the first time, ever, there were only siblings in the car.
It was a truly magical night.
Great company. (Jerry and George hadn't teased me, even once.)
Great entertainment planned. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - something to do with our theatre owner having seniority over all of those in the nearby city of Lethbridge - but that is another story . . .)
Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
We had hit the big times!
Then, as with any magical night, midnight came. Our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, halfway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car.
Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired. I think, perhaps they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly. They would have loved to crawl over, under and through that little car.
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas.
Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window.
The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh that's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded . . . with colourful language and various starts and stops . . . to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!
Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.
We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night.
And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot chain.
I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti.
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.

That was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment. But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first night.

Perhaps 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.

The Real Family Bird-Brains



Admit it. He's cute!



I have birds. 



Zebra finches, to be exact.

They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.

I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on for fourteen years, now.

It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop supplied us with a canary, two doves and a finch.



A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.

It was love at first sight.

During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.

One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A musical, tiny, rusty gate.)

I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'.), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.

The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.

And the little notes kept on.

Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?

My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.

I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.

The third cage.

And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.

My heart was captured.

He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.

And my hero.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him. He had to be mine.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.

She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy hopped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)

They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.

My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator. (Yes, Virginia there is an elevator . . .)

And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.

They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.

Constantly entertaining.

One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.

"Yes. Right there! That's the itchy spot. Oh get it! Get it!"

Or . . .

"Stop that racket!"

"But it's the same song you were singing five minutes ago!"

"I don't care! I don't like you singing it!"

Or better yet . . .

"What are you doing in my cage?!"

"I live here!"

"Well, who said that could happen!"

"What are you talking about? I was born here! To you!"

Or the ever popular . . .

"I don't like the way you look!"

"But I'm your son, I look like you!"

"Don't change the subject!"

In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.

I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go.

For that second, with the tiny, frightened bird quivering in my hand, we are truly one.

Then they are released and become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.

It's the only thing I wish I could change.

Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.

I've tried taking them to task for this, using forceful, penetrating words similar to those I used in raising my own children . . . you little monkeys! You're acting like slobs! D'you hear me? Slobs!

They never listen.

Wait. Neither did my children!

Hmmm. Children. Birds.

Am I seeing similarities?





See the elevator?

Me, the Mower, and my Guardian Angel

Me and everyone on the ranch who was smarter than me . . .

I made it! I was nine! I could do anything! I was supergirl!

As you may have guessed, nine years old was an important time in my family. The time when one was moved up to the next level of responsibility.

Now I could do all of the cool things that my older brothers and sister could do. Things I'd been waiting years to do.

Wonderful 'adult' things like . . . mowing the lawn.

Odd, isn't it, how exciting and attractive something looks when someone else is doing it?
And how . . . not-exciting and not-attractive it is when suddenly, it is your responsibility?
By the second time, the thrill of mowing our acres and acres of lawn had begun to pall, somewhat.
In fact, I hated it.
Maybe if there were such a thing as a riding mower, I could have retained my enthusiasm . . .
But the fact was that we only had a small, electric mower. And you had to push that little cretin every square foot of the way.
Oh, and watch out for the cord, but I am getting ahead of myself.
My instructions were very specific. Always start at or near the plug-in. Then work away from it in rows.
And rows and rows and rows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorry! Got caught up in the memory . . .
Needless to say, my mind didn't stay focused on what I was doing. In fact, it rather wandered . . . a bit.
One bright, sunny summer afternoon, when my horse and I could have been a small dot on the horizon, I was, once more, pushing that wretched mower.
But it wasn't all bad. Part of me was off riding my horse across the open prairie . . .
Suddenly, I was rudely made aware of just why we are supposed to keep our minds at least in the vicinity of what we are doing.
The mower . . . quit.
Just like that.
Dead.
There were some telltale sparks in the lawn, if one cared to look, but other than that, the stupid thing had just suddenly become lifeless.
I narrowed my eyes and began my investigation.
Aha! A cord. That just . . . ended. Snapped off as though it had been . . . cut. I searched around for the other end.
There it was! Lying in the grass!
Now how do you suppose . . .
The truth hit me like one of Dad's yearling bulls.
I had done the unspeakable. The unpardonable.
I HAD MOWED THE CORD.
Soon, if Dad found out, I was going to be as dead as this mower.
I had to fix it.
I grabbed the two ends. Maybe if I just put them back together, they will magically join . . .
I sometimes wonder just how many guardian angels I wore out during my growing up years on the ranch. I think I went through them at an alarming rate.
But they were good at what they did.
There was an enormous explosion and a First-of-July amount of sparklers.
I dropped those two ends like they were hot . . .
Which they probably were.
. . . and headed for my dad.
He just shook his head and followed me to the scene of the crime. Then he unplugged the live end of the cord (funny that I didn't think of that) and with a few quick strokes and some electrician's tape, mended everything.
Good as new.
I sat there in the unmown grass and watched him work.
He got to his feet. "Okay, Diane, back to work. And watch the cord a bit more carefully."
I stared up at him.
After that traumatic experience he was going to make me get 'back on the horse'? (Something I would loved to have done, in reality.)
He smiled and turned away.
He was! He actually meant for me to start mowing again!
I looked at the couple of swaths I had completed.
Then at the millions of swaths left to do.
I reached out and tentatively flipped the switch. My trusty little cohort hummed into life.
Sigh.
I started pushing.
Okay. Careful of the cord. Always keep it between you and the plug-in. Be watchful. Be wary . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I know what I will do the next time I go riding! Topper and me will . . .
And yet another guardian angel sighs as he is called into service.

The Unfair Fair



Me . . . don't talk about the hairdo



I was so excited.

My pal, Jody and I were going to have a fair.

During afternoon recess at school. A real fair, with games and prizes.

We had saved our allowances. We had . . . permission . . .

And now the real story . . .

Jody was staying with me at the ranch for a few days while her parents were away on holiday.

We had conceived this marvellous scheme while we were supposed to be sleeping. Just before my dad threatened to separate us for the night.

For the record, I don't know why they are called 'sleep overs'. Nothing resembling sleeping ever takes place. But I digress . . .
Jody and I had come up with this amazing idea. To hold a fair. With different contests and featuring real, bona-fide prizes of toys or candy. It was the best plan ever! Stupendous! The school would be talking about it for years!
Our plans grew and hatched more plans.
Barnum and Bailey would be put to shame! (I didn't know who they were, but whenever a circus was talked about, they were mentioned.)
There was only one hitch in our marvellous plan.
We were eight years old, in grade three, and needed permission to go downtown to purchase the necessary candy and prizes. And my mom refused to give us the necessary legal document.
We even provided the statement, already spelled out. All she had to do was sign.
She refused.
Sigh.
For sure, Barnum and Bailey didn't have such complications . . .
We were still puzzling over this difficulty when we got on the bus and sat in front of one of the grade 12 girls. We talked and talked, but no solutions were forthcoming.
The girl leaned over the seat and asked one of us to retrieve a pen she had dropped. I complied, still talking.
She reached out her hand to take the pen.
I paused, looking at her. At her . . . fully-grown hand.
That knew how to write in script.
That couldn't help but fool our teacher.
I smiled.
Later, we skipped happily off the bus, content in the knowledge that the two of us were smarter than our teacher. Than anyone. Than the whole world.
We duly presented the paper, properly signed, to Mrs. Hofer. She scanned it.
“Huh. I thought Jody's mom wasn't due home for a few more days.”
“Oh, she's back!” we assured her.
She nodded.
We bounced happily from the room. We had succeeded.
Our fair was underway.
We ran all the way downtown and had a marvellous time blowing our combined $.75 on penny candies and trinkets.
Then, clutching our paper bags of magic, we ran all the way back.
Our fair was a success. We conducted games and races and magnanimously handed out prizes.
Happily certain we were idolized by every child on the playground. That everyone wished they were us.
Then, just as the bell rang, Kathy ran up to tell us that we were wanted.
In the principal's office.
We looked at each other.
What could possibly have gone wrong?
Our plan had been so fool proof.
Slowly, we trudged towards our doom.
“Jody, is your mother home?” The principal was staring at us from under bushy, frowning brows.
I stared at my feet, frozen to the spot.
Jody, just slightly braver than me, managed to shake her head.
“So, where did this note come from?” He waved our masterpiece.
“Ummm . . . Mom signed it before she left?”
The principal shook his head. “I don't think so.”
Sigh. We were caught.
“A girl on Diane's bus signed it.”
“Ah.”
I peeped up at him. Was that a good 'ah'? A 'very clever girls',ah?
He was still frowning.
Obviously not.
I looked at the closet door behind his chair.
Where I knew the strap was kept.
If he made one step towards that closet, I was going to head for the hills.
And I knew where those hills were . . .
He folded his hands together.
“Do you girls know what you did wrong?”
We nodded.
“Do you?”
We nodded again, with a little less certainty.
“This is what is called 'fraud'.”
Fraud? I'd never heard of the word.
“It's like lying.”
Ah. Lying. Now that I knew a lot about . . . from watching my siblings . . . not because I . . . oh, never mind.
“Deceiving someone.”
Another long word I'd never heard of.
“Lying.”
Okay, back on familiar ground.
“You got someone else to sign your mom's name. That is lying. Fraud.”
But she was an adult! my mind screamed. She was big. She could write script. What difference did it make?
“You can't have someone else sign in place of your parent unless they are your guardian. Was this girl on the bus your guardian?”
Guardian? I was at sea again, and for someone who had never seen the sea, that was pretty lost. Ummm . . . I'm going to go with 'no'?
“No.”
I was right!
“So what you did was wrong.”
Rats.
Again, my eyes were drawn to that closet door. Not the strap! Not the strap!
He leaned back in his chair.
“I'm going to have to speak to your parents about this.”
I stared at him. Parents? Maybe the strap would be a good idea.
“They will have to take it up with you.”
I thought of my dad finding out.
The strap was looking better and better.
“Now I want you to go back to your class and think about this.”
We nodded.
“And never . . . ever . . . bring in a permission form signed by anyone but your parents. And never . . .” his eyes drilled through us . . . “lie to anyone again.”
Again we nodded. Wide-eyed.
Then we escaped.

We were right. The school talked about our fair for weeks afterwards.
They, and we, just didn't remember it for the right reasons.

My Big Crime



My brother and me.
I'm the criminal on the right.





 Okay. I confess. I stole something.
Once.
I have no defense. I did it. I'm guilty.
I was four. Is that an excuse . . .?
Mom and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping. A very exciting time for both of us. Well, for me, at any rate. We had driven in from the ranch in the family's late-model Chrysler (Dad always drove a Chrysler), which was an adventure in itself.
There were no seatbelts. They hadn't been invented yet. Apparently no one had yet seen the wisdom in fastening small, easily-launched bodies into a safe place while hurtling down sketchy gravel roads at 60 miles per hour in a two ton vehicle.
My mom used to hold out her arm when she applied the brakes.
I was safe.
We pulled up to the curb across the street from the grocery store and proceeded inside.
The check-out desk, usually manned by a woman, stood in the center of the store, surrounded by the magical world of the grocery. Directly behind the desk was a bank of cubicles, in which one could find the most amazing things of all . . . the penny candies.
It was there that I would park myself, after the cart got too full to hold me. I admit it was difficult to leave the treasures that my mom had been adding to the cart. Treasures like canned peas. Baked beans. Tinned salmon. And the all-important Spam.
But I found comfort in just looking at the myriad possibilities behind that main desk.
A whole family of chocolate. Straws of sweet, flavoured powder. Licorice and JuJubes formed into the most amazing shapes. Wax figures which could be nipped and sucked dry of their wonderful, sweet juices. Lick-M-Aid. Lollipops. Suckers. Bubble gum in two sizes of colourful balls. The choices were truly endless to a four-year-old. And my mom's purse offered the gateway to this bounty.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran to her.
"Mom? Can I have a bubblegum?"
"Not today, dear."
What? What had she said?
Had she really used those three words? The small utterance that shattered my hopes and dreams? That barred me forever from the bliss that all of that candy represented?
It couldn't be.
"But Moooom!"
"Not today, dear. I don't want you to be eating any candy before dinner."
Huh. Dinner was a lifetime away. What a stupid excuse.
"Just one?" I turned. My eye was caught by the bin full of bright orange bubble gums. The big ones with the little, rough bumps on the surface.
And the total deliciousness inside.
I pointed. "Just a bubble gum? I'll eat my dinner. I promise."
A smile from my long-suffering parent. "No, dear. Not today."
Huh. Well, we'll just see about that.
Mom had brought her purchases to the desk. The woman behind it was distracted. I would just take one gum. No one would ever know.
My hand crept into the bin of orange bubble gums. Wrapped itself around one tempting morsel. Popped it into my mouth.
Ha. Mission accomplished. I began the wonderfully arduous task of breaking down the hard, candy shell.
Mom finished paying for her groceries and was following the young boy carrying them to our car.
I fell in happily behind her.
The boy set the bags in the trunk, smiled at my mom and me and left.
Mom opened the door for me and I jumped inside. Still chewing.
She got in.
And sniffed. Then her head whipped around and she skewered me with a gimlet gaze.
"Diane! What are you eating?!"
I froze. How did she know? The gum was in my mouth, safely hidden.
I decided then. Moms were definitely magic.
Clever prevarication was in order.
"Ummm. Nothing."
"Diane, did you steal a bubblegum?"
I stared at her. Moms could see through cheeks!
"No."
"Diane!"
My head drooped. "Yes."
She sighed. "Diane, you know that stealing is wrong, don't you."
I lifted my head. Tears were already starting to pool. "Yes."
"What should we do about it?"
Tears started to slide down my cheeks. "I don't know."
Mom opened her purse and reached inside. Then she handed me a penny. "You will have to go back inside and pay for it."
I stared at her in horror. Go inside? Face my victim? Confess my guilt?
"I - I don't want to."
"But you have to."
I sat there, my four-year-old brain working frantically to find another solution.
Any other solution.
Finally, I sighed. Mom was right. I would have to go inside and pay for my ill-gotten bubblegum. I opened the door and got out.
For a moment, I stood there in the gutter, wiping my cheeks and staring across the street at the grocery store. Which, incidentally, had assumed gigantic proportions since Mom and I had left.
Suddenly the orange deliciousness in my mouth didn't taste very good.
I spit it out into the gutter and looked down at it.
It still had bits of the hard candy shell imbedded in the softer gum. I hadn't even broken it in.
I sighed and looked at Mom through the window of the car.
She nodded towards the store.
I started across the street, feet dragging.
This was the widest street ever known to man.
Finally, I reached the store and went up the steps.
The door jingled happily. The woman behind the desk turned and looked at me. I approached slowly and tried twice to produce a voice. Finally, "I forgot to pay for a bubblegum," I said, sliding the penny across the counter towards her.
She nodded and looked at me gravely.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "You know it's not right to steal, don't you?"
Well I certainly do now! I nodded.
"Don't do it again."
I shook my head.
"Thank-you for being honest."
Another nod.
And I was free. I ran back to the car.
Mom didn't lecture. She knew I had learned my lesson.
I still love bubblegum balls. Especially the orange ones with the little rough bumps. But every time I chew one, I remember being four years old.
And learning about being honest.