You've Been Skunked!

Guelph - 24 years later - the smell is almost gone . . .

Dad was a veterinarian student in Guelph, Ontario.

That fact, alone shouldn't strike terror into anyone's heart.

It will.

Christmas 1946 was a special time.

The veterinarian students (hereinafter known as the Vets) had pooled their resources and bought some decorations and a small tree.

These, they had used to decorate their balcony.

It looked quite festive.

They were rather pleased with themselves.

Something that happened often.

But I digress . . .

Other students also noticed their efforts.

Students who were either too broke or too lazy to decorate their own area.

Not a good situation.

Things happen.

The Vets came back from class a couple of days before Christmas to discover that their tree was . . . missing.

Investigation was indicated.

After a short, very short search, they discovered that the thief or thieves had left a trail of decorations down the hall.

Obviously the work of amateurs.

The Vets followed the telltale trail into their neighbor's corridor and, further, into one of the dorm rooms there.

Oh, if only Law and Order could be this easy to figure out.

They knocked.

Politely.

Actually, they probably hammered violently, but my way sounds better.

Moving on . . .

Several young men answered the door, then vehemently (good word) protested their innocence.

And as strongly denied that they had access to the closet to which the trail led.

Undaunted, the Vets demanded that they open the door or it would be gently pulled from its hinges.

At that point a key was quickly produced, the door opened, and the disclosed tree retrieved.

The Vets wasted no time in restoring it to its rightful place of honor on their balcony.

All was well.

Or almost well.

Remember. These were young men.

In college.

Payback was indicated.

Two of these young men had recently uncovered a den of skunks.

As part of their training, and because they were bored, they de-scented those skunks.

But saved the glands.

Weird.

One of them suddenly came up with a brilliant plan.

They would chop up the glands, add a little water, then carefully fill a syringe with the resulting goo.

No sooner imagined than accomplished.

Now, I should point out here that, in the late 40s, each door in the dorms at Guelph, and indeed, everywhere, opened with a large, old-fashioned key.

The keyhole was big enough to peek through.

And certainly large enough to accommodate a syringe needle.

While everyone was at class, the two vet students took their syringe and squirted a little of their prized 'essence' through the keyhole of every door in that corridor.

The smell was immediate . . . and indescribable.

Hmm. Maybe they had been a little precipitate (another good word)?

But the damage was done.

For the last day before vacation, everyone who had anything to do with that building, did it in as brief a time as possible.

Sleeping was out of the question.

Most of the young men simply left town as soon as their last class was over.

Perhaps distance would lessen the smell.

Dad didn't give the prank much thought during his Christmas vacation.

Some things are best forgotten.

And, astonishingly enough, by the time they got back to the campus, the smell was all but gone.

Good thing carpets hadn't been invented yet.

But everyone learned something from the experience.

            1. Leave skunks alone.

            2. Never, ever play tricks on veterinarian students.

Dating Disasters in the 40s

Who wouldn't want to date this face?!

My 86-year-old Dad and his good, good friend, Shirley just left to head back home after a visit.

I'm missing them already.

So today's post, in honor of my Dad, and because I have 'dating' on my mind, will be about . . .

Dad's Worst Date, Ever!!!

This should be fun . . .

Dad was home from college for the Christmas vacation in the winter of 1946.

He'd been working very hard.

At least that is what he told me.

Moving on . . .

He was ready for some fun.

What could be better than a dance?

With girls.

He gussied (real word - I looked it up) up and drove to Raymond, a nearby town.

The band was hot (my word) and the girls were cute.

He was in heaven.

One young lady (hereafter known as The Girl) particularly took his eye.

He asked her to dance.

The Girl agreed.

They danced.

He asked her again.

Again she said yes.

They danced.

This went on for some time.

Finally, he asked if he could call on her.

This was the 40s. Guys said things like that . . .

The Girl was most agreeable to that suggestion as well.

He floated home.

A couple of days later, he drove out to see her.

Now, I should point out, here, that it was only about twenty minutes from Dad's family home to The Girl's family home. When the conditions were good.

As in - during the summer.

But it was winter.

Anything goes.

Dad reached the girl's house just as a blizzard hit.

That was okay with him. He was warm and safe.

And he had The Girl totally to himself. (Well, totally to himself if one didn't count her parents and siblings. Siblings friends . . . you get the picture.)

They enjoyed a few minutes of conversation.

Things were going well.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Dum, dum Duuuum!

Actually it probably sounded more like," Bing-bong!"

But that would be boring.

And totally not-ominous.

The story needed ominous-ness.

On we go . . .

It was another guy.

And from the ensuing conversation, one who was already close friends with The Girl.

For the remainder of the evening, the two of them tried to engage The Girl in conversation.

And glare unobtrusively at each other.

Finally, the evening drew to a close.

It was time to leave.

Then, the ANNOUNCEMENT.

I capitalized this because it's important.

The Girl's mother announced that the blizzard had grown so bad that she would allow neither of the suitors to leave.

The two of them would have to spend the night.

Okay, not so bad.

Together.

Umm . .

In the same bed.

Yikes?!

It was the most uncomfortable night Dad had ever spent (including his time serving in the army).

At daylight, he peeked out the window.

The storm had blown itself out.

It was the best sight of his life.

No need to even stop to dress as he'd not bothered to undress.

In fifteen seconds he was out the front door.

Leaving an astonished The Girl's mother with a batter-coated spoon half-raised in greeting.

Dad left in such a hurry that he even beat the snowplows.

He didn't care.

The sooner he made it home, the sooner he could begin to forget the whole thing.

And 65 years later, he's beginning to.

First Date

The cute one. Bottom row. Second from the right. 

First dates.

Relationship killer.

Or kindler?

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

He was mine.

We decided to go on a date.

Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

I went along, sitting right behind the driver.

Huh. He was even cute from that angle.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

Sigh.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family.

And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Go figure.

Moving on . . .

I watched.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day, but I am getting ahead of myself . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

And suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Perfect.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.

Really perfect.

He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up.

It moved.

Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure.

Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church. I had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant's heart fell into his shoes.

Really.

It's still there today.

Moving on . . .

Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Sigh.

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.

Don't Die With Your Book Still In You
Carving Angels: A delightful story. An old blind man regains his desire to carve.
http://bit.ly/nttqEj

Parking For Dummies

See? There's hardly any dent!

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

Well, not quite a million, but almost.

Moving on . . .

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving.

Mowing, baling, stacking.

There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in.

And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Enough background.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to travelling in the fields and doing ranch work.

But I was still driving.

And in control.

More or less.

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver, and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically  lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked.

Spent an hour or so with my horse.

Drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where everything went wrong.

Sigh.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding very early. So by the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

And a fourth.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine.

Fifth.

Sixth.

This was going nowhere fast.

By now, my door and the pillar were probably looking like hamburger.

Can wood and/or metal look like hamburger?

And suddenly, there, standing in a shaft of early morning light, was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wears pajamas.

Nicely pressed, matching button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They are quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed.

Usually when I'm around.

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me.

I know that look. I've seen it before.

A few times.

Ahem . . .

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience.

I disappeared in a heartbeat.

There were a couple of 'bruises' on the support of the carport.

And a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor.

I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time.

And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget. 

Little Sister

L'il Sis

I have a little sister.

She looks just like me.

Except that she has red hair.

And big blue eyes.

And a cute little chin.

And long eyelashes.

Okay, she doesn't look like me at all.

I love her anyways.

We grew up together, as often happens in families.

And had experiences.

Which also often happens in families.

When Anita was two, my mother asked us older kids to take her swimming with us.

Brave woman, my mother.

But I guess she thought that Chris, at 16, was responsible.

And she was.

Really, really responsible.

When she was awake.

A bit older. Just a bit

On this particular occasion, she had her radio. And her dreams of her current boyfriend.

And the warm sun. And the hot sand.

You're right. It wasn't her fault.

She dozed off.

The rest of us played happily for some time.

I was standing knee deep in the milky water, trying to catch a fish that insisted on swimming tantalizingly close.

Closer. Closer.

Then a strange sound intruded.

A sort of . . . gasping.

I looked up.

Five feet from me, little Anita had toddled off the sandy shelf where she had been sitting, playing, and fell into the river.

She was just coming up for the second time.

Nonchalantly (I like that word), I reached out and grabbed her swimsuit, pulled her out and plopped her onto the sand once more.

She gasped and coughed a couple of times, then went back to her toys.

I turned back to my hunting.

It wasn't until years later that I remembered the incident.

And shivered with 'what might have happened'.

*  *  *

When I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, moved out.

I suddenly had that hitherto (real word) unheard of treat - my own bedroom.

It was wonderful.

During the day.

But, being alone at night for the first time, I made a discovery.

At night, things looked vastly different.

The darkness held many suspicious creaks and shadows.

And, unfortunately, my imagination was always awake.

I needed a companion.

Someone who would protect me from . . . whatever lay in wait in the dark.

My sister's room was right next door.

Okay, she was three, and who knew what she would be able to do if we truly were confronted with . . . whatever lay in wait . . . you understand.

But she was warm.

And breathing.

She was all I had.

Carefully, I would creep into her room, lift the sleeping little girl from her bed, and tuck her into Chris' side of the bed.

Then I would happily snuggle into my side and fall immediately asleep.

If Mom asked in the morning, I simply told her that Anita had crawled in with me in the night.

Everyone was happy.

And no one knew that Diane was afraid of the dark.

Until now.

Oops.

*  *  *

A few years later, we were in the river.

Again.

And Anita was with me.

Again.

This time, it was my turn to be in charge.

And think about boyfriends.

Because my boyfriend was with us.

He and I were sitting in the sand at the edge of the water, visiting, when a sound intruded.

Again.

Only this time, it had just a bit more volume behind it.

"Diane!" someone shrieked.

I looked up.

Anita, who had been floating quite happily close to the shore in an old inner tube, had strayed too far out into the river.

She was now in the grip of the current.

Nonchalantly (that word again), I waded out. Then swam that last few feet towards her.

This time, however, when I grabbed her, she grabbed back.

And nearly drowned me.

Finally, I managed to turn her and her inner tube away from me, then kicked the both of us to the shore.

Then really shivered with 'what might have happened'.

Why do so many of our near-misses happen in water?

*  *  *

Who wouldn't trust that little face!

Today, Anita is a wife and mother. She runs a million-dollar business that she created. She is a flight attendant and cub leader and community organizer.

And still has time to run and keep fit.

But when I think of her, I still see the little girl who broke the lamp for which Blair took the blame.

Who was bright and cute and smart.

And who gave Mom the last of her grey hairs.

The little girl who loved to organize.

And wrap packages.

And get into my things.

And who's middle name, though she would claim it's Faye, is really Trouble (notice the capital 'T').

Today. Or at least not many days ago . . .

Huh. In some ways, she hasn't changed.

But now, she lives most of a continent away.

I miss her.

I love her.

Blogging Keeps Me Outta Trouble . . .

Camping - my way

I blog.

And now you're probably wondering why on earth I'm blogging about blogging.

Wait for it . . .

My blog is a series of short stories about growing up.

Huh. Me. Growing up.

Most people think it didn't happen. Couldn't happen. Will never . . . but I digress . . .

Occasionally, I feel guilty about spending such a lot of time with my beloved blog.

Even entertain the thought of abandoning it.

But then, someone tells me to continue.

Usually this is a reader (I do have them . . .). Or a person who has read a particularly amusing tale (true story). But sometimes, it is someone . . . OFFICIAL (dun, dun, duuunnn!).

This has happened to me.

Twice.

The first was my publisher, Cedar Fort.

Imagine my joy . . . "Diane, get your name out there. Blog. Get people reading your blog."

It's like being told, firmly, to "Eat that chocolate! All of it. Don't miss a bite! Oh, and lick the wrapper when you are done!"

Mmmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Bog.

And officiality. (is that a word?)

I scurried (favorite word) to obey, frantically typing little stories and posting them. Then telling everyone in Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, Google . . . you get the picture . . .

It was . . . fun. (Fun being 'ten' on the 'fun-ness' scale.)

All was well.

Then, another magical day.

I was sitting in Church ( I do that sometimes) and our Stake President was speaking.

And what pithy, uplifting theme did he choose to advocate?  

Blogging.

You heard me right.

It was from the pulpit.

I am not making this up.

His exact words were, "I encourage you to blog. Blog. Blog. Blog. People are reading your stories. They are making a difference."

Okay, I know that there were many, many people in the congregation, but I'm sure he was talking to me.

That made it official. With a capital OH!

And good enough for an elbow in my husband's ribs and a hearty "Ha! Told you so!"

So I blog.

Officially.

It just doesn't get any better.

So, admit it, you're convinced. Blogging is what you want to do.

Now, how to do it?

First, choose an amazing topic.

For example, what do you most enjoy reading or hearing about?

Surprise! That's what your blog should cover.

Things you enjoy.

That was easy.

So now you are writing a world-class blog. How do you get to be, for want of a better term, better?

Be entertaining. Be unexpected. Be humorous. Be inventive. Be courageous.

Okay, yes, also be honest.

Sigh.

Then get yourself known.

How, you ask?

Well, you could do something outrageous.

But, trust me, that just creates more problems.

I know.

Really.

Moving on . . .

The best way would be to blog every day. Get your name out there every day.

Post every day. (Have I said 'every day' too much?)

And read other blogs.

Comment.

Their authors will follow you back.

In a non-creepy way, of course.

And before you know it, your readership has gone from zero to sixty to six hundred to . . . you understand.

Don't Die With Your Book Still In You
Carving Angels: A delightful story. An old blind man regains his desire to carve.
http://bit.ly/nttqEj

Between a Rock and a Cool Place

Quick - pick out the cool kids . . .

At the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the playground, halfway between the elementary and junior/senior high schools was a rock.

A big rock.

Huge.

It didn't belong to anyone.

It was just there.

Doing rock stuff.

It had 'sit' down pretty well.

And 'stay'.

It was the gathering place for the 'cool' kids in grade five.

I was in grade five.

I wasn't cool.

Every recess, the group of boys and girls who were the most popular would scurry down and claim the rock. For the entire 15 minutes, they would clamber (real word) about, or sit and talk.

And look cool.

I wanted to be with them more than anything.

I wanted to be cool.

Sigh.

I, too, had a group of friends.

Like me, my friends were not considered the 'popular' group.

But they were good friends. Loyal. Fun.

Would let me boss them around all of the time.

Ahem . . .

Often I would catch them casting longing looks towards the rock.

And the cool kids thereon.

I knew what they were thinking.

Sometimes, our disappointment and frustration would boil over into something more proactive.

Gossip.

One occasion stands out . . .

We 'seconds' as we had begun to think of ourselves, were grouped around the monkey bars.

Talking.

Okay, we called it talking.

We were making great sport of tearing the distant cool kids apart.

Everything was fodder for our nasty little grist mill. Their looks, their clothes, their personalities, their classroom standing, even their pets.

Yep. We were grinding at a pretty feverish pace.

I said, in a loud voice, "Well, I wouldn't go with them, even if they begged me."

The others nodded in agreement.

Than another voice broke in. "Diane?"

We all turned. Two of the popular girls were standing there.

"Um . . . yeah?"

"We wanted to invite you to join us. Paul really likes you."

I'd like to tell you that I simply smiled and refused. Or that I turned a slightly disdainful shoulder and stuck with my friends.

I did neither.

Faster than you can blink, I was one of them. They put their arms around my waist and I did the same and the three of us headed off to the rock.

I didn't even look back.

For many weeks, I lived as a cool kid.

Hung out at Danny's like everyone else but, because I did it, it was cool. Wore the same clothes as everyone else, purchased at Robinson's, but because I did it . . . you get the picture.

And I loved it.

Every minute of it.

No longer did I have to worry about what I said.

Because I was cool, everyone laughed and forgave me.

I didn't have to worry about what I did.

Ditto.

I was in heaven.

Then . . .

Paul decided he liked someone else.

And, just like that, I wasn't cool anymore.

The rest of them dropped me like a hot . . . rock.

It was my very first lesson on relationships.

It wouldn't be the last.

But it was the most painful.

Because when I tried to go back to my old circle of friends, I found that they were afraid of me.

Afraid to trust me.

Now, I was truly alone.

Oh, my solitary state didn't last long.

Only the eternity of about a week.

Fifth graders have short memories.

Fortunately.

But I did a lot of growing in that week.

I realized that I had learned four things:

            1. True friends are important.

            2. Don't burn your bridges.

            3. The rock is really hard and uncomfortable to sit on.

            4. Even if you're a cool kid.

Don't Die With Your Book Still In You
Carving Angels: A delightful story. An old blind man regains his desire to carve.
http://bit.ly/nttqEj

Movies, Quotable Movies

We watch movies.

Old movies.

A lot.

Our family was raised on the crazy antics of Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Jack Lemmon in The Great Race.

The hilarity of Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.

The magical song and dance of  Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in Brigadoon.

The comic timing of Red Skelton in The Fuller Brush Man.

And these are only four of the hundreds we sat through together as a family as they were growing up.

Inevitably, these movies had a great influence on our lives.

When the characters made mistakes and paid dearly for them, my family suffered alongside. When a story ended, inevitably, in triumph, we celebrated.

We lived their lives. Learned their lessons. Grieved and cheered with them.

The stories became very real to us.

We discussed them endlessly.

The lessons learned. The principles taught.

And our conversation became peppered with noteworthy lines.

I do mean peppered.

Our youngest son, three-year-old Tristan, was playing with a small, battery-powered railroad with a friend. "Push the button, Max!" (The Great Race)

Friend, "My name's not Max."

People visiting our household would often gape in confusion as quotes cropped up in the conversation.

We knew what was being said.

They didn't.

Oops.

Occasionally, someone would join us who knew that the answer to, "And there was much rejoicing" was a subdued, "Yay!" (with appropriate hand movements) from Search for the Holy Grail.

Or that, when asked to do something specific, would know to quip, "I'm smokin' a salmon!" from Oscar.

And that, with the end of a meal, the appropriate gratitude was voiced by the words, "The meal was good. The wine was excellent. I must send the Cardinal a note." (Again, with appropriate hand gesture, this time, hand kissing.) A noteworthy quote, though we weren't wine-drinkers, from The Three Musketeers.

We were the family who would break, unexpectedly, into song.

And everyone would know the words.

Occasionally, outside of our home, others would take note of our unique (note that I'm using the PC term) customs.

For good or bad . . .

Our daughter, Tiana, was in kindergarten.

Almost five.

Her teacher heard her singing, "Goin' Courtin'. Goin' Courtin'." (From Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)

She pulled her aside and asked her to repeat it.

Tiana obliged.

The teacher frowned and asked her where she had heard that.

Tiana stared at her.

This was probably her first experience with someone who didn't eat, breathe and sleep movies.

So, not like her family at all.

"It's from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." she said finally. "Just before they learn how to dance."

Her teacher was puzzled. "Do you know what it means?"

"What?"

"Courting."

Tiana smiled at her. "Oh, yes, it means 'dating'."

"Ah." Still puzzled, her teacher let her go.

But brought up the subject at our next parent-teacher conference.

I have to point out that it wasn't the only time I had heard from confused elementary school teachers.

Moving on . . .

But as the kids grew into junior and senior high school, our family quirk became more acknowledged.

Even occasionally appreciated.

Especially when a teacher would pose a question or repeat a quote from an old movie or program and our child was the only one in the class who knew the answer.

Or who laughed.

They became the universally-acknowledged 'experts' on old movies.

And, more importantly, quotes from movies.

It was a fun way to raise a family.

It is a fun way to live.

I think its time for another one.

"Push the button, Max!"

Dune Buggy + Ditch = Pain

Add a dashboard, seat, steering wheel, and dust and this is our  steed!

Marty had a dune buggy.

Actually, it had once been a car. But it had been stripped down to the basics. Wheels. Frames. Seats. Motor. And a steering wheel.

Now it was a dune buggy.

That baby could go.

Just not on any conventional roads.

Marty would take us flying across the prairie at speeds beyond . . . what we should have been travelling.

But we were safe.

Marty had firm hands on the wheel.

As long as there was ground beneath us, all was well.

And that's where my story gets interesting.

It was a beautiful spring day.

The sun was high and hot. The air shimmered.

The crickets and bugs were sending up a steady chorus.

There was a haze of dust hanging in the still, dry air.

Perfect 'low flying' weather.

Marty had piled Michelle and I into the buggy for a ride.

Okay, I have to admit that the use of the word 'into' is a bit of a misnomer.

'Onto' would probably be more accurate.

I was in the middle. Marty on my left, steering wheel firmly in hand. Michelle on my right, casually slumped back in the seat, one foot propped up on the dashboard.

Oh, right. We also had a dashboard.

Back to my story . . .

We were flying across the prairie just to the west and north of Marty's family farm.

Talking and laughing and generally enjoying the wind in our faces.

The field stretched out smooth and green in front of us.

Marty stepped on the gas and we all felt the exhilaration of speed.

Then, quite suddenly, a . . . ditch . . . opened up in front of us.

Oh, not just a little ditch.

An irrigation ditch. 30 feet across and a good 20 feet deep.

More of a canal than a ditch, really.

Huh. Where did that come from?

And, more importantly, how were we going to avoid it when it carved its way straight across the field before us from fence to fence.

And when we were travelling at upwards of 45 miles per hour.

You're right. We couldn't. We didn't.

We launched off the west bank in a graceful arc.

Now the Dukes of Hazzard would have made it.

Evel Kinevel would have made it.

Even Barney Oldfield would have made it.

But three farm kids in a souped-up, stripped-down 'dune buggy'?

Not a chance.

We hit the opposite bank just below the lip.

Still doing 45 miles per hour.

It's funny just how many thoughts can race through your head in the split seconds between launch and land. I remember thinking that Marty really was taking us flying.

Cool.

Then . . . crunch.

The buggy stopped instantly, of course, and slid down to the bottom of the canal.

We sat there, stunned for a moment.

And then the moaning started.

I was fine.

I just thought I should point that out. Something to note - when getting involved in an accident in a dune buggy, the middle position is the safest.

Moving on . . .

Marty and Michelle . . . weren't.

Fine, I mean.

Marty had broken his beloved steering wheel with his chin, splitting it open to the bone.

His chin, I mean.

Michelle was even worse off.

The foot that had been so casually propped up on the dashboard had been driven back by the force of our crash and dislocated her hip.

She was in . . . considerable . . . pain.

Marty put a hand over his chin and ran to the farmhouse a quarter of a mile away for help.

It was up to me to pull Michelle up out of the ditch.

Okay, it probably would have been easier . . . and wiser . . . to call an ambulance and wait for professional help, but we were kids of the country.

Raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.

We acted first.

And thought after.

Slowly and painstakingly, I turned Michelle onto her uninjured side. Then I pulled her up the steep bank. One step at a time.

Step, step. Pull.

Step, step. Pull.

She must have suffered agony throughout the entire ordeal, but she said little.

As we were nearing the top, Marty pulled up in his family's car.

Between the two of us, he and I managed to pull Michelle into the back seat.

Then, Marty drove us to the hospital.

Funny that it never occurred to any of us to feel alarm when we again saw Marty with a steering wheel in his hands.

Go figure.

He got us there safely.

This time, professionals maneuvered Michelle out of the car and onto a stretcher.

By this point, I'm quite sure she appreciated their expertise.

And their drugs.

Her hip was restored, though she had to suffer through traction and treatments for months afterwards.

Marty was sewn back together and sports a sexy scar on his chin to this day.

I emerged unscathed.

A few days later, I was driving around with Dennis in his dune buggy.

Some people never learn.

The World's Best Teacher

The greatest teacher who ever lived, worked in Milk River.

In the Junior High School.

I was terrified of her.

And I  loved her.

Mrs. Wollersheim TAUGHT Social and Math.

Notice the capitals for emphasis?

I meant to put them there.

My first experience with Mrs. W was in grade seven.

I'll never forget it.

I was one of the former grade six kings and queens of Milk River Elementary, now demoted to the lowest of the low.

Grade seven in the Junior/Senior high school.

I was a worm.

Already intimidated by my surroundings, I and my classmates were seated in our desks in Mrs. W's room, awaiting the next installment in terror that Junior High was turning out to be.

We didn't wait long.

From down the hall, outside the wide-open classroom door, we heard a sound. A steady 'Creak. Creak'.

I should mention, here, that our school was old. Methuselah old. And creaky. In fact, it would have made an excellent set for a horror movie, "The Killer Who Terrorized the Grade Sevens in the Old, Creaky School."

Okay. Movie-writing was never meant to be my forte (that's French).

Moving on . . .

Each member of the class stiffened into attention.

All eyes were trained on the doorway.

A trickle of sweat traced a path down the temple of the kid in front of me.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. But you have to admit that, for a moment, I had you.

Okay, you don't have to admit it.

Sigh.

A hollow voice rang down the hall.

"Ahem. Now class . . ."

I should point out that Mrs. W never, ever waited until she was visible to begin teaching.

She didn't have to.

" . . . and that's what we are going to do today."

She appeared in the doorway. A short, heavy-set woman in a print dress, with her hair pinned back into a bun. Sharp eyes covered by thick spectacles. And flat, black walking shoes, capable of carrying the wearer through an entire day of teaching.

Or stalking, menacingly through the halls.

The anticipation was over.

We were, at last face to face.

So to speak.

The class shivered. 

En masse. (I'm on fire today! That's another French term. I think it means all together.)

She looked us over.

Complete silence.

We sat, frozen in our desks.

Does a teacher's visual acuity depend upon movement?

She moved forward. "The first thing you will have to learn, class, is that when I walk into the room, your books and notebooks will be opened to the correct page and you will be ready to learn."

Frantic zipping of binders (zippers were the newest, coolest thing on binders) and shuffling of paper.

Finally, silence once more.

Mrs. W had reached the front of the room and was standing to one side of the desk, watching us.

We felt like proverbial mice in the gaze of the proverbial hawk.

Our reaction was anything but proverbial.

I'm not sure, but I think a couple of students wet themselves.

She nodded and began to teach.

And, despite our misgivings, we began to learn.

And the first thing we learned was that, though she appeared to be a tyrant in the classroom, she was anything but.

Oh, she demanded respect.

And got it.

Even the class clowns showed only exemplary (real word) behavior when seated under her watchful eyes.

But she would do almost anything to have us succeed.

Every one of us.

At anything we tried.

If we were having difficulty with a concept, even if it was a subject taught by another teacher, she would bundle us off to her home. Feed us with the rest of her family.

And teach.

If any of us were involved in extra-curricular activities, she was on the front row for concerts and athletics.

My brother had decided to serve a mission for our Church and though she was of a different denomination, she was there in the chapel, both for his farewell talk, and for his homecoming.

And she did this for approximately 100 students.

Every year.

For 35 + years.

The things she taught us could never be found within the covers of a school textbook.

Patience.

"You'll get it. Let's try again."

Respect and obedience.

"Mr. Russell. Would you mind putting that away and joining us?"

Humor.

"How many of you are there? Well, I'm sure you'll all fit in the front room. If not, we'll jam some into the kitchen. Come in, come in. Let's have some hot chocolate. Don't worry about your boots. Jake'll clean up later. Okay, now what Christmas carols are you going to sing for me?"

Any Social or math I learned, I got from her.

Any sense of discipline? 

Ditto.

Mrs. Wollersheim is gone now.

She spent her last few years in a nursing home in Milk River, her brilliant mind dimmed by disease and old age.

But she left a legacy.

Her love for us.

Carving Angels: My First Book Review

About Carving Angels

          Darling, precious, sweet were the first adjectives I considered 

using to describe Diane Tolley’s newest short story.  Those are the superficial impressions.  Ms. Tolley has managed to pen a piece that is filled with messages of compassion, tolerance, understanding, belief in God’s abiding love and the power of love in our lives. 

            She does this within the pages of her book using a timeless subject, the magic and mystery of the North Pole. While recommended for young readers, a mother would enjoy this while reading to children not yet reading on their own.

                                                 -Sharon King-Jeffers (author and poet)

  

                                               

Don't Die With Your Book Still In You
Carving Angels: A delightful story. An old blind man regains his desire to carve.
http://bit.ly/nttqEj

Irrigation 101 - An Introductory Course

Irrigation. So simple, a child could do it.

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

I'll give you a hint.

It wasn't me.

After that, George never allowed me to come with him to move pipe.

Something about me being worse than useless.

Go figure.

Sew Long Ago

Magic happening

Life on the ranch demanded creativity and resourcefulness from every member of the community.

Except for me.

I was four.

Oh, I was resourceful.

Just not in a productive way.

Moving on . . .

In this spirit of inventiveness, my Mom had taught herself to sew.

And she was good at it.

From her hands and her trustly little machine would emerge fantastic and wondrous articles of clothing. Dresses, blouses, skirts, shirts, trousers, all were created quickly and effectiently, with only a bit of cloth.

I know. I watched her.

I also watched her peel potatoes with equal economy, but that is another story.

And a very different outcome.

Ahem . . .

Occasionally, Mom's sewing machine would give her grief, but my Dad instructed me not to say those words.

They must have been sewing words.

Years later, I would use them as cow herding words, but I digress . . .

Mom could also fix things with her electric marvel.

The most hopeless wardrobe disasters could be quickly and perfectly repaired with ease and just a couple of strokes of the needle.

A couple of words, here, about the needles she used.

They were sharp.

Enough said.

My Dad had a work shirt.

Green.

Sturdy.

He hated it.

Something about the fit. Or the material.

Who paid attention?

One day, while fencing, he caught a fold of this shirt on some barbed wire and tore it.

Quite badly.

Rather gleefully, he told Mom to just throw it into the rag bag.

But Mom was far too thrifty to do that.

This was a good, servicable shirt, with plenty of years of work left in it.

She repaired it.

Dad sighed and wore it again.

We were branding.

Dad caught the shirt on the squeeze handle and, again, it tore.

Again, the advice to scrap it.

Again, the repairs.

Another sigh.

Dad was working in the shop and caught the shirt on the work bench.

Another tear.

This was becoming a pattern.

But this time, he was determined to be rid of the hated, but indestructable shirt once and for all.

He extended the tear into something . . . longer.

Then proceeded to rip the rest of the shirt apart.

He came into the sewing room, and delivered the scraps to my astonished Mom.

“Rag bag,” he said.

Then he made the mistake of leaving the room.

Mom looked at the little pile of scraps and . . . smiled.

Have I mentioned that Mom has a very good sense of humor?

I probably should have.

She removed whatever project she was currently sewing and started to work.

And giggle.

In a short time, she had reassembled the dreaded shirt.

Oh, it didn't look quite the same.

Frankenstein's monster comes to mind for some reason.

But it was, once more, complete.

She folded it carefully and put it in Dad's drawer.

Then waited.

She didn't have to wait for long.

The next morning, Dad opened that drawer to get out a shirt and let out a little scream.

And no, it wasn't a girly scream. Although that would have been even funnier.

He emerged, pale-faced, clutching the shirt.

“It's back! It's haunting me!” he said.

Mom laughed and laughed.

We all did.

After that, the shirt finally made it to the rag bag.

It had served its purpose.

Twice.