Pills to Give You Ills

Does this look delicious to you? Yeah, me either . . .

My Mom had a magic cupboard in her bathroom.

It was full of wonderful little bottles.

Intriguing little bottles with funny shapes and beautiful colours.

And with all sorts of interesting contents.

Most of them defied my little three-year-old fingers.

But one twisted off easily.

Disclosing little, white pills.

Mmmm.

Okay they didn't taste very good, but they were little.

And melted on my tongue in a fun way.

I had another.

And another.

This was fun!

Mom came in just as I was finishing the bottle.

For some reason, she got quite upset.

She grabbed me and ran to the phone.

For a few seconds, she chattered excitedly.

Then she carried me to the kitchen and set me on the cupboard and hugged me tight.

I didn’t know what I had done that had gotten her so excited, but this was living!

Or not . . .

A few minutes later, a man came into the house carrying a black bag.

He put a tube down my throat.

And Mom let him!

Weird.

And traumatic.

I cried.

For several minutes, the two of them fought to keep the tube where they wanted it.

With minimal/non-existent results.

Finally, Mom stuck her fingers down my throat and made me gag.

And I lost all of my wonderful little pills.

Um. Ick.

The doctor packed away his horrible tube and left.

I wasn't sad to see him go.

Mom cuddled me for most of the afternoon.

Sigh.

Nice.

A few days later, I was again exploring Mom's treasure cupboard.

Well, look at that.

A new bottle of my little pills.

I wonder if they will taste any better.

Mom came in a bit earlier this time, but I had still ingested over half of the bottle.

She didn't bother calling the doctor, just used her patented new method to make me bring the pills back up.

This time, I got a scolding.

Moms can be so inconsistent.

True Art

Art isn't always found on display.

And real artists don't necessarily work in a studio.

A true work of art . . .

On a ranch, fences are rather important.

They mean the difference between control and chaos. 

With a good fence, one can dictate which animals live where.

And which of the bulls certain cows are exposed to.

It probably isn't obvious, but with purebred animals, control means the difference between a progressive herd.

And one that is headed only for the meat market.

It is an exacting science of reading pedigrees and understanding genetics.

I rode the horses and put cows where Dad told me.

You can see where I was on the 'ranching is science' scale.

So back to the control thing . . .

A good fence means that things are ordered.

Predictable.

Profitable.

Poor fences spell trouble.

And diminishing returns.

Thus, the most important task on the Stringam Ranch outside of actually . . . associating with the cattle, was building fences.

Something Dad did rather well.

Let me tell you about it.

Building a four-wire barbed wire fence takes many stages.

First, the building of the corners, a sturdy framework of posts and neatly twisted wire, capable of sustaining enormous pull.

Then stringing the wire between the corners.

This is a tricky part. As my brother, George can attest.

Then, planting posts in a straight line along the wires.

Note: Hold post from the side 

Accomplished with a 'post pounder' mounted on a tractor.

A useful, but potentially dangerous gizmo.

Then tacking said wires to said posts.

This was my job.

All it took was a steady hand.

Or if you lacked that, stamina.

Which was what I had.

If the first whack or two didn't get the staple into the post, the next 14 whacks would.

Moving on.

And it was at that point most of the fence-builders would pack up their tools and call the job finished.

Or where the true artists shone.

Remember, we were talking about my Dad.

Once the fence was actually assembled, Dad would stand back and look at it.

I should point out here that the fields in Southern Alberta are seldom flat. They may not change much, but they do change.

And a fence has to run smoothly along them.

I emphasize the word 'smoothly'.

If a fence goes down into a dip, then up again, the tightly stretched wires can actually, over time, pull the lower posts up out of the ground.

True story.

And that is where Dad came in.

He would walk along the fence, find the places where the line would dip, and weight it.

Really.

He would find a large rock (not uncommon on the prairies), tote it over to the dip, fasten a wire around it firmly, then attach the rock to the fence, pulling the wires down so they followed the ground perfectly.

I had watched him do this so often that, to me, that's just how it was done.

I was wrong.

Once, an elderly rancher from west of us came looking for the county veterinarian.

Who happened to be out building fence.

The man drove up in his rusted old pick-up and stopped near where my Dad and brothers were working.

Climbing out of his truck, he greeted everyone, then stood and watched their activities.

Finally, Dad finished with his current wire and rock creation, and turned to speak to the old man.

Only to find him in tears.

Thinking the man had a real emergency, Dad quickly walked over.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh nothing," the old man said, blowing his nose. "It's just that I haven't seen that kind of fence-building in fifty years!"

True artists appreciate true art.

The Right Side of Gates

Approach carefully. It's tricky!

On a ranch, there are gates.

Many gates.

In the corrals, big gates made of long, wooden boards.

That are fun to swing on.

As long as your Dad doesn't catch you.

Moving on . . .

Along the barbed-wire fences in the pastures, the gates are made of . . . barbed wire.

Go figure.

Barbed wire gates are fashioned by four or five long pieces of wire stretched between two end posts. Then three or four lighter 'dancers' (smaller poles) are nailed to these wires to keep them from tangling when the gate is being opened or closed.

Barbed wire gates are a bit tricky, but easily used, once you get the knack.

With practice, and a cooperative horse, one can even open and close these gates without ever having to get out of the saddle.

If one has an uncooperative horse, the mere thought of dragging a fence post and wires a few feet leads to Entertainment!

Notice the capital 'E'.

Okay, one doesn't have to look far for excitement on a ranch.

Soooo . . . gates.

And using them.

My Mom, raised on a ranch and married to a rancher, never quite got the knack of the barbed wire gates.

I should point out here that, when we were riding, we took turns opening and closing.

When we were driving, the person riding 'shotgun' was the designated gateman.

Because Mom was so entertaining, she was always stuck in that seat.

So the rest of us could watch.

Oh, Mom could open the gates, a trick in itself.

And close them.

An even better trick.

But that is where her difficulty started.

Because somehow, she always closed them with herself on the wrong side.

Whereupon (good word) she would have to either perform the entire operation again, or crawl through.

She always chose the latter.

And the rest of us had a good chuckle while she did so.

Okay, you're right, we did have to look for our entertainment.

But at least we didn't have to look far . . .

Never Turn Your Back!

Little Brother. Afterwards.

Ranches are dangerous playgrounds.

My Dad was in the blacksmith shop.

And wherever Dad went, we kids trailed after.

Because.

Why is it that everything Dad does is interesting?

For the first couple of minutes . . .

After that, one's short attention span rather gets in the way.

But I digress.

Two-year-old Blair had followed Dad to the shop.
Mom was in hospital with new sister, Anita, and Dad was babysitting.
But that was okay because Dad did such interesting things . . .

For a short time, he had been fascinated with simply watching as Dad puttered.
Then, other interesting sights caught his attention.

Tools.

Horseshoes.

Old paint cans filled with . . . stuff.

He began to explore.

Dad kept an eye on him as he toddled about.

Then, Dad turned on the air compressor.

Its roar filled the old, log-built room.

And drew every kid in the vicinity.

Blair.

He watched, fascinated as the wheel spun.

"Now you stay back, Blair," Dad told him firmly.

And he did.

For a very, very long time.

He was two.

Thirty seconds is a very, very long time when you're two.

Dad turned his back for a moment.

Blair saw his chance.

He moved forward and reached out to touch the spinning wheel.

For a moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened.

Then the pain started.

He screamed.

Dad spun around to see Blair shaking his hand and spraying blood everywhere.

He grabbed him, pulled out his every-ready handkerchief to wrap around the wounded hand and headed for the house.

With his little boy screaming the whole way.

Dad made the trip to the hospital in record time.

And that is something when you are travelling on uncertain dirt roads.

Soon, Blair was home again, with a neat glove bandage around his pointer finger.

Which now was missing part of the first joint.

Dad figures that the spinning belt caught it and nipped it off against the flywheel.

A terrible wound.

Leaving a scar.

And a story to impress girls with twenty years later.

Ahem . . .

But a fixable wound.

And a solemn reminder that turning your back for a second is all it takes.

Ranches can be dangerous.

The Cow Made Me Do It!

Busy, cold day.
So, for you, my loyal readers, a repost:

The Cow Made Me Do It!

At least one of us was a lady . . .

It was hot!

I was tired!

Give me a minute, I'm sure I can think of better excuses . . .

The milk cow had been quartered in the east pasture, waiting for her to 'freshen'. (A cowboy term for 'give birth'.)

I know.

Cowboys are weird.

Moving on . . .

Her moment was getting close.

Time for her move into closer quarters.

And I was elected to do it.

On foot.

Sigh.

Dad dropped me off at the gate with specific instructions. "Just chase her along the ditch, past the ranch and into the near-west pasture."

I nodded. Instructions received and understood.

He drove off.

Things went well.

Except that Madame Cow (I use this term lightly) couldn't quite get into her head the part of our instructions that said, "PAST the ranch."

I should explain here that the entrance to the ranch was on the north side of the road. The ditch we were following was also on the north side of the road.

And, when the breach in the fence appeared, Madame Cow insisted on turning . . . north. Towards the buildings.

I had to sprint around her (remember I was on foot) and turn her back towards the road.

As which time she took the corner and headed east up the ditch we had just come down.

Another sigh. A little more forceful this time. And accompanied by a "Stupid cow!"

I got around her (feet, again) and turned her back west.

She followed the fence and again turned towards the ranch.

Way wrong!

"Stupid, dumb cow!"

Back towards the road.

Please head west. Please?!

Nope. East.

*#$! Cow!

Just a little swear.

This went on for some time, and my language, I'm ashamed to say . . . worsened.

Or got more colorful. That would be the 'PC' term.

Remember, I was raised around hired men.

Experts at the English language.

Or at least a 'colorful' part of it.

Not an excuse, just a reason.

Again and again, I got round her and tried to head her in the correct direction.

Again and again, she . . . didn't.

And my language got more and more peppered with, shall we say, 'colorful metaphors'?

None of which explained to said cow exactly what I expected of her.

I have to admit that the poor animal was probably quite confused by this time.

There were the buildings. With hay and comfort.

Why were we going the other way?

Okay, strange human, I'll just go back where I came from.

No?

Except that it would have probably sounded more like this:

Food!

Home!

Food!

Home!

In 'cow' of course.

Finally, after what seemed hours of chasing back and forth, and turning the air blue with . . . ahem . . . profanities (me, not her), the cow skipped past the ranch entrance and, wonder of wonders, walked right over to the proper field.

Eureka! (real word)

I opened the gate and she stepped sedately through.

Then turned and looked at me.

Stupid human!

At least one of us had retained her gentility.

I closed the gate and started back towards the ranch, humming happily. 

All that had gone on before conveniently forgotten.

Dad's truck slid to a stop beside me. "Need a ride?"

I climbed in, still humming.

Dad drove for a moment. Then he said, not looking at me, "I got a real education this morning."

I looked at him, innocently, "Oh?"

"Yes. I discovered that my middle daughter knew words I didn't even think she had even heard of."

"Oh." Very tiny voice, "You heard me?"

"Heard you! They heard you in town!"

"Oh."

That was all that was said.

It was never brought up again.

But I knew that Dad knew.

And he knew . . . never mind.

I'd like to say that I never used 'foul' language again, but I'd be lying.

For some reason, working with cows brings out the lowest form of expression.

Probably a good thing I don't work with them any more.

And I should probably point out that swearing isn't an easy habit to get rid of.

Even now, years later, a very strange word will pop into my head.

I'm happy to report that it never makes it past my lips, but I feel some dismay in the fact that it appears at all.

Sigh.

I'm a work in progress.

I should have taken lessons from the cow.

Cows Can Predict the Weather. Really.

Ha! I KNEW it was going to snow!

“Look to the cows,” said Dad, the wise,

“And you will come to realize,

That by their actions, you can tell,

The weather patterns, fair or fell.”

And so I watched, and so I saw

That he was right, my smart ol' Pa.

And he knew what he talked about,

If you're predicting rain. Or drought.

The cows, they crowd together tight

And you know cold will be the night.

They seek the shed and shelter warm

If rain or snow will be the norm.

And stand out grazing peacefully,

If sun and warmth are meant to be.

But just today, I got a scare,

From cows around me everywhere,

For when I stepped outside my door

And glanced towards the purple moor . . .

(Oops, Alberta's where I live, you see,

And so I meant the wide prairie.)

My cows weren't where they're s'posed to be,

They sat on branches. In the trees.

So now I have to figure out,

Just what they're telling me about.

Moth: 1. Debbie: 0

Admit it. This is terrifying.

Debbie's family lived on a ranch not far from ours.

Her father had worked for my parents as a young man, before he had married.

They had remained good friends.

As had Debbie and I.

Once we had made our respective appearances (ie. born).

In our senior year, I stayed with them for a semester.

They were kind, wonderful people.

Very clever and full of fun.

Debbie fit right in.

Most of the time . . .

Debbie and I had a room in the basement.

Lovely twin beds and assorted other furniture.

With the lamp hanging over her bed.

This is an important point.

She was also terrified of moths.

Another important point.

And I liked to read at night after climbing into bed.

These all tie together.

Let me explain . . .

It was late.

Debbie had long been trying to sleep.

I was reading.

It never occurred to me that I was being inconsiderate, as the room's only light hung directly over her.

And attracted any moths that might be in the vicinity.

She tossed and turned and finally huffed and, throwing back the covers, got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Bathroom,” she mumbled.

Just then, a moth that had been fluttering around in the light for the past half-hour, made the mistake of appearing where Debbie could see him.

“Screech!”

In a blur, she headed towards the door.

For some inexplicable reason, the moth followed her.

Out into the dark hall.

You never can tell with moths.

There was another horrendous screech and Debbie darted back into the room, jumped into her bed and pulled the covers over her head.

The moth fluttered in happily behind her and was soon once more dancing in the light.

Double weird.

“Shut off that stupid light!” Debbie said, through the covers.

I stared at the quivering lump that was my friend.

“How on earth did you know the moth followed you into the hall?”

“He touched my face! Shut off the light!”

I complied.

Imagine. Frightened of a silly moth.

Now if it had been a spider . . .

Not Just Dumb. Really, Really . . .

Okay. This IS rocket science.

Have you ever done anything dumb?

I mean really, really dumb?

I'm not saying that I have but . . .

Okay, I'm saying that I have.

But, in my defence, our family always had a shower cubicle.

With a door.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was my first time living away from home.

I was dizzy with joy.

And heavy with responsibility.

So many things that I suddenly needed to know.

And hadn't paid attention to, when my parents had tried to teach.

Sigh.

The learning curve wasn't just steep.

It was nearly vertical.

I muddled through.

With prayer.

And many phone calls home.

Bit by bit, I figured things out.

Our apartment had indoor plumbing.

I just thought I'd mention it.

And a shower nozzle.

I stared at it.

Huh. How could one use that and not spray water everywhere?

You would have to make sure that the nozzle was pointed directly at the wall and be very careful.

Weird.

Why didn't they just put in a cubicle, like the Stringams?

And there was something else I had never seen before.

Above the tub and reaching from wall to wall, was a long rod.

I stared at it, mystified.

What on earth could it be for?

I went to my roommate.

“Guess showering is out of the question.”

“Why,” she asked.

“How do you keep the water off the floor?”

She laughed. “You use a shower curtain.”

“A what?”

Okay, I should clarify here that I had seen shower curtains before.

It's just that I had always designated them decorative, rather than useful.

“I have one. I'll get it.”

My roommate was not only smart, having lived on her own before, but she was also handy.

In no time, we had a brand new plastic curtain strung from the rod over the tub.

Cool.

But did my education stop there?

Sadly, no.

I prepared for my first shower.

In my new apartment.

As an adult.

I added that last, because you might not have realized it.

Moving on . . .

I had a nice shower and pushed back the curtain.

Oh, man! Now there was water all over the floor!

I was going to have to lay down towels to catch the water that ran down the curtain and onto the floor.

What a pain.

I mopped up the water and dressed.

“Shower curtains are dumb!” I said as I passed my roommate, headed for my room.

“Why?”

“They let water get all over the floor!”

“Ummm . . . Diane, you're supposed to put the curtain inside the tub.”

I stopped and looked at her.

“Really?”

I'm sure she spent the next few moments regretting her decision to invite me to stay with her.

She hid it well.

“Yes,” she said patiently. “If you put the curtain inside the tub, the water runs down the curtain and down the drain.”

“Huh.”

I'd like to say that was the last time I did something silly.

I'd be lying.

It wasn't the curtain that was dumb.

The Difference Between Men and Women -or- My Most Embarrassing Moment

I know it's hard to tell, but there are differences . . .

My husby and I were just finishing supper.

The doorbell rang.

He went to answer it.

It was a good friend from our Drama Society, who needed to discuss . . . drama.

We sat down in the living room.

And discussed.

Then, as usually happened, the discussing turned to visiting.

But something about the visit was odd. He wouldn't look at me.

I should point out that this was a man that both my husby and I had been good friends with for over fifteen years.

We had spent many, many hours together, rehearsing plays. Performing plays. Directing plays.

We all liked plays.

And much of that time had been spent in visiting.

This was the first time he wouldn't look at me while doing so.

Weird.

An hour and a half later, he left.

I shook off my uneasy feelings and went to get ready for bed.

I opened my mouth to floss my teeth.

And discovered that a leaf of lettuce was neatly covering one of my upper front teeth.

Not wedged between.

Not faintly visible.

Covered.

Like it had been painted.

Green.

Ick.

I stared.

Suddenly things were becoming clear.

Suddenly I knew why our friend hadn't been able to look at me during our visit.

I turned to my husby.

“Honey, I have a lettuce leaf covering my tooth!”

“Yes.”

Okay, a man of many words, my husby isn't.

I swallowed. Hard.

“Was it there the whole time we were visiting?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me???!!!”

“I didn't want to embarrass you.”

“What?! You don't think I'm more embarrassed now?!”

He shrugged.

I took a deep breath.

“Honey, I want you to promise me something.”

“Okay,” he said, rather warily.

“Promise me that if you see anything, anything that I would be embarrassed about, you will tell me.”

“Umm. Okay.”

And there we see a fundamental difference between men and women.

Women will go out of their way to tell a total stranger that the tag is sticking out of the back of their blouse.

Or that they have something stuck in their hair.

Or that they have some gravy on their sleeve.

And then offer aid.

Men don't.

Tell, that is.

Or aid.

If they observe it at all, they keep it to themselves.

Even with other men.

I've seen a man standing in a group of men with his fly down.

And his shirttail sticking out of said zipper.

And no one told him.

I asked my husby afterwards if he had observed it.

“Yes.”

“Why didn't anyone say anything.”

“Didn't want to embarrass him.”

Doesn't it occur to these people that it's infinitely more embarrassing to discover these things for oneself hours later?

Yep. One more reason I'm glad I'm a woman.

Muffy the Second

Muffy. With our eldest son, Mark

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.

We love them.

They come as little, furry puppies.

And turn into big, furry dogs.

Gentle. Affectionate. Protective.

Have I mentioned that we love them?

Several of our dogs stand out in my memory.

One is Muffy the Second.

Not to be confused with Muffy the First.

Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.

Muffy lived to eat.

And receive affection.

But mostly to eat.

Moving on . . .

Our youngest son, Tristan had an ice cream cone.

And an audience.

Muffy was sitting nearby, keeping what she hoped was an unobtrusive eye on his actions.

I should point out that in our house, the dogs weren't allowed anywhere near the dining room.

Tristan was in the living room.

The rules were a bit more blurry there.

He had taken a couple of licks.

With the third lick, his little scoop of ice cream vacated the cone and headed for the floor.

It never landed.

In a blur of motion, Muffy was across the room. She had that ice cream downed before Tristan had even realized he had lost it.

Tears ensued.

Tristan, not Muffy.

Another scoop, and all was well.

After Muffy had also been banned from the living room.

Sigh.

People, make up your minds . . .

Another time, rawhide bones had been issued to all three dogs currently residing in the house.

They retreated to favourite corners to chew.

Or so it seemed.

Muffy was again keeping an unobtrusive (she was getting good at it) eye the other two.

Biding her time.

When one of them got distracted, she would sneak in and snatch their bone.

Whereupon (good word) the offended party would look around in confusion, sigh and close their eyes for a nap.

Have I mentioned that they weren't always the brightest bulb in the chandelier?

Finally, Muffy had cornered all of the bones. Happily, she cradled them between her front legs and proceeded to chew, first one, then another.

But that is where her bliss ended.

Oh, not because the other two figured it out.

That would be stretching things.

No. Because the kids came home from school.

Now it was the usual scenario in the Tolley household, that the kids be met at the door by three (not one or two. Three.) dogs.

They would jump around and make general nuisances of themselves in their excitement and enthusiasm.

The dogs, that is.

Ahem . . .

We heard the bus.

Panda and Chief headed for the door, wiggling happily.

I should also mention that an Old English Sheepdog has no tail. Thus, when excited, they wag their entire rear end.

Just FYI . . .

There was much wiggling and snuffling and vying for attention as eight kids came through the door.

And Muffy was missing it.

She whined and cried and fidgeted as she stood over her ill gotten gains, not wanting to leave them for fear of losing them, but sad to be missing all of the excitement.

Finally, it was too much for her.

In a flurry of movement, she joined the others.

Whereupon (that word again) the other two left the melee and dashed over to the bones, each snatching one and heading to their respective corners to resume their interrupted afternoon chew.

Maybe that was their plot all along.

Maybe they were just biding their time.

Muffy finished greeting the kids and ran back to her spot.

To find just one bone.

She sighed and laid down.

Keeping one eye on the other two.

And their bones.

Down, but not defeated.

The stomach rules!

Phobias: Spiders - or - It's a Good Thing I Live in Canada.

Daddy, my brother and me.
No spiders were harmed in the taking of this picture.
But the area was scrutinized closely . . .

Spiders and I have always gotten along.

Provided they are on the opposite side of the room and in plain view so escape-age is entirely possible.

Or better yet, in an entirely different country.

Or planet.

Okay. Spiders and I don't get along.

It all started when I became conscious (ie. born) and lasted until . . . well . . . now.

As I grew, my persnickety-ness became more and more pronounced.

And pro-active.

I would carefully shake out each shoe before I put it on. (I had heard that people in scorpion-infested parts of the world do this regularly. I thought it a good idea.)

Check clothes and coat pockets with a flashlight.

All the usual things one could do while getting dressed.

Because you never knew just where those little beggers would be hiding.

Once, when I was sitting, minding my own business in seventh grade English, I saw a spider climbing down the wall next to me.

I kept a wary eye on it.

You never know – with spiders.

They're tricky.

It climbed slowly down.

Down.

And then scurried across the floor towards the person seated in front of me.

All senses were immediately put on alert.

A few minutes later, when something touched my leg, I leaped nearly seven feet into the air.

Truly.

It's a school record.

You can look it up.

And so it continues to this day.

I do put on a brave face for my children and grand children.

Unfortunately, it looks like the one I wear all of the time, just a little more . . . tense.

Teeth firmly clamped around bottom lip.

Knitted brows.

Sheen of sweat. Glowing slightly.

That sort of thing.

Evil world-destruction plotting spider is approached cautiously and swatted firmly with a fly swatter.

Then beaten unrecognizable with whatever is at hand.

Shoe.

Baseball bat.

I admit it.

Humane disposal and me and spiders don't fit into the same sentence.

Oh. Wait . . .

It's probably a good thing I live where I do, spiders here are teensy.

In Greece, they have been know to carry off pets and small animals and the occasional tourist.

True story. 

Remind me to tell you about it.

Phobias: Baths -or- The Reason I Shower

Daddy and Me.
My parents should have produced
fatter children.
Then all of this could have been
avoided . . .

I loved baths.

Loved them.

In fact, once Mom got me into the tub, it was a major chore to get me out.

I would swim and play like a little fish, till the water cooled to the point that it was tepid.

And I was shivering.

I know. I know.

Makes no sense to me, either.

But I was four.

Little that one does, makes sense when you're four.

Moving on . . .

One day, Mom discovered a technique that shot me out of the tub quicker than a wet, slippery little bar of soap.

She pulled the plug.

While I was still in the tub.

Eeeeek!

What were we saying about making sense?

The water started down the drain.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

And suddenly, I knew that I was going to go down with it.

Oops. There goes Diane.

I knew what my parents would say . . .

“Darn! Lost another one! Guess we'll have to get us another little girl!”

Okay, so even at four I had a lot of imagination.

After that, all Mom had to do was reach for the plug.

It was like she put a current of electricity through the water.

Zip!

I would be standing, shivering on the bathmat.

Clean.

But whole.

Bow City Spectacle . . . er . . . Parade (A Short Story)

Conclusion.

For the next several weeks, the town was abuzz with talk from both Jenna Grace's camp and from F. Roddy's.

Floats were being assembled in nearly every available garage.

Both town bands, the high school marching and the veteran's brass were rehearsing nightly.

Not one, but two Town Sweetheart contests were held. (The town's one hair dresser worked straight out for two days solid, finally collapsing into her own wash chair after completing Mrs. Jasper's elaborate upsweep.)

And, strangely, two Santa's had been engaged. Sleighs, reindeer and all.

Colorful posters from F. Roddy's group began to appear, proclaiming the date and route of the much-anticipated parade.

But before anyone could read them, they were quietly replaced by posters from Jenna Grace's camp.

Which were subsequently torn down and replaced themselves.

This went on until the very day of the parade.

But, as the date and time were consistent in both, the general populace didn't really take much notice of the details, other than that the route would, at some time or other, follow main street.

Thus it was with great anticipation, that the entire town, or at least those few who were not actually in the parade, lined the single main street on the chosen date.

The day was perfect.

Snow had fallen, but only enough to provide a white backdrop to the festivities.

The air was crisp, not too cold, but just enough to put a snap into the air and tint cheeks and noses pink.

The hot chocolate vendor in front of the city hall was doing a brisk business, as was the hot cider man across the street in front of the pool hall.

The smell of freshly-roasted nuts and popcorn filled the air and made smiling mouths water.

There was much talk and laughter and jostling for position.

Finally, the sound of drums.

Everyone stilled and necks craned as people tried to catch the first glimpse of the marching bands which would lead the way.

"They're coming from that way!" Mayor Mayor shouted, pointing to the north.

"No, I think I can hear them coming from this way," Kevin Rhymes said, pointing in the opposite direction.

People strained first one direction, then the other.

Surely the music was coming from both directions?

Sudden movement.

Ah. There, led by F. Roddy Digby enthusiastically swinging a long, gold Marshal's pole, were the town veterans, their brass instruments gleaming in the noon sun, as they blared out their own version of 'Jingle Bells'.

Behind them, colorful floats and decorated bicycles.

Wait. There was more music.

Different music.

Peoples' heads spun back as the High School marching band came into sight.

From the opposite direction.

Led by a smiling Jenna Grace Chappell, waving her own shining symbol of authority, and stepping smartly to the strains of 'Here Comes Santa Claus', they quickly closed the gap that separated the two bands.

Two bands?

Two parades!

The people clapped and cheered.

This was the best parade ever!

For a moment, anyway.

When the two groups were no more than twenty feet apart, Jenna Grace and F. Roddy suddenly came to a stop.

Facing each other.

In the very center of main street.

Each parade came to a halt behind them, stepping smartly in place as the bands continued their respective musical selections.

Narrow-eyed, Jenna Grace and F. Roddy glared at each other, still continuing to beat to the music with their Marshall's poles.

Then F. Roddy raised his eyebrows. "What are you going to do now, Chappell?" he shouted, grinning.

Jenna Grace's eyes flared and, without warning, she swung her Marshal's pole like a baseball bat.

F. Roddy let his pole slide through his fingers and turned to meet the blow.

A hollow 'clang' rang out over the combined music of both orchestras.

It acted like a signal.

Still marching in place, the bands immediately increased their volume.

Attempting to drown out their opposition.

The two Marshals in the center were doing a lively dance, swinging and ducking as they alternately tried to hit their opponent and avoid the other's pole.

The cacophony of sound increased.

Brasses versus brasses, drums against drums, and over it all, the hollow 'crash' and 'clang' of the two Marshal's poles.

The respective songs ended.

One of the tuba players collapsed against his fellows as he blasted out one final note.

There was a moment of comparative silence as each group drew breath to begin again.

Only the rat-tat-tat of the snare drums continued, along with the occasional sound of Marshal's pole meeting Marshal's pole and the grunt of the two protagonists.

Suddenly, Jenna Grace's pole found its way through F. Roddy's defense and hit him squarely in the solar plexus.

F. Roddy went down like a sack of potatoes.

But as he went, he lost his grip on his pole and it fell with evil precision, hitting the top of Jenna Grace's head, who summarily joined him on the pavement.

At that moment, a lone trumpeter began to play 'Let There be Peace on Earth'.

The rest of his orchestra took up the tune.

Then the players from the opposite group joined in.

For the first time, real music drifted from the assembled musicians.

Then the trumpets in the front row of the Veteran's band glanced towards the side street open before all of them and looked back at their fellows in the other orchestra.

The front row trumpets of the High School band nodded and both groups turned, as one, and started down this new path.

Soon the rest of the two parades were following (adroitly avoiding their two erstwhile leaders now sitting up dazedly on the hard pavement), and weaving together to form one giant procession.

The assembled townspeople followed, clapping and laughing and also pointedly stepping around the two on the ground.

Finally, Jenna Grace Chappell and F. Rodney Digby were alone in an empty street.

They stared at each other.

Finally, F. Roddy reached for his much abused Marshall's pole. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed softly and struggled to his feet. "May I assist you?" he said.

"Yes. Please," Jenna Grace replied, reaching for her own battered pole.

F. Roddy reached out a hand and helped her up.

The two of them walked shakily over to the curb and sat down.

For several seconds they remianed there, listening to the fading music.

"So, where did we go wrong?" F. Roddy said.

"I don't know," Jenna Grace replied. "But we did go wrong. Somewhere."

Again, they were silent.

"Care for a cup of hot chocolate?" F. Roddy asked.

Bow City Spectacle . . . er . . . Parade (A Short Story)

Part Three.

Over tiny chicken sandwiches, the Ladies Aid discussed the certain disaster that was to befall their tiny town on December 3.

Mrs. Jasper got so animated that she spilled her tea.

Right into Mrs. Wayan's lap.

A portent of things to come.

The first meeting of the Christmas parade committee was held on October 13.

Chairs had been set up in a non-committal and unbiased circle in the center of the high school gym.

Jenna Grace and R. Roddy were among the first to arrive.

Pointedly ignoring each other, they took seats at polar opposite sides of the circle.

Then they spent the remaining few minutes alternately ignoring or glaring at the other.

Reba wheeled in a coffee/tea cart and parked it beside a waiting table. She pulled out several pans of bars and divided her time between slicing and setting out and hovered anxiously over a fat tea kettle.

The room began to fill with chatting, happy people.

They drifted over to the refreshments and filled plates and cups. Then they found seats in the circle.

The two already seated said nothing.

Slowly, the chatter died out and people uncomfortably concentrated on eating and drinking.

Jenna Grace cleared her throat. "Well, now that we have finished with the 'party' part of the meeting, maybe we can get down to business."

"Exactly what I was going to say," F. Roddy said. "If you hadn't ignored decorum and jumped in."

"Decorum?" Jenna Grace's eyebrows went up. "I just thought someone with a brain should take charge."

"And you just assumed that could be you?" F. Roddy looked at his fingernails.

Jenna Grace puffed up like a toad. "What are you saying, Froddy?" she said. "That you should be in charge?"

"Well you got something right," F. Roddy said, ignoring her mocking use of his name.

The crowd had gone completely silent by this time and were watching the two carefully, their heads swiveling back and forth from one to the other.

Jenna Grace calmed herself with obvious effort. "I think we should put the person in charge who has already proved their leadership skills," she said, smoothing one hand over her immaculate hair.

Jenna Grace always wore her grey-streaked hair scraped tightly into a bun at the back of her head. The thought of even one lock escaping was unthinkable.

"And just what have you organized?" F. Roddy demanded. "I know they were looking for someone to run the cock-fighting out at Cowells. Is it your fine hand we see in that?"

Jenna Grace puffed up again. "How dare you!" she hissed.

"Oh. Sorry. Was there something else?"

"You know dam - darn well, Froddy, that I've organized and directed the Ice Cream Festival for the past eight years!" she shouted.

"Maybe one day there'll be actual ice cream there," F. Roddy said.

Jenna Grace surged to her feet. "I refuse to sit here and be insulted!" she said, and turning smartly, marched towards the door.

"Good. Now you can go somewhere else to be insulted," F. Roddy said.

A sharp "Harrumph" was his only response.

The door banged shut.

"Well, now maybe we can get down to business," F. Roddy said.

An uncomfortable silence met him.

"People?"

"I'm sorry, F. Roddy," Dennis said, getting to his feet. "I agreed to work with Jenna Grace and I'd better honor that."

F. Roddy nodded. "Anyone else?"

Several other people stood up and followed Dennis out the door.

"Well, that's that," F. Roddy said. "Now shall we get down to work?"

Surprisingly, they managed to plan the basic framework for the entire celebration.

"See what you can accomplish when you have the right people?" F. Roddy asked.

Meanwhile, Jenna Grace had circled her wagons on the far side of town.

"Well," she said, tapping several sheets of paper together. "I think that's enough for our first evening. You have all been remarkably efficient and cooperative. Our basic plan is complete. Now all that's left is to flesh it out."

Bow City Spectacle . . . er . . . Parade (A Short Story)

Part Two.

During the weekly town council meeting on October 11, Councilor Makepeace proposed that a Parade Marshal be appointed for the fast approaching Christmas Parade, a highlight of the town's year.

Several names were put forward.

But two people seated impatiently in the crowd immediately surged to their feet.

"I would like to propose my own name," Jenna Grace said loudly.

"And I would like to propose mine," F. Roddy was a breath behind her.

They turned and glared at each other, then, facing the council once more, reiterated their proposals.

With a bit more volume.

"I would like to volunteer!" they said together.

Another glare.

"Me! Me!"

Mayor Mayor stood up and waved two pudgy hands. "We'd like to thank our two volunteers," he said, soothingly. "We appreciate your willingness to give of yourselves and your time," He chuckled. "The council will consider your proposals and get back to you tomorrow."

Mumbling to themselves, Jenna Grace and F. Roddy resumed their seats.

Each shot one last heated glare in the other's direction, then finally subsided.

The meeting concluded and the room emptied, leaving only the council members.

"Well, what do you think we should do?" Karen asked Mayor Mayor.

"I don't have the foggiest idea," he said, smiling at her.

"I have an idea," another councilor, Kevin Rhymes, said.

"Please, Kevin. We welcome any and all suggestions," the mayor said.

"Well, why don't we have the two of them work together?"

"Co-Marshalls?"

"Well, let's face it," Kevin said. "The two of them are trying to drum up votes for the by-election in January, right?"

"I'm sure that's what's behind this sudden surge of community spirit," Karen said.

"Well, let's let them," Kevin said. "See how well they work with each other."

"How well the children play together in the sandbox?" Mayor Mayor said.

The councilors laughed.

"What do you think?" Kevin glanced around at the group.

"Well," the mayor said slowly, "it certainly might prove interesting."

"To say the least," Karen said quietly.

"I think we should let them," another councilor spoke up.

"I agree," said another.

"Shall we hold a little ad hoc vote?" the mayor asked.

"I'm in favor," Kevin said.

"You're the one who proposed it," Karen made a face at him.

He grinned. "So that's one vote."

"What about the rest of you?" the mayor asked.

"I think it's a great idea!"

"I'm in favor."

Finally he turned to Karen. "Things seem to be unanimous, Karen," he said. "Except for you."

Karen shrugged. "Who am I to stand in the way of progress," she said. "I agree."

"Okay, who wants to let them know?"