Ski Pants for Sale - Cheap

Skier Extraordinaire!

It has finally snowed in Edmonton, Alberta.

Significantly.

The first real snow of the winter.

I know. I know.

Weird.

The skiers are ecstatic.

And that reminds me of a story . . .

My siblings and I loved to ski.

Our Dad had introduced us to it the winter I turned eight and it had become a . . . habit.

Well, actually more of a fixation, but we'll go with habit.

We went every chance we could get.

And scoured the catalogues for new and wonderful accessories for our grand passion.

I had just made my first official 'ski' purchase.

New ski pants.

They were expensive.

But gorgeous.

Dark brown.

Perfect fit.

I was going to wow everyone on that hill!

I couldn't do it with my skiing.

This was the next best thing.

I should explain, here, that ski pants in the 60s weren't the stretchable remarkable cloth that we have now.

In fact, they were distinctly . . . un-stretchable.

Something which will figure largely in my story later.

But they had little side zippers at the ankles.

And they had little elastics that slid under your foot.

They were nifty (real word).

Happily, I donned them and my brother and I were off.

Now, I should explain, here, that Big Mountain in Whitefish Montana was a wonderful place to ski.

There were numerous slopes.

Each with its own particular brand of ski tow.

I always chose the expert slope.

Not that I could actually ski the expert slope.

For two other reasons.

1. It had a ski trail that wound around behind and through the wonderful forest, and
2. The trail came out at the top of the Intermediate slope, allowing the skier to then ski to the bottom.
3. Comparatively unharmed.

It was the best of all worlds.

I made my first run to the top of the expert slope.

Disembarked.

Well, slid off the chairlift into a heap.

But to one side.

An important point.

I got my limbs more-or-less together and headed for the mouth of the trail.

It was stunningly beautiful.

The sun was shining.

There had just been a fresh fall of snow.

Over a foot of sparkling, fluffy whiteness blanketed the landscape.

I took a deep, satisfying breath of the spicy air and slid onto the trail.

For the next 20 minutes, I was in heaven.

Finally, the trail ended.

I slid quickly out onto the slope.

Only to discover that it hadn't yet been touched by . . . anything.

It was still in it's pristine, just-been-snowed-on condition.

It took me a few moments to discover that this could present a problem.

The trail I had been on had been fairly packed.

My skis were still on that level.

They hadn't yet adjusted to the extra foot of snow.

I was sliding along with everything below my knees hidden in the fresh snow.

For a second, it was fun.

Then I hit something.

I never discovered what it was.

A rock.

A lump of ice.

Whatever.

It stopped me.

Instantly.

I wasn't prepared.

My body, already bent forward in my best 'snowplow' position, bent further.

In fact, I whacked my forehead on my knees.

Something I wish I could do today.

But I digress . . .

My glasses popped off into the deep snow.

Oh, rats.

I rubbed my head and scrabbled around in the snow, finally, triumphantly extracting my glasses.

Then I straightened.

And felt a draft.

Oh-oh.

Remember what I had said about my ski pants being - not stretchy?

This would be where that fact comes into play.

When my body had done its 'fold-in-half' trick, it proved to be something my new pants had been completely unprepared for.

They split from waistband to waistband, right along the crotch.

I was now effectively wearing two pant legs.

Held up with a narrow strip of cloth at the top.

I definitely needed a longer coat.

Or a loincloth.

And this was the first run of the day.

Sigh.

I made the run down the slope as carefully and unobtrusively as possible, then sneaked to the truck and my suitcase.

The change from my new, albeit flimsy ski pants to my usual jeans was accomplished in a minimum of time.

And I was back on the slope.

For the first few runs, I carefully peered at people to see if anyone recognized me as the almost-pantless girl who had been on the slope a short time earlier.

But, as no one seemed to be paying much attention to me, I finally relaxed.

But I learned something that day.

Expensive can sometimes mean cheap.

It just costs more.

Vaccinations 101 -or- Man, It's Cold!

Oh sure . . . they look healthy now . . .

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

And calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.

But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But we learned several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold.
5. So all vaccinating should be done in . . . Arizona.
6. And you might just work in a little holiday at the same time . . .

You heard it here first.

Any Excuse for a Water Fight.

Not just for vaccinations any more . . .

My Dad once shot my Husby through the wall of our family home with a pistol.
Maybe I should explain . . .
The first summer after my Husby and I got married was blistering hot.

Dad decided that the ranch house needed air conditioning.

There were a few complications.

It was a very old house.

With very small windows.

Difficult to park one of the quick and convenient 'window-mount' air conditioners.

He decided that he would have a unit installed in the wall of the family room.

Easy.

All one had to do was remove a window-sized chunk of wall and voila!

Instant access.

Now who to talk into the job?

Ah. His newest son-in-law.

The one who could do everything.

Handy.

My Husby was happy to do it.

He'd never done it before.

And it presented a new and different challenge.

Excellent.

He collected his tools and started in.

Measuring and measuring and cutting.

(Because measuring is twice as important as cutting, he informed me.)

Then he removed the outer siding from the chosen square.

Then the insulation and finally, the studs.

They were a bit trickier because he had to cut them from the outside, then go inside to pull the nails from the panelling.

But finally, all that remained between he and the family room was the inside panelling.

This was fun!

He pulled the last of a two-by-four from its former home.

Then looked down.

The front of his T-shirt was wet.

He looked up into the eaves.

Had he hit a pocket of water?

Was there a bird?

Nothing.

He looked down.

His shirt was wetter.

Weird.

Then he looked at the wall.

Just in time to see a tiny jet of water spurt from one of the nail holes that had so recently held the studs in place.

There's something your don't see every day.

Another spurt.

His shirt was getting quite wet by this point.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Then, from the other side of the wall, he heard my father. “Did I get you?”

“Yes, you got me!”

One last squirt.

“Hey!”

The sound of laughter.

Triumphant laughter.

How he had done it was soon explained.

Amidst chuckles.

Dad had gotten one of his vaccination guns (a syringe designed to vaccinate several head of cattle in quick succession) and, filling it with cold water, had poked it through one of the nail holes in the old panelling.

The rest is self explanatory.

But those guns can really shoot.

Some people never grow up.

It's a good thing.

The Perfect Filing System

I know where it is. Go on . . . ask me!

Dad was a veterinarian.

The only one for several counties.

If you don't count Dr. Brewster at the Coutt's border crossing.

Who didn't make farm/ranch calls.

Mine did.

Make calls, that is.

And there will be several blogs about that.

Later.

But right now, I'm concerned with his office.

Let me start again . . .

Dad was a veterinarian as well as a purebred Polled Hereford breeder.

And always had an office somewhere in our home.

Better.

There were the inevitable examination counters.

And uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

There was a fridge holding such things as penicillin.

Bottles of 5-way or 8-way or black-leg or rabies vaccines.

And other stuff that I couldn't pronounce.

I should mention, here, that Dad knew what each bottle did.

Probably important for a veterinarian to know.

He also had several large filing cabinets standing about the room.

Full of . . . files.

Mostly.

Dad knew exactly where everything could be found in his office.

He was very organized.

Very.

One day, he was working on the registration forms for his new crop of calves.

A time-consuming task that only he could do.

Heh. Heh.

I sauntered in.

Sauntered.

Yes. Just like in the old west.

Ahem.

Daddy looked up from his desk.

“Diane, could you look in that file cabinet over there,” he pointed with his pen, “and get me the 'G' file?”

I turned to the indicated file and pulled open the appropriate drawer. “This one?”

“Yes. Just the 'G' file, please.”

I started to work my way through the alphabet.

There was a large space partway through. I jumped to that.

'J' as it turned out.

“Daddy, did you know that you have a large bag of ju-jubes in your filing cabinet?”

“Yes.”

“Filed under 'J'?”

He looked at me. “Where else would they go?”

Where indeed.

I continued my search.

Huh. Chips under 'C'.

Also chocolate.

I finally found the 'G' file and, pulling it out, handed it to my father.

But then I turned back to the cabinet.

Way too interested to stop now.

“Dad, you have Oreo cookies under 'O'.”

Dad looked up. “Is that where they are?!” he said. “I kept looking for them under 'C'.”

Yep. Filing cabinets and organization.

They go together.

Like treats and snack time.

Who knew they could be so similar?

Just a Little Bit of Praise

Many thanks to my good friend, Ginger of  inSERIOUSLYsane for her lovely tribute to her daughter yesterday. 

It reminded me of something special . . .

My Hero

For most of his career, my Husby worked for the Culture department in our province.

He enjoyed it.

Building museums.

Refurbishing older exhibits.

It was a constant adventure.

But he learned, as a civil servant, that gratitude was an accepted part of the job.

Rarely expressed.

Case in point . . .

He and his team had been refitting an interpretive center.

They had been at it for three years.

Their job was finally drawing to a close.

Which allowed the center to open.

Ironic but true.

A grand gala was planned for the opening night.

With speeches by pertinent politicians.

And food.

Myself and our two younger children made the trip and were seated in the audience, happily anticipating hearing from our husby/father.

The evening wore on.

Speeches by many, many people.

None of whom had even stepped foot in the building until that night.

Then, finally, just at the end of the evening, the MC announced my Husby.

The man who had organized and directed the entire operation.

The whole three years.

I was so proud of him.

He had worked hard.

Spending weeks and weeks on a project that took him far from home and family.
And he had done well.

I glanced around.

I was surrounded by evidence of his careful, thoughtful, precise planning and execution.

We were now seated in a world-class center.

With the best and most advanced displays found anywhere.

The crowd had clapped politely as he stepped to the podium.

Many of them had no idea of the part he had played.

But his family did.

My daughter suddenly whispered, "Come on! Let's do it!"

My children and I surged to our feet.

Cheering and clapping wildly.

The rest of the audience stared at us in stunned silence for a moment.

Then the smiles began.

And the applause.

No one else got up, but everyone there knew that this man was special.

Deserving of what little praise we could give him.

He smiled at us, then, in his usual calm fashion said, "I have no idea who those people are."

Then, "And I didn't have to pay them much to do that!"

Much laughter and the tone of the entire evening was changed completely.

Later, one of the people with whom he had worked closely stopped me.

"We were so happy when your family did that," she said. "We would all have joined you, if we weren't already standing at the back!"

We get very little recognition for good deeds done in this life.

Sometimes all it takes is a little courage.

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.