I Talk to the Trees . . .

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

We went camping this week.

In the great Canadian back woods.

It rained.

Only once, though.

From Saturday through Tuesday.

We huddled under our tarp, pretending that we loved camping in the rain.

Finally, the torrential (and very loud) rains moved on, and, at last, we could hear the gentle wind through the pines.

I was instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood.

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special summer days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Throughout the years, they continued to speak to me.

As we all grew older . . .

Sitting there in the great Canadian woods, surround by the massive evergreens, I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees as whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.

Creating Worlds . . . on the Kitchen Floor

Looks like building material to me!

The headquarters/chief residence of the Stringam ranch, like most ranch houses then and now, was centred around a large, family kitchen.

Everything important happened in that room.

Eating, visiting, business, playing. More eating.

It was, quite literally, the soul of the house.

Mom reigned supreme over its scrubbed surfaces and gleaming appliances.

All traffic came through it, stopping either briefly, or of longer duration.

I lived there.

Whenever Mom was in residence (and Mom was always in residence), I could be found.

Underfoot.

Dragging out stacks of plastic ware or pots and pans.

Or, even more exciting, the dozens of Jello packages that Mom kept in a corner cupboard.

Just for me.

It was amazing what one could construct out of those small, cardboard boxes.

Castles. Forts. Corrals. Houses. Barns. Apartment buildings. Stores.

Even schools.

Infinite possibilities.

Infinite hours of fun and creativity.

I should mention, here, that Lego hadn't reached my little world.

Yet.

But it would.

Moving on . . .

And my Mom, moving about the kitchen, had to step carefully to avoid disaster.

To both of us.

How lightly she moved, dancing and weaving around the complicated constructs that, to me, were edifices of genius and creativity.

Occasionally, we came to grief.

Something I had made would have meandered a little too far across the floor and Mom would trip over . . . whatever.

But not often.

Mom should have been a professional terpsichorean (real word – I looked it up).

Or Superman. She could certainly leap any building I made with a single bound.

Looking back, though, I have to wonder why Mom kept so many Jello packages in that cupboard.

Certainly, we ate a lot of it.

But that still didn't justify the number of boxes stored there.

Maybe, like Moms everywhere, she knew . . .

How much fun assembling castles out of sweet-smelling boxes could be.

There is a codicil . . .

My grandchildren were playing on the floor of the kitchen as their mother and I were preparing supper. They had a complicated construction of Tupperware, old yogurt containers, pots . . . and Jello packages.

I stepped over it.

“Careful, Gramma! You'll knock down the princess' castle!”

And suddenly, I was four years old again.

Creating worlds on the kitchen floor.

Guaranteed to Give You Chills! . . . or Something

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 it's '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.

Travels . . . and Food . . . and Diane

Travel was so easy - Without Diane

Dad loved to travel.

And he was so much fun to travel with.

Dad would drive us to amazing places and show us amazing things, and sing and entertain us on the way.

And he took breaks.

'Breaks' which, for my Dad, meant pulling into a gas station and buying everyone a bottle of pop and a chocolate bar.

Notice, I didn't say 'healthy'. I just said 'fun'.

And sugar highs hadn't been invented yet.

To Dad, holidays were always taken across the border. He drove us all over the western half of the continental United States, with stops in California, Texas, Oregon, Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Washington, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico.

We have pictures taken beside the 'Welcome to . . .' signs for all of them.

Travelling also meant meals on the road.

There were a lot of family-owned restaurants in the United States. And Denny's.

We saw them all.

And they made good food.

I love meals that someone else cooks.

And, let's just admit it . . . breakfast in a diner says 'holiday', doesn't it?

Sooo . . . breakfast. The most important meal of the day.

And the hardest one for Diane to eat.

Oh, I was enthusiastic.

And hungry.

But sometimes, it simply took a while for my stomach to awaken.

At least that's what Mom told me. And Mom was always right.

Plus, I ate too fast.

A character flaw that haunts me to this day.

Our family was travelling through Wyoming.

We had stayed the night in a hotel somewhere in the Star Valley.

It was time for breakfast.

Dad took us to a nice restaurant at the edge of town.

We were handed large, colourful menus. With pictures.

I loved pictures.

And shiny things, but that is another story.

There was one photo, in particular, that caught my attention.

It showed waffles. A golden heap of them. Topped with, wonder of wonders, ice cream.

I think there was fruit atop the ice cream, as a sop to nutritional convention, but all I really had eyes for was the cold, sweet stuff.

Who ever heard of ice cream for breakfast?

And the final miracle? Mom let me order them.

All of my dreams had suddenly come true.

My waffles arrived, in all of their sweet, golden perfection. Ice cream just nicely melting on top.

Ecstacy on a plate.

I dove in.

And I do mean dove.

I shovelled fast and hard.

Before the rest of the family was half through, I was licking my plate.

Ice cream is not something that you can allow to get away.

And then . . . my wonderful waffles and ice cream hit . . . my stomach.

It wasn't awake.

It didn't like it.

It would . . . GET RID OF EVERYTHING!

And so, my beautiful breakfast, so briefly enjoyed, ended up back on the plate.

Sigh.

My horrified siblings fled.

My patient parents cleaned.

And lamented losing a breakfast they hadn't even paid for yet.

And a daughter who was suddenly hungry again.

Never again was I offered more than the usual at breakfast.

Good nourishing food.

That stuck to my ribs.

Well . . . stuck, anyways.

I'm Convinced . . . Buy!

Admit it, you want the 20 mule teams, too!

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.

We had one TV channel.

And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.

Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.

And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.

He read stories and played music.

Just for me.

Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.

And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)

Each memorable by itself.

And each enhanced by the ads woven skillfully between and throughout.

I loved the ads.

The wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.

Or whiter teeth.

Or better coffee.

We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and answered, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”

How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

Inevitably followed by, “Mom, I want to brush my teeth!”

Or, “J-E-L-L-O!” Which was the immediate precursor to snack time.

I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”

That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.

We simply couldn't do without it.

Mom had to buy it.

Or make it. Or do it.

The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens.

Mmmmm. Mom could do that.

The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware.

Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.

But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.

“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”

Moms are weird.

The Marlboro ads convinced me that I wasn't a real man if I didn't sm . . . okay, so I know I could never be a real man, but . . . never mind.

Mom was off the hook there.

She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”

She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.

I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.

I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.

She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the tiny little driver and team.

I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' from playtex or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from the same company.

And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.

Every time.

I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.

Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.

Mom probably can.

Moving on . . .

We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.

I also wanted the bowls they ate from.

Because.

She balked at that.

She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.

Oh, occasion, she tried to substitue some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.

I had seen the ads.

I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat.

'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, jiffypop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'

Okay, I have to admit it.

Ads worked for me.

It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.

Mom never would have survived.

The Last Fun Phone Call

Stringam Ranch - everything . . . except a phone

“I want to talk to Jody.”

“Number, please.”

“Six.”

Electric ringing.

“Hello?”

“May I talk to Jody?”

“Yes, one moment.”

“Hello?”

“Jody! We got our phone!”

It was the most exciting day of my life.

The Stringams. That weird family who lived at the back of beyond, had joined the twentieth century. The modern world had finally found its way to our door.

But therein lies a story.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the bustling metropolis of Milk River (pop. 499). The phone lines went as far as Nine Mile Corner, a bend in the road situated, interestingly enough, just nine miles from the ranch buildings.

The phone company refused, uncategorically, to take the phone lines any further. Why would people living that far from civilization need the convenience of modern communication?

Why indeed.

But Dad wanted a phone.

As the only veterinarian in the area, he needed a phone.

Dad was determined to have a phone.

Finally, he bought all of the poles and cable to run his own phone line.

He and the hired men spent several weeks installing said poles and cable.

Voila!

The magical day dawned.

The phone company unbent enough to hook up our line to theirs. (And then proceeded to run many, many lines off of it, but that is another story.)

The family gathered around the large, wooden box.

It shrilled. Twice.

Two longs.

We stared at it.

Then looked at each other.

We had arrived.

From that moment on, the peace of the Stringam home was often shattered by the shrilling of the magical box in the hallway.

And the pounding of numerous feet as various denizens of the house sprinted to answer.

It was a whole new, and very exciting, experience.

Followed, soon after, by the discovery that, if one was careful, one could gently lift the receiver and . . . wonder of wonders . . . listen in on other conversations on the 'party' line that had nothing to do with you.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you why it was called a 'party' line.

My sister and I became the masters of it . . .

“Well, I'm sure she meant well. But I can tell you that Gloria wasn't very flattered.”

“Well, I can imagine. Poor Gloria!”

“Yes. I mean, I can only guess, but I would well imagine that being told that one was as big as a whale, albeit a pretty whale, wouldn't go over too well.”

“Well, I wish I'd been there. I would have given her a piece of my mind!”

“Well, Dorothy brought a yellow jellied salad with bananas in it that was just divine. I got her recipe!”

“That reminds me. I wanted to get Dorothy's recipe for her devil's food cake.”

“Oh, I have it, just wait a moment.”

“Ladies?”

“Umm, yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the 'phone.”

“Oh, sorry, Hank. Problems?”

“Yeah. I need to talk to Joe at the feed store.”

“Go right ahead. Grace? I'll get that recipe and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Mabel.”

This was fun!

Another conversation . . .

“Well, she was out half the night!”

“No!”

“Yes! Until midnight! And when she got home, Papa could smell . . . liquor on her breath!”

A sucked in breath. “Oh! What did he do?”

“Well, he wasn't happy, I can tell you! She's grounded for a month!”

“A month!?”

“Yes! And that includes prom and everything.”

“She might as well die right now!”

“Exactly!”

And another . . .

“Well, Doc, my poop looks like . . .”

We ended that conversation before it was begun.

And . . .

“Okay, don't spread it around . . . yet . . . but the Larsons are going to be away next weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Jeff says his folks should leave about 6.”

“So what time does the party start?”

“Well, he has to do chores and tidy up the dishes, so 8:00 should about do it. He will beep the phone line twice when he's ready.”

“We'll be waiting.”

Finally . . .

“You have to be careful what you say on this line. Uncle Bob may be listening in.”

“I am not!”

It was the most fun we had ever had.

Until we were introduced to . . .

“Hello?”

“Is your 'fridge running?”

“Just a moment, I'll check.”

A pause.

Then, “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Well, you'd better go catch it!”

Ah. the memories.

I don't remember the last conversation I had on the old party line.

I should.

Because now, phone lines are private.

And boring.

It's All About the Food. And My Mom

The ranch cook. With Chris and Jerry.

Mom could make anything taste good.

And it didn't matter what she had going in her life, meals were always plentiful and on time.

She would serve a full, cooked breakfast of ham, eggs, pancakes and oatmeal, with lunch simmering on the stove and dinner baking in the oven so both meals could be produced quickly as soon as she got done gardening, cleaning or doing chores, got back from driving us kids to school, picking up whatever was needed from the hardware, the feed store, and the grocery, and attended one of her numerous Herefrord club meetings or quilting or sewing bees.

Sometimes I think about the scheduling nightmare that her life must have been.

Thinking about it makes me tired.

I've said it before, I'll say it again . . .

She was a saint.

But back to the food . . .

When Mom was 10 years old, she went with her dad and brothers up to the Berg family's 'other place' to cook while Grandpa and the boys brought in the hay crop.

She often described the little wood stove she used for her meals.

“It had the littlest oven,” she told me, “just big enough to fit in one pie.”

She was making pie???!

At ten years old???!

By herself???!

Okay, 'saint' just doesn't quite cover it.

By the time I was ten, I figured I was doing extremely well because I knew how to eat pie.

But I digress . . .

So, at the age of ten, she was doing all of the cooking for her father and three older brothers.

Well, she certainly learned how to cook.

Mom could open the fridge (that same fridge that one of us kids had just looked into and pronounced, 'empty'), and produce a hearty, rib-sticking meal.

In minutes.

And totally without the aid of a microwave.

Okay, she had all the modern conveniences. Electric stove. Running water.

Toaster.

Cheese Whiz. (But that is another story . . .)

But still, the meals she could produce.

Mmmm.

Her roasts were works of gustatory art.

Her pastries and pies had to be tasted to be believed.

Even her vegetables were unsurpassed by anything available in the vast dining world.

Mom could take cauliflower that she had grown and preserved (freezer – another story). Cook and serve it in such a manner that not a scrap was left over.

I tried it with my kids.

Somehow, when I prepared frozen caluiflower, it just came out . . . soggy.

And disgusting.

Oh, Mother, where art thou?

I did learn how to make her pies.

But that was all.

To this day, my siblings and I contact eachother regularly, asking if anyone knows the recipe for . . .

No one does.

When I cross over to the other side, it will be with a pen and paper in hand.

The first thing I will ask Mom will be, “What the heck is your recipe for your angel food cake topping?”

Notice I said 'heck'. That's because you can't use anything stronger in Heaven.

Where I know Mom is.

Probably cooking.

Sigh.

The Name Game

Mom and Dad, with Pimple Pants,Red, 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'.

?????

Ocassionally, 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?

I'm beginning to see why I'm such a confused person.

So, Lou 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 couse he was only two, so he could be excused.

And Anita was a baby. She was simply 'Sweetheart'.

At that point. She, too would have her time.

And names.

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.

And my names.

So, I've been through Diane, Louise, Tony, Pixie, Mike, Lou and Bert.

Now, my Honeybunny (don't ask) calls me, Honey. And my kids call me Mom.

Or grandma.

Dad still calls me Lou.

I'm so blessed.

Sinbad+Gorilla=Nightmare. Go Figure

Ahh, Sinbad. Nightmare inducer extraordinaire.

Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I’m hooked on them.
And have been since . . . 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 early 60’s.
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 Clause 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 Sinbad, my hero, had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed himself 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 him.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad, who would press himself 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, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . definitely 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.

Sing We Now While Driving . . .

Dad. He of the wondrous voice.

My Dad loves to sing.

Fortunately, for the rest of us, he has a very nice voice.

And great rhythm.

It's just his timing that needs work.

Let me explain . . .

When one lived as far from civilization as we did, 'going somewhere' inevitably involved . . . well . . . travelling.

For extended periods of time.

I'd like to point out here, that wonderful inventions like DS's, cell phones , IPads and the all-important DVD players existed only in science fiction. Our entertainment consisted of visiting, looking out the window, and books.

Or, in my case, just visiting or looking out the window. Reading in a car, though perhaps my favorite diversion, unavoidably made me carsick.

How did I get over here . . .? Oh, right. Dad . . . and singing.

Whenever we travelled, there was always that stretch of road (I know you've been there), usually somewhere in the middle, where we ran out of conversation and the scenery got boring.

And everyone in the car, driver included, got sleepy.

That's when Dad would start to sing.

At full volume.

He really only had one.

See what I mean about timing . . .?

His family was treated to such classics as, "Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder". Or, "My Diane" (my personal favorite), "Two Little Boys" (which always made me cry), "Daisy", or the ever popular, "The Doors Swing In and the Doors Swing Out".

Usually, Mom would also join in.

Suffice it to say that, before us kids could carry on a lucid conversation, we could sing. We didn't always know what we were singing, and our school teachers sometimes questioned the suitability of a song that took place almost entirely within a saloon ("The Doors Swing In . . ." - see above.)

But that's beside the point . . .

We were in tune and definitely had the words right.

Or at least as right as Dad did.

It wasn't until some years later that I realized my Dad used . . . poetic license. One day, I was singing "Two Little Boys" while I cleaned out a pen in the barn. Unbeknownst (real word!) to me, Dad was leaning on the fence in the far corner, listening.

I got to one line and just did what he had always done. "Da Da Da Da Da Da Dum Dee."

He burst out laughing.

When I glared at him accusingly, he told me that he'd been waiting for me to get to that line so he could finally hear what the real words were. He had never been able to remember and had just put in 'placer' lyrics.

I had memorized them accordingly.

Scary, isn't it that we pick up what we are taught . . . mistakes and all?

I've wandered from the point.

Again.

Now, whenever I drive along a road that Dad took us down, or even a road that resembles a road that . . .

I remember. Feeling happily sleepy. And that beautiful baritone voice, suddenly belting out the lyrics to some song that probably only Dad remembered.

Or possibly that Dad made up.

But so soothing to us denizens of the back seat.

Though in his 87th year, my Dad still drives.

And sings.

Wait, he's started, "Cause Some Dirty Dog Put Glue on the Saddle".

I have to go . . .

My First Lesson

Front to back: George, Me, Chris, Jerry, Dad and Blair.
Look closely. Can you pick out the intrepid swimmer?

I had never taken swimming lessons.

We simply lived too far from the city for it to be a priority. Or even possible.

But I loved to swim.

And, with the river is such close proximity, did it a lot.

In the summer.

In winter, for obvious reasons, we were pretty much shut out.

Then, someone of great intelligence came up with a fantastic idea.

Why not hire a schoolbus and cart a load of kids to Lethbridge once a week?

It was genius!

Why hadn't anyone though of it before?

Now I could take lessons and my parents would only be responsible for getting me to and from Milk River.

Okay, it still meant a twenty-mile hike into town to drop me off and another twenty miles to pick me up, but why haggle over details?

I was going!

The bus ride was a treat. For one thing, I was suddenly riding with a different group of kids than I ever saw from the fourth seat back.

And for another, Kathy had a portable record-player, which she kept going the entire 50 miles.

I can't tell you how many times we heard 'Wipe-Out', but it was . . . umm . . . a few.

The bus deposited us safely in front of the Civic Center.

I should mention here that I've often wondered about bus drivers. What they do in their off hours, when they aren't closely closeted with a rowdy group of young people.

It's a wonder that more of them don't drink.

Can't you just picture a group of them around a table with shaking heads and “Let me tell you . . .!” stories?

But I digress . . .

We scrambled madly for the door and the change rooms, then poured out into the main pool room.

We were ready.

The teachers began to sort us into groups, using a highly accurate scheme.

How old are you? Are you afraid of the water? Have you ever taken swimming lessons before? What colour is your swimsuit.

Do you like boys?

Finally, they had us, more or less, categorized.

I had never taken swimming lessons, so I was inserted into the beginners class.

That was a treat.

“Okay, see if you can put your face into the water.”

Compliance.

“Okay. You! Little girl in the blue swimsuit!” Sigh. “Would someone please fish her out?”

Have I mentioned that I like water?

“Are you sure you've never had lessons?”

Head shake.

“Well, I'm moving you up to the next level.”

Okay.

And so it went.

By the time we were finished our one-hour lesson, I had been . . . promoted . . . seven times.

It must have been some sort of record, to go from the beginner level to the 'Junior Lifeguard' level.

In one lesson.

Who could have known that all my flailing and thrashing around like a demented fish had actually been getting me somewhere.

Or that, in the still water of a pool, with no current to fight, I could actually make headway.

Really fast headway.

Jerry (the only member of my family who could actually fight the river's current and win), eat your heart out.

Because miracles do happen.

I was suddenly the soggy and triumphant queen of my little, watery world.

It didn't happen often.

But it was a very good feeling.

Me and . . . Open Water

Somewhere out there are whales . . . and nausea. In no particular order.

Water and I have a thing.

We love each other.

Okay, so I love water. I really don't know how it feels about me.

Moving on . . .

We were going whale watching off the west coast of California.

I was . . . ummm . . . excited. I loved water. And things in the water. And boats.

I should maybe point out here that the sum total of my water experience consisted of my river and Chin lake. Not necessarily in that order.

We put on our life jackets.

Oooo! Stylin'!

Climbed aboard.

So far so good.

The engine started.

My heart rate increased.

We pulled smoothly away from the dock.

Still fine.

We skimmed lightly across the bay.

Okay, so, it was a fat, clumsy boat, loaded to the gunwales with tourists . . . and people. But I chose the word 'skimmed' and I'm sticking with it.

My more daring family members were already hanging out over the rails, looking down into the amazingly blue water as it slipped past.

I managed to find a seat inside the little 'house' part.

So, yes, I was a little trepidatious (real word - really!).

We cleared the bay and moved out into open water.

And then the boat started . . . for want of a better term . . . bucking.

Now, I should point out here that I'm used to bucking. In fact, bucking has been a daily ritual in the horse corral since forever.

Just not this kind of bucking.

The deck under my feet rose up. Then, just as I bent over to see if my stomach had actually fallen out and been deposited somewhere under my bench, the deck fell.

And I mean fell.

Worse than an elevator. (And elevators and I do have a history . . .)

Worse than when I fell off the barn roof.

In fact, most of my inner parts were rapidly in danger of becoming . . . outer.

And, just like that, I was sick.

Really sick.

I had been told to stare at the horizon.

I tried.

But the horizon was going up and down along with the boat, the tourists and me.

Maybe it shouldn't be called 'seasick'. Maybe it should be 'seesick'. Because there sure is a lot to see.

Okay, so horizon staring wasn't going to work.

I began to count the steps. Four to the doorway. Four more across the deck.

Could I make it?

I mean, before something . . . icky . . . happened.

Another heave of the deck.

Okay, so the choice was taken from me.

It was sprint or die.

I sprinted.

I needn't go into the details of what happened next. I suppose you can furnish your own particulars. Suffice it to say that I lost everything I had ever eaten.

Or even thought of eating.

Funny thing about being sick on a tourist boat.

Everyone suddenly has something else to look at.

On the opposite side from you.

I was abruptly, gratefully, alone.

Okay, yes, the boat was tilting alarmingly to one side as people scrambled to be somewhere else.

But at least, my humiliation and I could happily enjoy our time together without danger of being interrupted.

I don't remember much about the rest of the trip. We saw some whales. I was hauled out of my bench in the cabin in time to see a whole herd (erm . . . pod) of them.

They were neat.

And wet.

And . . . splashy.

And never in my whole life was I so relieved to stand, later, on real, solid ground.

I didn't kiss it. I didn't dare shift that much.

But I knew that it, and I, were very happy to see one another.

There is a codicil.

My husband took me whale-watching off the coast of Maine.

I stayed outside and kept my face into the wind.

And my lunch stayed where it had been instructed.

We came upon a cow/calf pair of  whales. (I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what kind of whale. They were neat. And wet. And splashy.)

The mother left her baby and dove. The calf stayed where it was, lolling in the waves and the sun. Occasionally batting at the water with a flipper.

Every few minutes, our guide would say something informative.

Finally, she said, "I bet none of you can say that you've sat beside a sleeping whale!"

My husband glanced at me.

Okay, I admit that, when hugely pregnant, I have described myself thusly (another real word).

I hit him anyways.

Grant vs THE BLOB



Grant, age 3.  Jelly Fish rescuer.  And cutie.

 It looked like a blob.
It was a blob.
A blob of jelly-like substance, trailing long streamers and lying inert on the dark, sandy shore.
We stared at it. Walked around it. One of my brothers touched it with a tentative toe.
Yep. Blob.
The rest of my family soon lost interest and walked away. I squatted down and continued to study the strange . . . thing.
We were children of the prairies and knew, intimately, the frogs, snakes, minnows and other creatures that inhabited our little river. But here, facing the great and awesome expanse labeled 'ocean', we were . . . out of our depth (pun intended) . . . so to speak.
And this? This was something new. Something unheard of. Something mysterious.
I think it was a jelly fish, but, somehow, admitting that takes away the magic.
I continued to study it.
It didn't move. Probably a good thing, considering that it was roughly the size of a chicken. And we all know my apprehensions concerning the members of that 'feathery' set.
I narrowed my eyes. Something about the creature was wrong.
Oh, I might be from the prairies, but, believe me, I know when something is out of place. And that jelly fish was definitely out of place.
Somehow, in my mind, I could picture it . . . floating happily.
That's it! Floating!
I was a genius!
All I needed to do was to somehow get this creature back into the water where it belonged.
I walked around it again. Maybe I could pick it up . . .
I reached out. Then stopped and looked at my hands. Then back at it.
No. That didn't seem right.
Another circuit.
I had it!
I would find something to lift it as unobtrusively (and yes, that is a word) as possible and send it home.
I ran up and down the beach, and finally spotted a worthy tool for the job at hand. A long plank, weathered and beaten by the waves.
I drug it across the sand and carefully maneuvered one end of it underneath my . . . erm . . . blob.
Gently, I slid it further and further, careful not to jar or disturb my stranded friend.
Finally, I had pushed it completely underneath.
I was ready.
Carefully, I lifted the plank.
With . . . most . . . of the jelly fish aboard.
In horror, I watched the strange creature disintegrate.
I mean, I've heard of going to pieces, but this thing . . . really did.
Imagine trying to lift a blob of jello with a board.
Soft jello, like my Mom makes. Not the concrete kind that they serve in restaurants.
You get the picture.
This was worse.
It left it's legs and arms and a good portion of the rest of it on the sand.
Umm . . . Ick.
Panicked, I swung my board and threw the portion I had managed to collect into the water.
The rest, I abandoned.
What would be the point?
I'm pretty sure both halves were dead.
Or at least very, very ill.
Who is it that says that no good deed goes unpunished?
They were right.

My River

Our River - almost ready for swimming . . .

Our playground flowed right around the main Stringam Ranch buildings.

To the adult residents of the ranch, it was the South Fork of the Milk River.
To us, it was a muddy, murky paradise. Our entertainment. Our recreation. Our playmate.
It provided a solid skating surface in the winter and a wonderful swimming pool in summer.
In spring through fall, it was an endless source of educational fun as we hunted snakes and frogs. Tried to trap unwary fish. And generally made life miserable for any denizen so unfortunate as to capture our attention.
I learned to skate there. What is that little dictum that states that the hardest part about learning to skate is the ice?
That would apply to me.
Or at least to my backside.
But I digress . . .
I learned to swim there.
And I wish I could swim there, still.
On a hot summer afternoon, my siblings and I would invariably be found in the milky depths of our river.
I can remember exactly how the water looked - billions of grains of fine sand hanging suspended as the rays of sunlight shone through it.
I can remember how it smelled. Wet mud and fresh water and things growing.
And I can remember how it felt. Cool and soft as it slid across one's nearly naked little body.
The current was slow and sluggish, but still strong enough prove a challenge when swimming against it. In fact, only my eldest brother, Jerry could make any headway. The rest of us tried manfully, or girlfully (is that a word?) as the case may be, to keep up.
We couldn't.
But we did flail with purpose and, finally, I was able to at least hold my position.
It was a time of peace. When one's siblings were truly one's best friends. We watched over each other, fishing the smaller siblings out if they got in over their heads and keeping our St. Bernard, Mike from drowning anyone as he tried desperately to save them.
From time to time, the chief lifeguard, my Mom, would appear at the top of the cliff beside the house and survey the area, counting heads and noting the general state of her six offspring. Then she would wave and disappear.
And we would go back to whatever she had interrupted.
It was a blissful way to spend the summer.
Sure, there were chores that had to be done. Acres of garden to hoe. Cattle to drive. Calves to brand. Feeding. Milking. Haying. Fencing. Mowing. Harvesting.
But for those few hours every afternoon, we had no duties. No pressures.
Just Chris' radio blaring out whatever was considered the day's top hits. The soft sand. The sunlight on the milky water.
And each other.
We were right.
It was paradise.

Little Brother

My Blair

Little Brother

The words conjure up so many pictures . . .

A little boy, playing with his father's boots.

Riding King Prancer.

Sliding on his snow saucer.

Getting scraped off his horse.

Getting mad.

Singing on the tractor.

Doing chores.

Becoming my 'twin'.

The stories and memories are endless.

Let me see if I can pick out a few . . .

My sister, Chris and I were riding. And little Blair had come along for the first time.

I should explain, here, that the cliffs surrounding our ranch were heavily seamed, with giant crevasses (is that a word?) leading from the prairie up top to the river's edge. These openings were so steep and sandy that fencing just wasn't possible. Inevitably, the fence that ran along the top of the cliff only made a token gesture of following the radically sloping surfaces to the very bottom of each crevasse (that word, again).

Bottom line? If one wanted to use a crevasse to travel from the top to the river, one had to duck at the appropriate moment.

Chris and I did.

Blair didn't.

There was a gasp. Then the sound of something small hitting the ground. Then a 'whoof!"

We stopped and looked.

Blair was sitting on the ground directly behind his pony, Shammy, staring up at her in surprise.

She had stopped and was looking down at him, equally surprised.

Neither was hurt, more particularly Blair, but we sure thought it was funny.

I guess you had to be there . . .

Blair and I were painting a granary. I was up on the ladder and Blair was painting lower down, his feet happily planted on good old 'terra firma'.

For some reason, we had a long two-by-four leaning up against the granary beside me.

I can't remember what we had been using it for, but, whatever it was, we no longer needed it.

I told Blair I was going to push it down. He nodded and moved to one side.

I pushed the plank.

It followed Blair.

I screamed out at him to run.

He did, darting around the granary and out of my sight.

Unerringly, the plank tilted sideways and followed the curve of the little building.

And Blair.

Slowly, I watched it fall.

It tilted further. Further.

And then hit something.

My brother.

I thought I had killed him. I started down the ladder.

Then he came around the granary, rubbing his head and glaring at me.

"You did that on purpose!"

I really hadn't, but I should have.

Even the Three Stooges couldn't have done it better.

Blair and I were having an argument. Not a usual thing for us.

And at the top of the stairs.

Location is everything.

I don't even remember what the argument was about, only that, for my final statement, I gave him a shove.

And sent him down several steps.

From which he quickly recovered and shot back up the stairs towards me.

I stared at him. When Blair got really, really angry, the veins stood out on the sides of his neck. Huh. I'd never noticed that before. Maybe because he'd never before gotten really, really angry.

I panicked and darted into the nearby bathroom, slamming the door and pulling out all three drawers.

You should know that the bathroom drawers were right next to the door and provided excellent barriers when one wanted to be left alone.

Usually, they worked.

Today, however, Blair was angry enough that he got a butter knife from the kitchen and began working at the drawers through the crack of the door.

Inch by inch, he worked the first drawer shut.

I let him get it closed.

Then, as he started work on the second, I pulled the first one open again.

"Oh, man!" He gave up.

One thing about Blair, he isn't stupid . . .

We were stacking hay. I was on the big stack, Blair was on the tractor, bringing me the stooks.

And singing.

Now a tractor is noisy. Really noisy.

One can't even hear oneself when in close proximity.

But, somehow, the noise of the tractor seems to . . . boost . . . any sounds the driver is making.

To someone standing a bit away, the sound of the engine comes faintly, almost drowned out by the singing of the driver.

At least that is what happened to me.

I was treated to Blair's version of nearly every popular song of the period.

It was totally entertaining.

I guess you have to look for the fun out here . . .

We were getting the cattle ready for our annual production sale.

Blair and I were manning the grooming chute.

One of the prospective buyers walked in with our Dad.

For a few minutes, the two of them stood watching us.

Finally, the buyer turned to Dad, "I didn't know you and Enes had a set of twins."

Blair and I were both white-blonde. With our hair cut in the exact same style (Mom only knew how to cut boy's hair, which was just fine with me . . .) and the same height and virtually the same skinny figure.

I had five more years and a couple of extra curves, but whose going to point that out?

"Ummm . . . twins?"

The man nodded at us.

Dad laughed. "I can see what you mean!"

Within a month, Blair had passed me by on his way up.

But for a little while, I had a twin.

Blair was late for Seminary.

"Diane! Could you please milk the cow?!" as he dashed past.

I stared after him.

"AGAIN?!"

"Sorry!" faintly from the opened window as the car went down the drive.

I did milk his cow.

It really wasn't that much of a problem.

In fact . . . don't tell him . . . but I enjoyed it.

And I wish we were back there so I could do it again.

Okay, I have to admit, my little brother isn't so little any more.

I guess 50 years, marriage, fatherhood and a Doctorate in Engineering will change a person.

But I still remember the little boy who loved to play with his Dad's shoes . . .