Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house

My Grandma and Grandpa Berg
Who loved me.

Christmas excitement at the Stringam house was always two-fold.

There was the anticipation and joy over the gift-giving.

And then there was the Christmas trip to Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house (hereinafter known as 'Grandma's House').

My Mom's parents.

I'm still not sure which was more exciting.

After the frenzy of unwrapping had dwindled and the euphoria and excitement of yet another Christmas morning had waned, it was time to pack the car for Grandma's house.

Yes!

We were allowed one suitcase.

So I had to carefully choose what gifts to bring along.

Much wrinkle-browed thought was put into what would accompany me.

One had to keep in mind that it would be many days before one could play with all of the other new toys, so the decision could not be made lightly.

What clothing and necessities went into the suitcase, however, were hap-hazard at best.

And most of the time . . . no less than sketchy.

It wasn't unusual to find that I had forgotten such necessities as . . . underwear. Pajamas. Shirts. Pants. Socks. Toothbrush.

In fact, as my Mom pointed out on at least one occasion, "Diane, what did you pack? Because there certainly aren't any clothes in here!"

I would look up at her from where I was, happily playing with . . . whatever.

Oops.

Back to my playing.

She would sigh and go to ask Aunt Eva or Aunt Louise if their kids had any clothes I could borrow.

It didn't matter. I was happily playing with my numerous cousins.

None of whom cared what I was wearing.

And that was just the start of the fun at Grandma's.

My older sister and I got to sleep in my Mom's old room at the top of the grand stairway.

In a bed with a delicious feather tick.

Perfect for a little, warm sleeping nest.

There was also a little, hidden cupboard

Deeply secret.

No one knew it was there, except Chris and I.

And of course whoever hung the old clothes and other stuff stored inside, but why quibble over details?

Just outside our room, against one wall in the hall, was a ladder.

Leading to the incredible, top secret attic.

My brothers spent hours up there, reading old comics and stuff left by my mother's brothers.

I was never allowed to go.

'Cause I was a girl.

Whatever that meant.

The large bedroom across the hall from mine was where my brothers slept. It was full of treasures. Books and games from my Mom's childhood.

Or at least from her brothers'.

I imagine they happened about the same time . . .

At the bottom of the staircase in the warmly shiny, plank floor was a square vent.

Just wide enough for Sharon, Julie, Susan and I to sit on.

Or lay on.

Or play . . . you get the picture.

All during Christmas, it blew warm air.

Just for us.

Hour after hour, we cousins and siblings would crouch together on the slatted steel. Warm and toasty.

Paradise.

There was plenty to eat at Grandma's house. Food that left her large, sunny kitchen in great, delicious quantities.

And just as quickly disappeared.

And the all-important cookie tins.

Grandma always baked many, many different kinds of cookies.

All delicious.

Then put a selection into several tins and placed them throughout the house.

It was like a treasure hunt.

Except that, invariably, the Smaarbucklesa (spelled phonetically because it's Swedish and none of us kids knew what she was saying . . .) disappeared immediately.

From every, single tin.

Rats!

Even the furniture at Grandma's house was an adventure just waiting to happen.

When Grampa Berg wasn't sitting on it, there was always his chair, sitting innocently beside the great living room window.

The chair that vibrated, if one turned the dials.

Like the rest of Grandma's house, it was magic.

And there was always the carved, wooden feet under the dining table to sit on.

And hide.

Although, looking back, I really don't know how effective my hiding was.

Especially when someone would ask for Diane and someone else would say, "Probably under the table."

Sigh. Secret agent material, I wasn't.

But the most exciting part about being at Grandma's house was the little sun room on the side of the house.

A sunny little place.

That had a tenant.

Hanging silently on one wall.

Just waiting for the most daring cousin to dart in and . . . touch it.

And run away screaming.

Okay, okay, so I was always the one who was scared to go in and screamed on the way out.

Sheesh.

But you have to admit that a stuffed moose head is really scary.

Okay, you don't.

But it was.

When I was four.

At Grandma Berg's house.

The best place on earth.

The Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Trip

Ahh, Holidays. some are good. Some are . . .

Everyone has one.

At least once.

The trip from hell . . . umm . . . the terrible trip.

Ours began innocently enough. Organized, even.

We were going to repeat last year's dream trip to the west coast to visit my parents in Abbotsford, BC. But this year, we would continue out to Vancouver Island to go deep sea fishing with Uncle Bub.

We were . . . excited.

I had bought special toys and games for the kids to play on the way to keep them entertained.

Because the view of the Rocky Mountains out the window wouldn't be enough . . .

The car was packed with food and yummy things.

Our valiant little trailer was hooked on behind.

We were ready.

The trouble started about five hours in.

With a leaky hose.

Cars don't run well if they have a leaky hose.

We stopped in Prince George, BC, to try to get it fixed.

And found out that it was a strange-sized hose.

Of course.

A little duct tape later, we were back on the road. Sort of.

Grant kept having to stop to add water.

Oh, and let out whichever child was next in line in the 'upchuck olympics'.

I should point out here that my Mom was right. Looking out the window during a trip was infinately better than playing toys or games.

Little stomachs obviously don't like toys and games.

An important point.

Moving on . . .

We were able to make it another four hours.

More car trouble.

We decided to take a break in Hope, BC.

A beautiful spot. Actually where the movie 'Rambo – First Blood' was filmed.

We pulled into the campground and looked at the map, choosing a little spot back in the trees.

Isolated and quiet.

Until the trains started coming through.

The first blew its whistle at midnight.

For a few unforgettable moments, we thought we had somehow, inadvertantly, set up our tent trailer right on the tracks.

We hadn't.

We had missed them by about six feet.

Trains in Canada are amazingly regular.

One sleepless night later, we were back on the road.

We limped into Abbotsford. And enjoyed a couple of days of much-needed bliss with my parents.

Then . . . that road again.

The ferry-ride was a little more expensive than we had anticipated.

But then, so was everything else.

We made it to the island.

Paradise.

For about half an hour.

Halfway to Uncle Bub's, the entire undercarriage of our faithful tent trailer gave way, skidding our little marvel along on its belly.

Grant pulled over and we surveyed the damage.

We had two choices.

Abandonment and despair and certain death.

My choice.

Or unhooking the trailer, driving to the nearest town and securing repairs.

My husband's.

Fortunately, we went with his.

One of the kids stayed with me guarding the trailer (because, someone might steal it . . . with no wheels . . . okay, it seemed to make sense at the time . . .) while Grant drove off.

We managed to get our trailer fixed, but we were stuck there for two days while the shop made the needed parts to repair it.

And used up every dime of our vacation savings to do it.

Sigh.

Finally, two days late and several dollars short, we limped (remember the car) into Uncle Bub's.

Only to find that the ocean was too rough to go out.

We waited a further two days, scanning the water eagerly each morning.

But the ocean had plans of it's own.

And they didn't include us.

Finally, defeated, we headed home.

The trip back was more of the same. Balky car. Sick kids.

The weather was good.

I have never been so glad to see the lights of home in my life.

We were taught several things on that ill-fated trip.

One. Don't buy toys and games for your kids to play on a trip if everyone is prone to car-sickness.

Two. Beautiful scenery doesn't make a cranky car driver better.

Three. Always check the campground map carefully and ask the attendant if there are any 'un-noted' features one should be aware of.

Four. Your trip will always cost at least 2.74 times what you have saved for it.

Five. Stay home.

Fortunately, we learned none of them.

My 'Almost' Pet - and My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd.

What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of . . . hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

Eight. Truly Great

Daddy and me

My birthdays were always exciting.

Family. Good food. Cake.

And presents.

My fourth had been truly memorable, with a little barn fire thrown in for . . . umm . . . excitement.

But my eighth was memorable for two other reasons.

Let me explain . . .

It began ordinarily enough, with Mom's wonderful breakfast and good wishes all around.

Dad had gone into the city, on ranch business, and wasn't expected back until later, when us kids got home from school.

But that was okay, because I knew that my real birthday, complete with birthday food and cake and the all importnat presents wouldn't happen until supper time.

I went through the day with high anticipation.

I'm sure my teachers tried mightily to teach me something that day, but who can compete with birthday supper and cake.

And presents.

By supper time, I had worked myself into a rare mood.

Mom made my favourite.

Spaghetti.

With meat balls.

Mmmm.

Then the cake.

Again my favorite - Angel food.

With fluffy seven-minute frosting.

I should point out that the name of the frosting had to do with how long it took to make it.

Because it certainly didn't describe how long it took to eat it . . .

And then that moment.

The time I had been anticipating for an entire year.

When the wrapped boxes came out and were given the place of honour.

Right in front of me.

The first one was rather . . . book sized.

I tore into the colourful paper eagerly.

I should explain, here, that I had fallen in love with reading in the first grade, at the age of six.

Dr. Seuss had introduced me to world of books and I hadn't looked back.

By the time I was eight, I had graduated to the next step.

Chapter books.

And here, on my birthday, I was suddenly holding the greatest treasure I had ever seen.

Nancy Drew. The Secret in the Old Attic.

A chapter book.

All my own.

My world had just gotten bigger.

And there was more.

A large, rectangular package.

Intriguing.

Reluctantly and reverently, I set down my precious new book.

And ripped into my other present.

The wrapping came off easily.

Revealing . . . Lego.

Lego?

What on earth was that?

I stared at the package.

Everyone stared at the package.

My father was well known for finding the new and the wondrous.

He didn't fail here.

I opened the box and poured out a stream of little red, white and blue blocks.

Of varying sizes and shapes.

I unfolded the brightly-coloured instruction sheet.

And my world got bigger, still.

I needn't tell you that Lego became a large part of the Stringam world that day.

Or that my Nancy Drew collection expanded to include every volume ever written.

Or that a major part of playtime, for three generations now, consists of amazing feats of construction with myriad colourful blocks.

Or reading.

I only need to tell you that everything began on my eight birthday.

A day truly worth celebrating.

If It Looks Like Candy . . .

Diane - in trouble again.

Mmm. Candy.

The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

The dangled 'apple' that entices obedience.

Or commands respect.

Okay, I'm not saying it was right.

Just yummy.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites.

Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed.

The bathrooms scrubbed.

With the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were . . .

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils.

Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out.

You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus.

We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted.

If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of cool-aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Cool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky.

I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement.

A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of cool-aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as cool-aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

How dishonest!

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the unused cool-aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Cool.

Then she put it away.

Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary.

That stuff really tasted awful.

Her cool-aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient?

Maybe the cool-aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

Summer in the Pits

You see a fire pit . . . we see a target

We have a fire pit.

The gathering place for our family for every day of the summer.

When the weather allows.

It is the scene of wiener and marshmallow roasts and long, long talks into the evening, watching the flames and embers glow.

Where parking toes within comfortable toasting distance and children running dangerously close (to the dismay of their parents) are the norm.

Oh, and because it’s the Tolleys, the fire pit is also the scene of . . . pittings.

Let me explain . . .

Our favorite summer food is cherries.

Cherries have pits.

So – pittings.

See it now?

Over the years, my husband has been able to hit that fire pit with better and better accuracy.

He taught his children.

It was fun.

Until they grew up, got married and discovered . . . manners. Or rather, discovered that their spouses had . . . manners.

Thus, the pittings ended.

For a while.

But in recent years, he has discovered a whole, new group of neophytes.

Small people who are ready and willing to embark on any adventure he introduces.

To the dismay of their parents.

Imagine this: A line of children, of various sizes, cherry juice dripping down their chins, spitting enthusiastically towards the fire.

Sound like fun?

Their parents don’t think so, either.

But Grampa and Gramma do.

And it’s our pit.

Best Holiday . . . Ever!

Me - and my Disneyland Holiday hat

It was the trip to end all trips.

Disneyland.

That magical place that only existed in my dreams.

And I was going there.

My Dad had come up with the plan, mostly because we had been everywhere else on the western half of the continent.

We kids were . . . ummm . . . a bit enthusiastic.

And we were going over Christmas, so none of that pesky waiting for Christmas morning. Instead, we took care of all of that days earlier.

We handed over the reins of ranch management to a young couple, packed up the truck and camper (nothing but first class here!) and headed out.

At first, singing and talking about the wonderful and exciting experiences that were before us, sufficed to keep us entertained. Then book reading, desultory (real word) conversation and looking out the window.

By the way, looking out the window was my Mom's favorite pastime on our car trips.

Mom was decidedly predictable.

Kind of like my car sickness.

But that is another story . . .

Christmas day was . . . different.

We couldn't find a Denny's anywhere.

And no other restaurants were open.

Anywhere.

Dad finally found what could only be deemed a 'Greasy Spoon' or 'Dive' and we ate surprisingly good burgers and fries.

For Christmas dinner.

Memorable.

Then we were again on the road.

As we drove further and further south, the weather grew noticeably warmer. Slowly, layers of clothing were shed. By the time we reached Los Angeles, we were down to just one layer. (Unless you count our underwear, but we all know how I felt about that . . .)

How freeing.

We stopped at Marineland.

And Knotts Berry Farm

And Hurst Castle. Which I loved and where I would gladly have taken up residence.

Except that the guards found me.

Guards definitely don't have a sense of humor.

Or paternal instincts.

Then, finally, Disneyland.

Dad managed to find a parking spot at the outer rim of the lot, quite near Canada, actually and we trudged with purpose towards . . . the Great Gates.

The doorway to magic land.

The entrance to dream world.

Access to . . .

You get the picture.

At that point in time, one did not buy a 'pass'. That would have been . . . convenient.

Instead, we all got coupon books.

There was a section of 'first run' attractions. A section with 'lesser', but almost as popular. And several sections after that.

The 'Haunted Mansion' had just opened.

Need I say more?

The only problem was that this was the first sunny day in Los Angeles for several weeks.

And the entire population of the planet had suddenly decided that Disneyland was the place to be.

We had to share our magical world with 70,000 other people.

Sigh.

The line-ups were so long that choosing which ride to go on was not a matter of which was the most exciting, but which was the most available.

My brother and I stood for 3 hours to see the Haunted Mansion. The entire afternoon.

Oh, it was definitely worth it, even though George refused to go in the same car with me and I had to be frightened out of my wits all by myself.

For some reason, he had a problem with me wrapping my arms around his neck and screaming into his ear.

Brothers are weird.

After that, things are rather a blur.

I remember seeing Lincoln giving an address.

The real Lincoln. Somehow, Disney had convinced him to come out of retirement (re: death) and perform for us.

We went on a few 'ride' rides that didn't have enormous lineups.

And, at sundown, went for a romantic ride on the Mark Twain riverboat.

Yes, I'm sure the sign said 'romantic'.

I was, again, with George.

Who told me to stay on my side of the boat.

Okay, so, what did he think I was going to do? Cuddle up to him and coo in his ear like all of the other people were doing?

Ewwww!

I remember eating a lot.

But then, I always remember the food.

And I remember thinking it was the best day of my life.

We only had one day there, but there were no complaints because Dad then took us to San Francisco and we got to ride the trolley car and tramp around Alcatraz Island.

And I got a shirt that said 'Property of Alcatraz - Unlisted Number' which I thought was hilarious.

And then, home. Which was an adventure all by itself.

We hit high winds near Pocatello, Idaho that nearly tipped us over, so Dad and the rest of the family parked in a campground.

With the truck's nose facing into the wind to keep it from performing gymnastics.

And he put George and I on the bus home.

Apparently, the couple looking after the ranch had to leave.

Who listened?

All I knew was that I got to ride on a Greyhound.

Okay, it was with my brother, but why haggle over details?

It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

There is an addendum . . .

This summer, we were camping with our good friends and the topic of Disneyland came up.

They've been several times.

I described my own experience.

They stared at me in disbelief. "You mean you only got to go to one major attraction?!"

I described the circumstances again.

More incredulity (another real word). "You drove all that way and hardly got to do anything?!"

And for the first time, I thought about that.

Huh. We had only gone on one main ride. We had wandered round the place and seen a lot of other people going on other rides. We had eaten treats and watched exciting things.

And it had been a very long drive.

Nope, it was still worth it.

The best holiday, ever!

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.