Horses Are Alike All Over

Go on. Give it a pull!

Horses are fun.

And smart.

They have distinct personalities.

Some are lazy.

Some crafty.

Some love people.

All like to play.

A favourite game when I was growing up was 'tongues'.

You would tickle a horse's lips until he stuck out his tongue, whereupon (good word) you would give it a little pull.

The tongue, I mean.

The horse would whip it back into his mouth.

Then promptly stick it out again.

Pull.

Retract.

Stick out.

Pull.

They loved this game.

They would play it for hours.

Or until you got tired of it.

You can probably guess which scenario usually happened first.

My Husby and I were touring the Buckingham Palace Mews, conducted by the head hostler to the Queen, Edward.

A very proper and pleasant British man.

Who also loved horses.

We were instantly connected.

Moving on . . .

My Husby and I were having a great time.

We had dutifully and happily walked through the coach storage buildings.

And gotten up close and personal with the royal family's famous Gold Coach.

And had headed into the stables.

Ahhh! Heaven!

Horses are intensely curious.

If something is happening, they want to be front and center.

Gawking.

Getting in the way.

Pretending to be startled and fleeing spiritedly.

Coming back to see if there was anything they missed.

For the resident horses, our tour of the stables was out of the ordinary.

Everyone wanted a look.

Heads popped out of stalls the whole length of the building.

One horse, a handsome grey gelding was especially interested.

I should point out here that horses, when they meet another horse, sniff each other's noses.

A much more civilized practice in my opinion than what one would typically see when dogs greet each other.

Ummm . . . back to my story.

The big grey sniffed me.

I sniffed him back, then started to move on.

He moved with me.

I think someone was bored.

I touched his lips.

He licked them.

I pulled his tongue.

His head shot up, startled.

He stared at me for a couple of moments.

Then he stuck out his tongue again.

I pulled it.

He drew it back in.

Then he did it again.

This went on for some time.

Grant and Edward had been standing a little ways off, talking.

The horse and I were enjoying our game.

Then I realized that the stable had fallen silent.

The men were watching us.

Thinking they had finished their conversation, I patted my new friend and started toward them.

The big grey leaned out as far as he could, nickered at me and stuck out his tongue. “Hey! I'm not finished with this game!”

I laughed and patted him again.

Then joined the two men.

Edward was still staring. Finally he shook his head and in his perfectly modulated English accent, said, “I've never seen a horse do that before!”

He looked at me with renewed interest and said,” Any time you want to come back here, you are welcome. Anytime.”

A horse lover knows another horse lover.

And all horses are the same.

No matter what circles they move in.

Dress Up

Tristan - acting evil.

Our family loves to dress up.

Maybe that's the reason we love theatre so much.

It's legal there . . .

For my husby and I, it started in our respective childhoods.

We carried it, happily, into our own family.

Through the years, any excuse to dress up was instantly seized.

Halloween.

NewYear's.

St. Patrick's Day.

Thursday.

As I said, any excuse.

Our costume collection grew apace (real word).

In no time, it outgrew the large cardboard box that I had originally stuffed things into and into its own room.

The kids spent many, many happy hours in that room, playing dress-up.

As they grew, so did their costumes, becoming more elaborate and detailed.

Bunnies, ladybugs and clowns became Elizabethan gowns and chain mail.

And I mean real chain mail.

With gauntlets.

The room that holds the costumes now is bigger than our first living room.

Our neighbourhood has grown accustomed to seeing our family traipsing around, dressed . . . unusually.

It's fun.

And now our grandchildren have caught the spirit.

Sometimes, good things are passed down through the generations . . .

Queen of Hearts

And yes, that's real chain mail. He knits it . . .

Expecting their/our first child/grandchild

A night in Bethlehem

Notice the backpack. Authentic in every way! Not!

My Husby as Teddy Roosevelt

Passing it on to the next generation . . .

Yes. They are PJ's

Chicken Feet

Warning: Graphic chicken action

Mmmm. Dinner!

Some ranch kids end up with a skewed view of life.

Let me explain . . .

Grant was butchering a chicken.

This involves such things as a head and foot-ectomy, removal of several important inner organs, and complete de-feathering.
Our kids had never witnessed this.

I had. (see here)

But, though they had been raised on a ranch, all animals had been sent off site for 'processing'.

This was their first exposure to one of the more graphic of ranch experiences.

I had been a little concerned for their sensibilities.

I needn't have worried.

They were front and center.

And jostling for position.

Grant placed the chosen/unfortunate chicken on the stump and, with one blow, removed the head.

"Oooooh!"

Then he allowed the chicken to go through its death throes.

"Ahhhhh!"

Then the all-important soaking in hot water to loosen the feathers.

"Stinky!"

And the gutting and dismembering.

"Cool!"

Finally, we had, sitting on a plate, what would eventually be our dinner.

The rest of the chicken, the head, viscera and feathers, were gathered together in a sack for disposal.

Then Grant picked up one of the feet.

"Watch this, kids!" he said.

He pulled on a tendon and the foot flexed. Claws closed.

"Wow, Dad, that is the coolest thing ever!"

"Let me try! Let me try!"

They took turns pulling on the exposed tendon.

Squeamish? I think not.

I should point out, here, that we have four strapping sons.

And two gentle, timid daughters.

Not.

Tiana grabbed one of the feet.

"I'm gonna get you!" she hollered at Caitlin.

"Screech!"

And the chase was on.

The two of them spent some time pursuing each other.

Finally, breathless and happy, they relinquished their chicken feet to their impatiently waiting brothers.

Who proceeded to enact act two.

And I had been worried.

Pfffff.

The chicken doesn't fall far from the . . . tree.

So to speak.

Intruder Alert!

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale, so to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual nighttime read.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed.

No one could scream quite like Debbie.

Thinking someone was trying to come in and realizing her state of  'almost-dressed-ness', she scurried out into the front room.

Then she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Thinking something had happened, I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

Something had.

Happened, I mean.

Debbie was collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should tell you, here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

Moving on . . .

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was helpless with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling up her pajama bottoms.

Then she had seen movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her.

She screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a scary sight.

It's a What?!

See? Really old! And mysterious!

On the Stringam ranch, we had an old garage.

Really old.

It was long and single storied with white, stucco siding and very small windows.

At the north end, there was the big garage door.

Opening into a large, dark room.

Which, in turn, opened into the root cellar, described here.

But the root cellar only took up half of the 'basement'.

The other half was a really strange stable.

Well, I thought it was a stable.

It had dividers, forming stalls, though there were no gates.

And it was deeply covered with straw.

The weird thing about this stable was access.

The only entrance/exit was a small window high up in the south wall of the garage.

I often wondered how one could get any animals down there.

Someone didn't plan that very well . . .

No wonder the straw was clean, even though it wasn't fresh.

The small window, however, made an eminently suitable entrance/exit for children.

Like me.

And their toys.

Like mine.

It was my secret place.

My hiding place.

Where no one could find me.

All right, I admit that it was well within hollering distance of the front door of the house.

And that when my Mom wanted me, all she had to do was shout.

But I felt secret.

Hidden.

The single window had no covering, so, during the day, the room was brightly lit. And there was no danger that one could be shut into darkness by a heavy door.

Like in the root cellar, with which I had a history.

Shudder.

Moving on . . .

One could slide in through the window, toys and all, drop into the thick straw, and spend hours in one's own little sunlit, straw-filled world.

Perfection.

It became the place where I parked anything I didn't want the other kids to get into.

And where I hid the stuff I wasn't supposed to get into.

I once lugged in an entire boxful of old pamphlets and envelopes and stationary that Dad had tossed out.

What a treasure!

I would sneak into my secret room to play with it, certain that, if Dad caught me, there would be hell heck to pay.

I felt so sneaky!

I played happily for months in my secret stable.

Finally, I asked Dad what had happened to the door.

He stared at me, puzzled.

I explained that I had to crawl into the little stable through the window. What happened to the door?

He laughed. “That's no stable, Diane. That's the old ice house.”

Ah. Everything was explained.

Not.

“Um. What's an ice house?

Dad tried to explain to me that every winter, the men would go down to the river which just happened to flow right past the garage, and cut great chunks of ice.

Then the ice would be hauled up to the ice house and passed through the little window to someone waiting inside.

The straw was to keep it cold.

Weird.

I suspected that he was pulling my leg because I had played down there for months and I hadn't seen one bit of ice.

“Why would they do that?”

“Well, they needed the ice to keep food cold.”

“Why didn't they use the freezer?”

“They didn't have freezers.”

I stared at him. How could anyone survive without a freezer?

“They didn't even have a fridge.”

Okay, now I knew he was kidding me.

Everyone had a fridge.

Some people, like us, had two.

I shook my head. “Dad. Dad. Dad. That's just silly.”

And I went back to my playing.

But you know something?

He was right.

Sometimes dads are.

Tucked In

Success!

Routines are important.

Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.

The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.

Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.

Teeth brushed.

Hair combed.

Jammies donned.

Stories read.

Family prayer said.

And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.

The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.

I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".

Okay, maybe I will.

Moving on . . .

One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.

Our daughter, Tiana.

She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"

Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.

Then would follow the boosting into bed.

The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.

And the ever important good-night kiss.

Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.

At least until the post-tucking parade began.

One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.

Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.

But notice had been given.

Dad was already on the move.

He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.

Then resumed his chair and his reading.

Tiana re-appeared.

"I'm ready now," she said.

Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said.

"What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!"

"Well, I tucked somebody in."

Tiana ran to her room.

"You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.

Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, I tucked in what was there," he said.

"Dad!"

After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.

She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.

Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.

Clothing.

Toys.

Books.

Homework.

Muffy.

I repeat. Routines are important.

First and Only

- or- Why I never became a smoker . . .

I come from a long line of non-smokers.

Generations of puff-nots.

But my best friend had a cousin staying over for the summer.

A cousin from the big city who had seen it all.

And done most of it.

I was about to get an education . . .

My family lived on a ranch twenty miles from Milk River, in southern Alberta.

Life out there was bliss.

And, because of a lack of outside influences, completely under the control of my parents.

I had seen people smoking.

Certainly I had.

But I had never considered the possibility of being one of them.

Not even for an instant.

Moving on . . .

My parents owned a house in town.

When Mom got tired of driving the twenty miles to take us kids to school and activities, we would move into town.

Until Dad got tired of driving out to the ranch every day to do ranching stuff.

Then we would move back.

It was a fun and exciting way to live.

The benefits of town living.

The joys of the ranch.

But one or the other of our houses sat empty in the interim.

That summer, we were firmly ensconced on the ranch.

So the town house was sitting vacant.

A perfect place for 10-year-old girls to get an education from the 11-year-old-far-more-experienced-and-world-weary cousin from the big city.

My parents had dropped me off at my best friend's house for a - gasp - three day sleep over while they went out of town.

We: my BFF, her younger sister and the Cousin (notice the capital letter) had been knocking around town for most of two days.

It had been an education.

It was about to become more so.

The Cousin bought a packet of cigarettes.

She was going to show us country hicks how to smoke.

Okay, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Our biggest problem lay in finding a secret place in which to do our teaching/learning.

Idea!

My family's empty town house.

I found the key and let us in.

The place echoed emptily.

Perfect!

We went into the main bathroom and dug out the cigarettes.

Cousin proceeded to light up.

Oooh! She looked so cool!

The rest of us were excited to try.

In no time, we each had a cigarette.

She helped us light them.

Soon, my BFF and her sister were blowing smoke in the most approved manner.

It took me a bit longer.

But I got it, once Cousin pointed out that one need to suck.

Not blow.

Oh.

I should point out, here that my parents weren't due to pick me up from my BFF's until the following day.

And, even then, they had no reason to come to this house.

Our smoking education could continue apace.

Without threat of interruption.

But parents never do what they say they are going to.

My BFF's little sister went out to the front room.

And immediately returned, wide-eyed.

"Your parents are here!"

"Sure, sure," I said, taking another puff. "Nice try!"

We all laughed.

A sound that broke off instantly when my Mom appeared at the door.

"Oh," I said. "Ummm . . . hi, Mom."

She looked at me. Looked at the cigarette I held in my hand.

Then turned and left.

Without saying a word.

We quickly cleaned up our mess and headed for the front door.

My parents were waiting in the car.

I said some quick good-byes and climbed in.

For several minutes, my parents said nothing.

Finally, Mom turned to Dad and sighed.

Then Dad turned to me and said, "I very disappointed, Diane."

I was completely crushed.

He didn't know it, but those four words had just killed my cigarette habit.

Forever.

What price education?!

Hands On Reunions

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.

The renewing of ties.

An opportunity to get re-acquainted.

Catch up on family accomplishments.

Additions.

Losses.

Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.

Our eldest son, Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.

He was getting around under his own steam very well.

And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.

For several hours, he wandered around the site.

Exploring.

Eating.

Getting filthy.

All the things that make a little boy so very happy.

He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.

Gorged on hot dogs.

Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.

Spit out the baked beans.

Another story.

Slurped up watermelon.

And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.

He was a happy, filthy little boy.

He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.

I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.

Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.

Really.

I think it was the marshmallows.

Might have been helped along by the watermelon.

I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.

But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.

And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.

Or flippers.

I will admit they were still effective.

He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.

But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.

I went for a wipe.

But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.

While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.

Frodo's bowl.

I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.

And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.

I can't.

By the time I had returned with the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.

In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.

Ick.

And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.

He was happy.

And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water.

Everyone was happy.

Except me.

Hands

My Dad's hands. And Mine.
Look closely. They tell you everything.

Hands tell everything.

I remember sitting in Church beside my dad and comparing my hand to his.

Mine were small, white and smooth.

Unmarked by life and softly innocent.

His were large, square, calloused.

Scarred by barbed wire and by life.

Hands that had wrestled cattle and the occasional bronc.

Hauled hay and grain.

Twisted wire or pounded nails.

Smacked the occasional errant backside.

Prayed.

And tenderly held babies.

Hands that had accomplished something.

I measured my hand against his.

Would mine ever grow to be the same size?

I looked at my Mom's hands.

Long, tapered fingers with close-cropped nails.

Hands that scrubbed surfaces and small, wiggling bodies.

Punched bread and rolled out pie crust.

Cooked and stirred.

Gathered, sorted and folded.

Swept and cleaned.

Prayed.

Hands occasionally stained with ink from her writing.

And also scarred by her forays into the barnyard to help when help was needed.

Hands that soothed when others hurt and applied love and bandages in equal amounts.

And finally folded, blue-veined and fragile, over a still breast in peace.

Hands that had accomplished something.

Yesterday, my granddaughter was sitting next to me.

She placed her hand, soft, white and innocent, against mine.

"Will my hands ever grow as big as yours, Gramma?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"I like to look at your hands, Gramma." She pointed. "What is this scar here?"

"Barbed wire, sweetheart."

"Did it hurt?"

"Probably. But not for long."

"You have lots of scars, Gramma."

"Scars are life, written in your hands," I told her.

"Oh." She turned my hand over. "Lots of scars."

"From doing things," I said.

I thought of the 'things' that my hands have done.

Cooked. Cleaned.

Baked. Sewed.

Wrestled cattle and chickens and pigs.

And small children.

Turned pancakes and pages.

Written.

So many things.

Important things.

I smiled at my granddaughter. "Your hands will do things, too," I said. "Important things."

"Like yours."

"Like mine."

Horse-Trading for Dummies

See what I mean?
Pic from: horseforum.com

At sixteen, I made my first foray into the wide, exciting world of horse trading.

It wasn't a good experience.

Let me explain.

I had been saving my money for months to purchase my first horse.

Okay, yes, we had dozens of horses on the ranch, but none of them had been purchased by me.

See the difference?

Okay, my Dad didn't, either.

Moving on . . .

Some friends of ours knew of a rancher near Waterton Park who had some horses to sell.

Beautiful scenery and a chance to buy my own horse.

It was a perfect world.

We drove into the mountains and left the main road, winding down the mountainside and into the prettiest little ranch I had ever seen.

I was filled with anticipation.

Only the best in horseflesh could come from such a place.

I was wrong.

Just FYI.

The owner introduced us to several horses, but one little bay mare immediately caught my eye.

The rancher noticed.

Perhaps my glassy-eyed stare and drool was a give-away.

He went into his spiel.

Yes. Ranchers have a spiel.

He told me I would love her. Her gait, conformation and performance were perfection.

Here. Let's saddle up and you can take her for a spin.

He did.

I did.

Everything he had said was true.

Sold!

Money exchanged hands.

We loaded the sedate little mare into our handy-dandy trailer and headed home.

Before we had gotten back to the main road, I had a name for my new best friend.

Fancy.

It suited.

Back at home, my Dad got his first look.

He examined her carefully, then shrugged.

I don't know, he said. She looks pretty enough, but I don't know.

Horse sense. Some of them have it . . .

Some of us don't . . .

Sigh.

The next morning, I went out to saddle up my new little beauty.

I got a distinct shock.

During the night, someone had come and switched my sweet tempered little Fancy with a roaring, man-killing beast.

And I do mean man-killing.

The drugs had obviously worn off.

No sooner had I bridled her, then she reared up and struck out at me with her front hooves.

I should point out, here, that hooves are hard.

And can easily be used to cause 'blunt force trauma'.

I watch C.S.I. so I know about B.F.T.

Her first unexpected attack caught me, fortunately on the very top of my head.

Where my skull is the thickest.

She knocked me to my knees, but did no damage.

I struggled quickly to my feet and moved to the nearest far-away place.

Where I watched in wonder as she began her second attack.

Yep. The first attack had been no accident.

But I was ready and she posed no danger at that point.

My decision was made, however.

This horse had to go.

I talked to my friend. The one who had taken me to buy my little whirlwind of terror.

He was very interested.

He should be, he had gotten me into this mess . . .

He dealt with difficult horses and offered, on the spot, to trade me for a horse of my choosing.

This time, I took my Dad with me.

I may be dumb, but I learn quickly.

And we agreed on a nice, black gelding.

Tall. Lively.

But without one important aspect.

He wasn't out for my blood.

An important aspect as it turns out.

'Zee' and I became instant friends.

Something Fancy and I could never be.

Sorry, Fancy.

But it is your fault.

My Favorite Toys

My first/George's third birthday party.
Notice the bull and matador.
How come I didn't have toys like that?

My favourite toys . . . weren't mine.

Because everyone had better toys than me.

Or at least Mom and Dad did.

Their neat toys were all carefully displayed.

On their fireplace mantle.

Okay, I thought it was weird, too.

Especially since they never, ever played with them.

Not once.

I had watched.

There was a plaster matador and bull set.

One of which, had a cape.

And one, horns.

I'll let you sort them out.

They were immensely fun to play with.

Until Mom caught up with me.

"Diane, put those back!"

Sigh.

Then there were the models of bulls.

Horned and polled Herefords.

They were terrific when one wanted to play farm.

Of course, then the matador's bull would have to join in.

Giving the matador just that much more responsibility.

He was tall and strong and handsome.

He could handle it.

"Diane, what did I tell you?!"

Rats.

But the best of all was the bronze horse.

He was glorious.

Standing looking out across the prairie, ears pricked.

He even had a bronze saddle and bridle.

With bronze reins.

"Diane! How on earth did you lug that thing down there! Put it back at once!"

Man, that woman was everywhere!

Mom and Dad's toys entertained me for years.

Until I dropped the matador.

It was an accident!

And twisted the reins off the horse.

Oops. Who knew they would do that?

But I maintain that if they didn't want them played with, they should have put them away.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Christmas Theatrics

Wraith - His usual location

We are a theatrical family.

And by that, I mean that we are deeply involved in theatre.

Not that we are prone to theatrics in the home.

That would just be silly.

The Tolleys are known for things like – bursting into song instantaneously.

And everyone knowing the words.

Launching into long quotes at the mention of a single phrase.

Dressing up.

Our family was, quite literally, raised on the stage.

To anyone not so inclined, we're weird.

We do weird things.

We direct/perform in/produce plays.

We host Medieval feasts for no reason.

We dress up on a theme and invite the neighbourhood to come in and eat pie to celebrate . . . whatever.

To our neighbours, we are that family who doesn't do anything normally.

Even our Christmas decorating is a bit . . . I'm going to go with the PC term and call it . . . different.

We don't do lights.

We did, but we've gotten lazy.

Now our Christmas decorating consists of our Halloween decorating, plus a small addition.

I know. Weird.

Years ago, for her graduating project, our youngest daughter sculpted a wraith.

You heard correctly.

A wraith.

Nine feet tall and rather spooky looking.

We love it.

Wraith at Christmas
And, yes, that's a Humbug hat.
Don't ask . . .

It comes out of our back yard every Halloween and is prominently displayed next to the front door.
Where it can scare the cookies out of the little 'trick-or-treaters'.

And where it usually freezes so solidly to the grass that it must remain through Christmas and into the spring thaw.

Sigh.
How do you hide a nine-foot-tall behemoth?
In plain sight.

You can see what I mean.

Yep. Christmas at the Tolleys.

Everyone welcome!

Enemies are Just Friends You Haven't Met Yet.

Tangmere. History makes me cry.   (bbc.uk.co picture)

Reading my good friend, Joanne's wonderful blog (Cup on the Bus: Old Stories, Old Things), reminded me of something . . .

My Husby worked for Alberta Culture. Specifically building the great museums for which Alberta is famous.

The last two museums had been announced.

One to house a collection of cars and trucks and thing that go. Or fly.

The other to showcase the horse-drawn vehicle era.

Both having to do with transportation.

In preparation for this, my Husby was sent to the UK.

They have museums.

They could offer insight.

Thus, twenty-five years ago, he went.

Taking me.

Because.

It was a wonderful, informative, exhilarating, exhausting, emotional trip.

We saw farm museums. Transit museums. Air museums. Automobile museums.

We even went to the mews at Buckingham palace and got up close and personal with the gold coach.

But one visit stands out above all of the others.

Oh, we had seen exhibits expertly assembled.

Cunningly and beautifully displayed.

Extensive, professional artwork in beautiful buildings.

And trained, informed staff.

But none of them could compete with the (then) little museum, Tangmere.

Near Chichester, England, on the site of the old RAF Tangmere Airfield, this museum was almost exclusively manned by airmen who had served there during WWII.

Perhaps that is what made the difference.

The displays came to life when your guide, who had known the showcased men personally, described them.

He had many stories to tell.

And no few tears were shed in the telling.

One, in particular, I remember most vividly.

The worker/veteran described a gentleman entering the museum.

Alone.

This man wandered from exhibit to exhibit, reading the hand-lettered cards and information.

Studying the artifacts.

Finally, he approached the desk.

"Have you a cemetery?" he asked in heavily German-accented English.

"Why yes, sir. It's just through there." The worker pointed towards a door.

"Thank you." The man went outside.

I'm not sure if it's still there, but there used to be a small cemetery directly behind the main building.

It housed everyone lost during the August 16, 1940 raid on Tangmere during WWII.

Everyone.

The visitor stayed outside for a long time.

Finally, he re-entered the building and returned to the front desk.

"Please excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you have buried the German dead with the English."

The man telling the story got a bit teary-eyed at this point.

"Why yes, sir," he told the man. "They were each and all someone's son."

The German visitor began to cry. Finally he whispered, "I was in the wave of German fighters who bombed you."

The Englishman put out his hand.

"Well it's nice to actually get to meet you!" he said heartily, shaking the other's hand. "And I should tell you that you and your boys made one hell of a mess!"

The worker looked at us. "I don't know what we were when he came in, but we parted friends," he said.

I cried all of the way back to our hotel. 

You Had it Tough? We Rode the Bus!

 . . . or something similar.

You've heard the stories from the past where kids had to walk to school through eight feet of snow.

Uphill.

Both ways.

Well, those didn't apply to me.

I rode the school bus.

Which was an adventure in itself.

Let me explain . . .

School buses in the early sixties were very similar to those driven today.

Yellow.

I'm almost sure there was an engine under the oversized and bulbous hood.

They had a driver.

Seats.

Windows.

And lots and lots of kids.

But busses in the sixties had a few 'extra' features.

Forms of entertainment that simply don't exist today.

Too bad.

Busses today have powered windshield wipers that are sturdy, dependable and have several settings.

They keep on working through rain, snow, sleet, hail.

In fact, anything that may be thrown at the all-important front windshield.

The busses that carted me to and from school had wipers, too.

Just not the kind you see today.

They had what is know as 'vacuum' wipers.

I'm not sure what made them work.

But I know what didn't.

Revving the engine.

If it was raining hard and the wipers were going, all was well.

Until the bus was required to do something untoward.

Like move faster.

Or go up a hill.

The engine would rev.

And the wipers would quit.

The driver would have to roll down the side window and stick his (or her) head outside so they could see.

If the driver took his foot off the accelerator, the wipers would start again.

Push the pedal down? They stopped.

It was enormously entertaining.

But not nearly as much fun as when the bus was required to go up Angel's hill.

Yes. We really had an Angel's hill.

Oh, it's not what you're thinking.

It was simply the hill that led to the Angel family's ranch.

But I digress . . .

Our rather aged vehicle had a hard time going up that hill.

Sometimes, if we had a larger than normal load (perhaps all of us kids had eaten lunch, for example), the bus wouldn't be able to make it.

We'd have to get off and trail along behind the bus till it reached the top.

Well, we younger kids would trail.

The older kids would push.

Whereupon (good word) we would all clamber back aboard and happily find our seats once more.

Huh. I just realized that we did have to walk uphill to get to school.

Pushing the bus.

Good story!

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.