Rodeo Action . . . Without Leaving Home

 Another story from Mom's journals.

How did this . . .

 . . . become this?

Sunday at the Ranch was a day of rest.

We slept in!

Instead of getting up at the uncivilized hour of 5:30 AM, we got up at the uncivilized hour of 6:30 AM.

The Wrangler assigned for the day saddled up Slow Poke and rode out to bring in the horses.

The other cowboys swept out the barn, fed the animals in the feed lots and milked the cow.

The man who drew the short straw got cow-milking duty.

Not a favourite chore.

Especially on Sunday.

And a cause for real irritation to whoever got stuck with it.

'Horse Play' usually erupted around or near.

Let me explain . . .

Hans, an animal lover came down the stairs from the hay loft, Cyclone (the aptly-named barn cat) purring in his arms.

Seeing Joe seated beside the milk cow, grouchily taking his irritation out on poor Jenny, Hans got an idea.

Okay, not a great one, as it turns out, but an idea none the less.

He set the cat on Jenny's back and pulled his tail.

The cat's, I mean.

Whose claws instantly contracted into the innocent old cow's hide.

Bellowing in pain, Jenny lunged forward, kicking wildly to free herself.

The milk bucket flew into the air, spilling its contents all over Joe as he scrambled for the door, desperate to get away from the flying hooves.

Cyclone flew through the air like a rocket.

Five feet off the ground.

He shot through the door with legs spinning, all of his nine lives in jeopardy.

With Jenny, intent only on finding the nearest far-away place, right behind him.

Just as the Wrangler arrived on Slow Poke.

Horse, cow, cat and cowboys met.

Completely out of character, Slow Poke erupted.

With great heaves and grunts, he flung himself into the air.

Sunfishing.

Twisting.

Switching ends.

Pounding the ground.

The Wrangler catapulted into the sky in a beautiful arc.

Over the corral gate.

Everyone stood mesmerized.

In a total state of shock.

The dust settled.

Then the casualties began to moan and move.

Slightly.

This shook everyone out of their trance.

Mark grabbed his vet bag and began to check for cuts, broken bones and heart beats, prodding gently at each limp form.

He swabbed and bandaged and dispensed pain killers.

Then Joe sat up, rubbed his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me in the morning," he said, "I just had a nightmare!" He opened one eye. "I should have gone to church!"

The boys carried Joe to the bunkhouse.

All of the other casualties limped or dragged themselves away to the nearest safe place.

Where they collapsed into a heap.

Everyone survived.

But it was some time before Jenny, Joe, Slow Poke, Cyclone, or any others involved in the spin off would approach the barn without apprehension.

Sundays. Truly a day of rest.

To Megan, On Her Ninth Birthday

Originally written for her father, Mark, on his ninth birthday.

Mark, Nine Years Old

Megan, Nine Years Old

Well, now I'm nine and you can see

The changes time has wrought in me.

I've grown three feet since I was born,

As tall and slim as a stalk of corn.

I've learned about so many things,

I know of bikes and kites and strings.

I can cook and clean and comb my hair,

And help my brothers with evening prayer.

I can haul in wood, or hammer nails,

Or water trees with heavy pails.

I can hold the baby, shine my shoes,

Or sit with you and discuss the news.

I can play piano perfectly,

And beat you at Monopoly.

I can take out garbage, weed and hoe,

Then eat the carrots, row by row.

In fact I've grown so big and tall,

With doing chores and playing ball,

That maybe you can't really see

How young and weak I still can be.

How I take Raccoon to bed at night,

And ask you to leave on the light.

How I still like my whole face kissed

And like to make a 'Christmas List'.

And even though I numb your knee,

I like to be held tenderly.

I like to know that you are proud

And have you tell me right out loud.

Please understand, with all my size,

With knowing looks in big brown eyes,

That I am not as big, you see

As my outside appears to be.

Ignore my size and adult airs,

Forget that I've climbed lots of stairs.

Just hug and kiss and try to see

That little child inside of me.

Something Old. And New

. . . rise the new and improved.

From the ashes . . .

Ranch families know how to have fun.

And it usually involves dancing.

Let me explain . . .

Our barn had burned to the ground.

On my birthday. (see here)

It was a tragedy.

We lost some livestock and all of our tack and equipment.

But out of the ashes arose a newer, better, bigger barn.

With modern conveniences and plenty of room.

And lots and lots of places to play.

That's important when you're four.

Which I was.

Moving on . . .

The new barn was nearing completion.

And needed to be properly initiated.

A barn dance was called for.

I should mention here, that, in my world, barn dances nearly always occurred immediately after the barns were built.

Before the smells from the denizens living below stairs began to permeate the hay loft upstairs.

Enough said.

People began to gather.

The Stringam Ranch is located twenty miles from the nearest town (Milk River) and is surrounded by other ranches.

With ranch families.

You have to look for your entertainment when you are that far from the bright lights.

A barn dance was eagerly anticipated and reason for a lot of excitement.

And everyone, from the elderly to the newly arrived, showed up.

Everyone.

And people began to gather early.

While my Mom was busy in the kitchen, happily baking and cooking.

There was much talk and laughter.

Old friends greeting each other for the first time since last summer's brandings.

The anticipation began to build.

Finally, the piano player arrived.

And then the festivities hit a snag.

She had counted on the Stringams providing the piano.

But our barn didn't come equipped with one.

Go figure.

And this was the 50s.

Electronic anything hadn't been invented yet.

We needed to find a real piano.

ASAP.

A quick phone call to Lethbridge secured one.

But it was an hour and a half away.

With a fast truck.

A willing group was dispatched and the rest of the party began to . . . party.

There was good food to eat and lots of news to catch up on.

The time passed quickly.

Finally, a truck pulled into the yard, horn blaring.

The piano had arrived.

Many hands pulled it from the back of the pickup and pushed into the barn.

There was a brief discussion as to the best way to transport it from the ground floor to the hay loft.

Finally, it was centered beneath a large hay chute door. Ropes were passed beneath it and willing hands pulled it up to the dance floor.

I'm quite sure it must have weighed several hundred pounds.

You couldn't tell.

It was a mere blur of movement as it made the trip.

Within seconds, and I do mean seconds, music was blaring forth.

And the dance floor was crowded.

The Stringam Barn Dance was officially underway.

I should mention, here, that this is where I learned to dance.

Standing on my Dad's feet.

Like many, many of the other kids in the room.

That's just how it was done.

The party continued throughout the night.

We danced the Butterfly, Schottische, Two-steps, various Reels, Old-time waltzes, Polkas and many others.

What the group missed in the first three hours, they made up for in the last.

Everyone started heading for home about the time the sun came up.

Just in time to do morning chores.

There is a codicil.

Remembering the fun we had as children, and seeing a marked decline in the fun old Barn Dance, my family decided to re-introduce it to the world.

We started doing 'Family Dances' in 1990.

It was very popular.

Though we played in very few barns, and had all electronic equipment, the feeling was the same.

Families dancing together.

For nearly twenty years, we provided music and 'on the hoof' instruction to large family groups.

It was . . . fun.

And memorable.

A small slice of ranch life prolonged.

At least for a little while.

Supermom! The Rental . . .

Picture this same number of children
With three less adults.

When we were six . . .

My good friend was in hospital for a couple of days for some minor surgery.

Her four kids (three girls and one boy) were staying with us.

And our (then) four kids. (Three boys and one girl)

The kids were perfectly matched.

Boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl and boy-girl.

And got along very well.

My house was quieter with eight (ranging in ages from 1 to 7) kids in it, than it was with just my own four.

They were all playing happily.

Then I suddenly realized that I needed to go to the store.

Sigh.

The status quo was about to change.

I buckled in what amounted to essentially four sets of twins and started off.

All went well.

We arrived at the store.

I immediately hunted up a cart.

No way I was going to try to herd this bunch without some modern conveniences.

The two babies were buckled into the baby compartment on the cart.

The two toddlers went into the basket.

The two kindergarteners hung onto the outside.

And the two seven year olds were allowed free range.

But with strict instructions to stay close.

We were off!

My errands were run in record time.

Surprisingly.

And, quite suddenly, it was snack time.

I looked into my wallet.

I should point out, here, that my husband had just graduated from post secondary and was working in his first real job.

We were poor.

Well, rich in children.

But poor in things that can actually purchase things.

Moving on.

My wallet held the grand total of two dollars.

Which in itself was a miracle.

I was standing in the middle of the food court, contemplating my options.

They were . . . limited.

Finally, I approached a kiosk called, The Loaf, which specialized in sandwiches made from thick slices of 'freshly-baked-on-the-premises' bread.

"What would you charge for just a slice of fresh bread and butter?" I asked the girl behind the counter.

She scrunched up her face in thought.

Really.

Scrunched.

Then she said, "Twenty-five cents."

The magic words.

I ordered eight slices of fresh bread and butter and handed her my two dollars.

Then I passed out slices of thick, warm, fresh bread to each of my little hoard.

Who happily chowed down.

A cowboy term for tucking in.

Which is another cowboy term for . . . oh, never mind.

You get the picture.

They ate.

And enjoyed.

A couple walked past while my kids were busy . . . umm . . . enjoying.

"What a good idea for a snack!" the woman exclaimed. "I think you are the best mother I have ever seen!"

I smiled, rather self-consciously.

'Best mother' is obviously code for 'too-broke-to-buy-anything-else'.

We finished our snack and headed back to the Sears for one last item.

My friend's eldest daughter, who had been following closely asked if she could dart over and peek at the girl's blouses.

I told her that it was fine. I would just walk slowly so she could catch up.

And continued down the aisle.

I passed one of the entrances to the store.

Two women had just come in.

They, a mother and her mother, were struggling to control a small boy of about two.

Who was red-faced and screaming.

Actually, now that I think of it, all of them were red-faced and . . .

Ahem.

Back to my story.

The grandmother looked up and noticed me walk past with my cart full to overflowing with children and said," Here the two of us can't control one child and that woman," she pointed, "has . . . five, six, seven!"

Just then, my friend's oldest daughter rejoined our group.

I smiled at the women and said, "Eight."

And walked on.

Okay, I know it wasn't strictly truthful.

But it was so much fun to say it!!!

And, just for a moment, I felt like SUPERMOM!

A Good Case of Mistaken Identity

Sorrel gelding (or neutered male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, we would present ourselves to our teacher at the tack shed and draw our piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

We would each grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, we would pick out a suitable mount (re: one that we could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing you were ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining.

A fairly common occurrence.

The wind wasn't blowing.

Not so common.

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown colour) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

With just a halter.

Something that had never been done before (or since) with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day.

With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Sisters in the Gospel

Sisters

Also a Sister

In our church, everyone is addressed either as 'Brother' or 'Sister'.

It gives a fun, family feel to the congregation.

And to the whole 'attending church' scenario.

It was something I was raised with.

Women my Mom's age were Sisters.

Men were Brothers.

Life was simple.

Moving forward twenty years.

Still attending church.

Still addressing each other as either Brother or Sister.

But now, there was a new generation, calling me Sister.

I should point out, here, that when you work in the children's organization, or Primary, you instantly gain rock-star status if your class members meet you outside of church.

Hence, you can be wandering in the mall and a young voice will scream out, "Mom, look! It's Sister Tolley!"

And I do mean shout.

One day, I was shopping with my children, plus a few.

Because who wants to go shopping with just your parents and siblings?

A cry suddenly rattled the rafters of the local Safeway.

"Sister Tolley! I didn't know you shopped here, too! Look! Look! It's Sister Tolley!"

And then a chorus of "Hi, Sister Tolley!" "Sister Tolley, look what I'm wearing!" And the all-important, "Sister Tolley, look what I can do!"

It was adorable.

I oohed and aahed over their clothes and accomplishments and our two groups separated, intent once more on whatever it was that had originally brought us into the store.

One of the boys who had come along for the amazing experience of shopping with two parents and ten children turned to my son and whispered, loudly, "Wow! I didn't know your Mom was a nun!"

Okay. Not something you hear every day.

Or ever.

My Very Short Life as an Entrepreneur

You think these beds look nice . . .
You should see what's underneath!

The world was a magical place!

I was rich beyond my wildest dreams!

And the treasure trove I had just discovered had been right under my bed the whole time.

Who knew?!

Maybe I should back up a bit . . .

My Mom and Dad had taken us kids to The Fair.

Mostly so we could see the cattle competitions, I admit, but eventually, to take in the sights and sounds and tastes of the midway.

First, came the sounds.

And once I got used to the fact that all of the shouting and screams I could hear were actually people having fun, I was able to relax a little.

And take in the sights.

That was a lot for my four-year-old eyes to take in.

There were rides.

Merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, Ferris wheels and tilt-a-whirls.

Adventures.

The haunted house. The pirate's den.

And sideshows.

The alligator man and the girl who turned into an ape.

And then there was food.

I had been too frightened to be coaxed onto any of the rides.

Apart from the merry-go-round.

A quirk that exists to this very day.

But I didn't have to be convinced to try the food.

A foot-long hot dog, heavy with ketchup and mustard. A cob of corn, dripping butter. Several donuts. An ice cream cone.

I was certain that I had never had so much fun in my life.

Or eaten as well.

But the best was yet to come.

Something that I never could have imagined.

A treat that was fluffy and melty and oh, so good.

Cotton candy!

The Fair had just become the most amazing experience of my entire four years.

A memory that I treasured long, long into the future.

Or at least three weeks into the future.

I was looking for one of my toys.

It wasn't in sight.

I decided to look in places that weren't in sight.

Under the bed.

There, I made the most remarkable discovery.

Cotton candy.

Just laying there!

I picked it up.

It was definitely cotton candy.

I set it on the bed and bent over, looking for more.

I don't want to suggest here, that my Mom didn't keep a clean house.

She did.

It's just that a husband, six kids, a couple of dogs, a two-acre garden and several hired men can make it difficult for one to get to the hidden surfaces in one's home.

Enough said.

I scrabbled around under all of the beds in the house and managed to come up with a small mound of the magical substance.

Wow! I could sell this to the kids in the neighbourhood.

The ones to whom, like me, The Fair was a sweet and delightful, though distant, memory.

I began counting pennies in my head.

I carried my treasure out to my Mom.

"Look what I found!" I said.

"Oh!" Mom said. She was as pleased as I was, obviously. "Where did you find that?"

"Under my bed. And Jerry's bed. And George's bed. And . . ."

"Never mind," Mom said. "Here. Let me take care of it." She reached for it.

I snatched it away. Was she crazy? Did she really think that I would just hand her my treasure?

She looked at me.

"Diane, what are you going to do with that?"

"I'm taking it outside to sell to the other kids."

"You're going to sell it."

She was crazy. Couldn't she see the windfall that I held in my two little hands?

"Diane, what do you think that is?"

"Candy floss," I told her. I frowned. What did she think it was?

"Maybe you should taste it," she said.

No problem. I selected a choice bit and pushed it into my mouth.

Okay, first off, this didn't melt like the 'fair' type.

And second . . . ick!

I spit it out.

Mom laughed. "Diane, those are dust bunnies."

I stared at her. Then at my treasure.

No way those were bunnies.

"That's what they're called," she explained. "They're just dirt that has blown into a clump under the bed."

Well, whose idea was that?

Disgusted, I handed her my treasure to dispose of.

I learned some things that day:

1. Things found under the bed are usually there for a reason.
2. And not a good one.
3. If your going to make money, salesmanship scores over taste.
4. In fact, forget taste all together.

The Nutella Protocol

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

My Husby has been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

To say the least . . .

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into emergency.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess.

And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

It kept his motor running.

Gentlemen, raise your spoons!

80s Spell-Checker

Ummm . . . less speller extraordinary

Speller extraordinaire

Our second son is, in many ways, like his father.

It's a good thing.

One of the most notable is his ability to spell.

Anything.

Any time.

It's a gift.

I should mention, here, that I don't have this gift.

Enough said . . .

It was the early 80's.

My brother, Blair, was working on his Bachelor's degree in Engineering.

We had a computer.

He visited.

Often.

Our computer was in our eight-year-old second son, Erik's room.

Blair would work there by the light of a single lamp.

We would hear the clicking of the keys late into the night.

Erik was supposed to be sleeping.

He wasn't.

Occasionally, the keyboard sounds would stop.

Then I would hear the brief sound of voices.

Then the clicking would resume.

Finally, Erik came out of the room, needing a drink of water.

I was tidying the kitchen.

He moved close to me.

"Mom," he whispered. "Uncle Blair can't spell."

Ah. The occasional sound of voices was explained.

Blair was consulting with his spell-checker.

It must have worked.

He went on to achieve a doctorate in Engineering.

Okay, I admit that today's sophisticated spell-checker programs are probably more efficient.

And more easily accessible.

And don't need their sleep.

But none of those programs have personality.

And certainly aren't as cute.

Progress isn't always  . . . ummm . . . progress.

Sunday: Family/Bonanza Night

Tell me you remember . . . sigh!

Yesterday's blog was about fire.

And Bonanza.

And my youngest brother, Blair, reminded me of something that filled us with glee.

When we were kids.

Every Sunday evening.

I should point out, here, that Sundays were family/TV nights.

Our one TV channel outdid itself on that particular evening.

And if we were good . . .

Okay, I admit it, even if we weren't good . . .

We got to watch.

First Disney's Wonderful World of colour.

In black and white and shades of grey.

Then Ed Sullivan.

Eeeee!

Then Bonanza.

The best of them all.

The cherry on top of the Sunday . . . well . . . sundae.

Not a sound would be heard.

We barely breathed.

Pa and Adam and Hoss and Little Joe filled the air around us.

There was room for nothing else.

If you wanted to do something noisy . . .

Like blink.

Or swallow.

Do it during the commercials from the Kraft Kitchens.

Wimp!

But the best part . . .

The best part, was the opening: du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza!

Du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza is it's name!

We'd 'sing' along happily and wait.

Remember the aforementioned (good word) no breathing.

That would be here, too.

Warning: Hot!

Because the fire was coming.

From the map that burned.

Right there on the screen.

All of us kids would run up and touch the B&W&SOG (see above) flames and then run howling and screaming about the room.

Pretending we had been mortally burned.

Our patient parents would nod and smile and shake their heads and wait for the music to finish.

Because that would be our cue for absolute quiet.

Without either of them having to say a word.

Sunday evening.

With family.

And Bonanza.

It just didn't get any better than that.

They Burn Garbage, Don't They?

That's Entertainment!

On the ranch, in the 50s, we burned our garbage.

It was the only option.

Each week, the trash cans were collected from every room in the house

Carried out to the burning barrel.

Emptied into said barrel.

And set alight.

It was an exciting job.

Okay, well, it looked exciting to me.

Probably because the task came with an 'age appropriate' rating.

And I hadn't reached that age.

Sigh.

I would scurry through the house, collecting bins for whoever was assigned.

Then help them lug everything to the trash barrel.

Then stand back and watch as they . . .

 . . . LIT THE MATCH.

Oooooo!

Most of the time, it only took one.

Match, that is.

I was more than fascinated.

The lit match would be lowered into the barrel.

A curl of smoke would issue forth.

Then the first of the flames.

There was nothing . . . I repeat nothing . . . more exciting.

And I had been to movies.

And watched Bonanza on TV.

Okay, well, maybe I'd better exclude Bonanza.

I mean, who could possibly compete with Pa Cartwright?

And his buckskin gelding.

Ahhh.

I've wandered from the point . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Garbage.

And burning it.

For years, I watched, enviously as, first my parents, then my older siblings got to light the match.

Slowly, the day approached when I would be trusted with the all-important job.

And then, it was here.

"Diane, would you please burn the garbage?"

Eeeeeeee!

I carefully collected every bin.

Toted them all down to the barrel.

Chose one at random and dumped its contents.

Chose another.

And another.

And finally, surrounded by empty trash cans, the magic moment.

I lit the match.

And dropped it carefully into the accumulated trash.

It winked out.

Huh.

I tried again.

Same thing.

This was harder than it looked.

Most of a book of matches later, I discovered that I needed to choose a piece of paper as my first victim.

Light that, then let it light the rest.

Ahhh!

Finally, I had a blaze.

I stepped back and watched proudly.

My first trash fire.

Okay, I admit it, you have to look for opportunities to shine in this life.

Within a few weeks, I was an old hand at 'burning the trash'.

I could collect, empty and light with the best of them.

And use one match.

And then the gloss wore off.

Dad: "Diane. Time to take out the trash."

Me: "Can't someone else do it? I'm watching Woody Woodpecker!"

Blair: "I'll do it!"

Dad: "Blair can help, but Diane has to light the match."

Me: [Huge sigh.] "Okay. Fine."

Blair: "Yipee!"

The fire circle of life.

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.