Parents Always Find Out . . .

Not-Quite-Sanctuary. The family ranch in Fort MacLeod.

You can't hide things from your parents.

Just ask me.

Okay, I'll tell you . . .

I had my first 'official' job.

My Dad would argue this, as I worked for him for eight years.

But my first job-away-from-daddy's-ranch job.

It involved moving to Calgary, a city two hours to the north.

And all the things that 'moving out' entails.

Back to my story.

I had been an official Monday to Friday resident of Calgary for four months.

And feeling mighty independent as I made my weekly drive to my parent's ranch to fill my gas tank and stock up on food.

You look at 'independence' your way and I'll look at it in mine.

Ahem.

Just as I was driving into Claresholm, a small town just north of  the ranch, an ad came on the radio.

A rather effective ad, as it turns out.

Wherein (good word) different people were asked what is most important in their lives.

There were various answers, the last of which is 'family'.

Followed immediately by the sound of screeching tires and an obvious vehicle collision.

I hadn't seen my family in six days.

Okay, yes. And I'm a wuss.

The ad hit me hard.

I started to cry.

At that point, things got a little confused.

My Old English Sheepdog, Muffy, happily ensconced in her seat of power (commonly known as 'shotgun') came unglued.

Tears did that to her.

She alternately tried to lick my face.

And crawl into my lap.

Neither of which is very desirable when one is hurtling along the road at 40 MPH.

Which, if I could have seen clearly, should have been 30 MPH.

You can guess what happened next.

Red and blue lights erupted just after the last intersection.

And a wavery figure was indicating, rather forcefully, that I pull over.

Sigh.

He poked his head into my car, took one look at my red-rimmed eyes and tear-drenched face and immediately withdrew.

"Come to my car when you've composed yourself," he mumbled.

Then disappeared.

I dried my face and blew my nose.

Then calmed Muffy, who was still under the mistaken impression that I needed some good, doggy-style comforting.

Then I made my way over to the officer's car.

We had a nice chat, which culminated in an issued ticket for $25.00 and a warning to 'be more careful'.

Then, just as I reached for the door handle, the officer said, "If you don't mind. Why were you crying?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's silly, really," I told him.

"Do you mind telling me?"

"No." I related the entire fiasco, sparked by the ad on the radio.

It lost nothing in the telling.

I so love a good story.

He chuckled.

Yes. People did that back then.

Chuckled, I mean.

"I remember when I first went out to Regina for my RCMP training," he said. "I was one homesick puppy! I had never been away from home and I really missed my family."

We chatted a while longer.

Mostly about families and missing them.

And the incongruence (real word) of airing radio ads about car accidents specifically designed to make people cry.

And cause more car accidents.

I know. It doesn't make sense to me, either.

Then I left.

A few days later I paid my ticket and all was forgotten.

Or so I thought.

Moving forward several weeks.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when my parents came back from a quick trip to Calgary.

Dad came in and stopped beside my chair.

"How do you know an RCMP officer in Claresholm?" he asked.

I stared at him.

RCMP Officer? I didn't . . .

Oh!

I had to tell them the entire story, which I had formerly neglected to tell them.

Due to my reluctance to confess.

Dad chuckled.

See? Chuckling again. It did happen.

"So how did you find out?" I demanded.

"Your mother and I just went through a check-stop in Claresholm," Dad said.

"Oh," I said.

"And this very kind and cheerful officer took one look at my license and asked me if I had a daughter, Diane."

"Oh," I said again.

"You can't blame us for being curious."

"Umm . . . so . . . what did he say?" I could feel my face getting red.

I hate it when that happens.

"He just told us that we had quite a daughter."

"Oh."

"Your Mother and I agreed with him." Dad smiled. "He handed back my license and waved us off."

"Oh." For a normally talkative person, I was really groping around for something to say.

Dad patted my arm.

"And don't speed," he said.

See? Parents always find out.

Don't Eat That! You Don't Know Where It's Been!

Chris. Taste is everything . . .

My parents were travelling and had made a stop in a small town for lunch.

At a tiny hotel restaurant.

They perused (real word) the menu and made selections for themselves and their -then- three children.

This was pre-Diane days.

Oh, the joy that was in store for them!

Soon they would welcome Diane . . .

Wait.

Where was I?
Oh yes.

Restaurant.

Lunch.

Ahem.

They made their order.

And waited.

Suddenly, Mom noticed that my elder sister, Chris, age four or so was chewing happily on something.

She watched her, suspiciously, for a few moments.

Finally, "Chris, what are you chewing?"

My sister looked up at Mom and said, "Gum."

"Oh."

Mom thought about it for a moment.

"Wait a minute. You're chewing on gum?"

"Umm-hmm," Chris said, still chewing.

"I didn't give you any gum." Mom turned to Dad. "Did you give her some gum?"

He shook his head and pulled Jerry out of the sugar bowl. "Enough sugar, son."

"Well where on earth did she get gum?"

"Why don't you ask her?" Dad said. "Jerry, leave the salt and pepper alone."

Mom turned to Chris. "Honey, where did you get the gum?"

Chris slid the wad in her mouth to one side and said, "Here, Mom!"

She pointed . . . under . . . the table.

"There's lots more! You want some?"

Hair Today. Gone Tomorrow

See? Cute. But hairless . . .

I don't want to say that our second son didn't have any hair when he was born, but . . .

Okay. He didn't have any hair.

There is a story behind that . . .

And it all has to do with tomatoes.

Tomatoes?!

When I was expecting him, I craved tomatoes.

CRAVED.

I couldn't get enough tomatoes.

Or anything remotely 'tomato'.

We ate tacos a lot.

Four or five times a week.

Fortunately, my Husby liked tacos.

Have I mentioned that my Husby is a patient lad?

Well, he is.

Moving on . . .

Our tacos were very heavy in the tomato department.

Fresh, diced.

Mixed into the meat as tomato sauce from a can.

Spooned on as salsa (pico de gallo).

I think we could quite literally have called them 'tomato tacos'.

Oh, and I added Tabasco sauce.

A lot of Tabasco sauce.

Because, along with my out-of-control craving for tomatoes, was my even-more-out-of-control craving for things spicy.

So my usual routine was:

1. Taco shell.
2. Smear with Salsa. The hottest that could be found.
3. Spoon in meat, complete with lots of tomato.
4. Add another giant spoon of Salsa
5. Cover with fresh, diced tomatoes.
6. Add fresh, diced onions and shredded cheese.
7. Add another spoonful of salsa.
8. Just because.
9. Add seven drops of Tabasco. Seven. Not one drop more or less.
10. Eat.
11. Repeat.
12. Several times
13. Mmmmm.

When my baby boy was born, he had no hair on his little round head.

My Husby maintains that I burned it off.

But what do Husby's know . . .?

An interesting side note:

The day I brought my baby home from the hospital, I again made tacos.

I had been days without them and was definitely needing my fix.

I put a taco together in the same fashion that had become routine in the preceding months . . .

And couldn't eat it.

It was so hot, I couldn't get it anywhere near my face, let alone inside my mouth.

Weird.

Another side note:

My Dad, from the day that Erik was born until he was two and actually began to grow hair, called my son 'Cueball'.

Really.

He even painted an 'eight' on top of his head.

True story.

Yep.

All due to tomatoes.

Who knew?

The Pros and Cons of Plastic -or- Beautiful = Fragile

The picture of formality . . .

My husband's sister loves to entertain.

And she does it well.

Beautiful china, fine crystal stemware, heavy silver utensils.

China and crystal serving platters.

Everything beautiful and perfect.

She even insists that the children be included.

Crystal and all.

And that is where our story begins . . .

We had been invited to the Williams home to celebrate a momentous occasion.

I don't remember which momentous occasion.

A birthday or something else noteworthy.

The important point is that we had been invited.

And we were excited to go.

Moving on . . .

We arrived.

We were the proud parents of two sons at that point in time.

An infant and a two-year-old.

The latter of which was sat on a booster seat among the shining, beautiful appointments on the table.

His mother was . . . how shall I say this . . . concerned.

But dinner was announced.

And duly consumed.

Completely without mishap.

Miracles do occur.

We were sitting at the table, visiting.

Digesting happily.

Our youngest son had been put to bed and our eldest was playing with toys and cousins on the floor at our feet.

A peaceful, blissful scene.

Our son stood up and toddled over to me.

"Drink!" he demanded.

At least that is what I translated it to say.

It sounded a bit different in 'toddler'.

My sister-in-law handed me a crystal goblet of water.

"Here," she said.

I held the glass for my son.

He clamped his teeth into the side.

As he did with all of the Tupperware glasses we had at home.

And immediately bit out a small, moon-shaped piece of fine crystal.

I shrieked and dropped the glass.

The pried his mouth open.

He hadn't swallowed.

What did I say about miracles?

We were able to retrieve the little piece of crystal, intact, from my son's mouth.

No injuries occurred.

But the lesson remained.

From then on, whenever we sat to dine with my husband's sister, everyone had fine china, crystal and silverware.

Except my children.

With their sharp teeth.

And their indestructible Tupperware.

The brightly-coloured plastic might have been a jarring note in an otherwise picture-perfect setting.

But it was safe.

As every family gathering should be.

Another Language Barrier

Don't let the dapper exterior fool you.
Somewhere inside is that  9-year-old.

Ah. Influencing the young and innocent.

Even in families.

It's not always a good thing . . .

When my Dad was nine, his oldest brother lived close by.

His married oldest brother.

Who had a three-year-old son, Brian.

Brian adored his much older uncle.

He toddled along after 'Unca Mark' whenever he could.

Usually a good thing.

Occasionally . . . not.

My Dad had the twice-daily chore of milking the cow.

Brian loved to go along.

Just because.

It was a fun, companionable time for the two boys.

All was well.

One day, Brian's mother sat him in a chair in the kitchen and prepared to give her small son a haircut.

She combed the unruly locks into submission.

"Ouch!" Brian  said.

"Sorry, dear, but you have some tangles."

"Ouch!" Brian said again. "Mo-om!"

"Almost through."

"Ouch!"

Brian glared at his mom.

"If you do that again, I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'!"
His mother stopped combing. "What?"

"I'm going to have to say 'Sunny Beach'."

"What?" she asked again.

"Suunnny Beeeach," he said slowly and patiently.

Light dawned.

"You mean 'Son of a . . .'"

Her mouth dropped open in horror.
She gripped his small shoulder.

"Where did you hear that?!"

He stared at her, not understanding her panic.

She gave his shoulder a little shake. "Where did you hear that?!"

"That's what Unca Mark says when the cow kicks him!"

Two things resulted from that haircut.

1. Brian actually did get his hair shortened.
2. 'Unca Mark' received a lecture on language and its proper uses. Oh! And . . .
3. I just realized that, when it came to cursing, my Dad didn't have a leg to stand on (see here).  

It's a good world.

Twenty-Four Hour Old Scotch

Okay. This story is about urine specimens.

Ick.

Those who are faint of heart or easily queasy, stop now.

Stop.

I told you to stop.

You don't listen, do you?!

You asked for it  . . .

In today's world, when a doctor requires a urine specimen, he sends his patient to the 'lab'.

See. Handy and dandy.

Or supplies said patient with a handy, dandy little container.

Complete with antiseptic wipes.

This wasn't always the case.

 Let me tell you about it . . .

My parents had been shopping.

I should probably mention, here, that in the 50s, no one ever locked their cars.

This is important.

Moving on . . .

Dad was helping Mom into the car.

A short distance away, a woman was also getting into her car.

A very obviously pregnant woman.

She opened the door.

Then gasped and leaned against her car.

Dad hurried over.

“Are you all right?”

Then he realized that she was laughing.

Really laughing.

“Are you all right?” he asked again.

The woman straightened and wiped her eyes.

Then she pointed at the car seat.

“The . . . the bottle!” she gasped.

Then went into another peal of laughter.

By this time, Mom had joined them.

She and Dad looked at each other and Dad shrugged.

Must be a pregnancy thing.

Finally, the woman calmed somewhat and again, wiped her eyes.

She looked at my parents.

“I'm on my way to my doctor,” she said.

Okay . . .

She looked back into her car and cleared her throat.

“I was supposed to bring in a urine sample.” She pointed into her car. “I left it there.”

My parents glanced at the empty car seat.

The woman looked at them again.

“The only empty bottle I could find was a whisky bottle,” she said.

Ah.

“You left a urine sample in a whisky bottle on the front seat of your car?”

Things aren't always as they appear . . .

Dad was catching on fast.

The woman nodded.

“And someone stole it?”

Again she nodded. “They must have.”

Dad started to laugh.

He ushered Mom back to their car and helped her in.

Then he got into the car and sat back, still laughing.

“What's so funny?” Mom asked.

“Well, all I can think about is how the thief will discover his mistake!” Dad said. “What if it was some kids! Can't you see it? ”

“This is whisky? I don't know what all the fuss is about!”

To Hair is Human

Okay. See? Here she looks like a girl!

Sometimes, being thrifty has its limits.

When I was eighteen, my Mom taught me to cut hair.

She thought it was a skill I would need as I contemplated starting my own family.

The brave lady used herself as my working model.

Let's just say that, for several months, my Mom's hair was . . . interesting.

And leave it at that.

Her bravery was rewarded.

I learned to cut hair.

In one style.

And short.

Moving forward several years.

My Husby and I were blessed with three sons.

All of whom had the same barber.

Me.

I got quite proficient at boy's haircuts.

And fairly proud of myself.

We all know about pride, right.

After three sons, our family increased in size once more.

By a daughter.

A girl?

I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.

I had been raised in the barn.

With the horses.

And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.

Or interest.

I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.

Holy Smoke!

My exact words.

It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.

I muddled through.

Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.

And was gleaming bald till she was two.

That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.

But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.

?????

Or cutting.

I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.

All was well.

Or so I thought.

At this point in time, our family was engaged in providing 'Family Dances'.

It was fun.

One evening, several young boys ran up to the booth and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.

I stared at them.

We didn't have any of our sons with us.

And our daughter was . . .

Ah!

I learned to do hair.

And also to dress my daughter as a girl.

But that is another story.

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.