Cow Sniff

Watch out! She'll get you!

The morning milking happened . . . early.

Before any of the younger kids were stirring.

It was a peaceful time.

Just the farmer and the cows.

The afternoon milking, though was quite different.

Though the milker was still ensconced (real word) with the cows, the bustle of afternoon chores was going on all around.

Talk and laughter as the kids fed chickens and pigs.

Held buckets for the calves.

Hauled feed.

Opened and closed gates.

Chased kittens.

It was a busy, happy time.

And the baby generally was left with little to do.

Tristan was five.

He had helped feed.

And now was looking for Mom.

I should mention, here, that our little milk barn had two rooms.

One for the business part of the operation.

And a waiting room with a little pen.

I was milking Kitty.

One of our two gentle, little Jersey milk cows.

Bunny was in the outer room, already milked and patiently awaiting her freedom.

Tristan came into the barn.

"Mom?"

"I'm here, sweetheart."

(Real conversation.)

"You done?"

"Almost."

I could hear sounds of someone small climbing the gate of the pen.

"Can I wait here?"

"Sure, sweetie. I'll just be a minute."

A heavy sigh. "Okay."

"Did you help feed?"

"Yeah. Are you coming?"

"Pretty soon."

"Okay."

Suddenly, "Mom! Mom!"

"What's the matter?"

"Mom! This cow is coming over!"

Cows are intensely curious. If something comes into their sphere, it needs to be investigated.

And smelled.

And tasted.

"She won't hurt you."

"Mom! She's getting closer!"

"She won't hurt you, sweetie!"

Silence.

Then, indignantly, "Mom, she's getting sniff on me!"

Cow sniff.

If that's the worst that could happen . . .

Bathed. But Clean?

Okay, there are only six here. But you get the picture . . .
Mom is third from the left.

Bath time has changed over the past century.

Really.

The concept of indoor plumbing is really very recent.

In my mother's day, running water in the house meant that some enterprising and resourceful person had built the house over the well.

And designed the kitchen so that the sink was situated perfectly to accommodate the pump.

Right where the water was needed.

Clear and cold.

Directly from the ground.

Heating it to a decent temperature for such things as cooking and cleaning was a whole other process.

So . . . bath time.

I should mention, here, that I wasn't present for any of this.

I'm telling it as my mom told me.

Every Saturday night, Gramma Berg would pull out the large tub and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Then painstakingly fill it bucket by bucket.

She had nine children, eight boys and my mom, to scrub.

And one tub to do it in.

The youngest went in first.

Then the second youngest.

Third.

Fourth.

All went well to this point.

Though the water was getting a bit . . . soapy.

But that is where her system inevitably broke down.

The fifth youngest son always exhibited the same reaction to stepping into warm water.

He peed.

In the water.

Every time.

And my Mom, who stood next in line would get a little . . . perturbed.

Gramma always tried to soothe her only daughter by pointing out that the water was mostly clean and soapy. And that Mom would get a good rinse with clean water.

But Mom was only slightly mollified (real word.)

I often wondered why, in my time, my mother so enjoyed her baths.

I didn't have to go back very far to find out.

Vermin Not Invited



Never in Alberta.


I love Alberta.
It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.
Perfect.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Baling . . . Baling . . .

Add one brother and it's pretty close.

Not me, but you get the picture.
So to speak . . .

Eight years old.

In my children's day, that meant that they were allowed to dress themselves.

And bathe without three younger siblings in the tub.

In my day, it meant that I was now old enough to drive the tractor.

Pulling the baler.

My day had come!

My first lessons were a confused jumbled of clutch, steering wheel, gas pedal and 'Don't do that!'.

But I soon had it figured out and was able to drive a fairly straight path down the field.

Training over.

I was now ready for the real thing.

Dad directed me to the field where the rows of mown hay were nicely dried.

And ready to be baled.

I should point out here that we used a machine that popped out small, rectangular bales.

Depending on the type of grass, they weighed between 20 pounds (my favorite - made of prairie wool) and 90 pounds (my least favorite - made of something that resembled lead).

And were always moved by hand.

None of these gi-normous round or rectangular bales that you see in the fields now.

Bales that couldn't possibly be moved by anything other than a tractor.

Or Superman.

Who didn't live on our ranch.

Mmmm . . . Superman . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes . . . baler.

The tractor person - me - was supposed to follow just to the left of the windrow (line of mown hay) and keep the pickup on the baler . . . umm . . . picking up.

Are we clear?

Let's start.

The hay is grabbed by little fingers rotating on the baler.

Then it is passed through the machine and tamped into a small, rectangular compartment.

Finally, the contraption manages to tie the bale with two strings of hemp string, and the whole thing is pushed out the back.

To where my brother, Jerry is waiting.

Jerry is standing on a stooker (small trailer) being pulled behind the baler.

The bales slide out of a chute straight into his arms.

Which he then stacks on a rack at the back of the trailer.

Four or five on the bottom.

Then one less.

Then one less.

Until a single bale marks the top of the stook.

Jerry then hits a leaver, which tips the trailer, dropping the neat stack off the back and launching him into the air.

I don't know about other stookers, but Jerry always used this upward motion to see how high he could jump.

It was very entertaining.

Or at least it would have been, if I weren't keeping my eyes trained on the windrow.

Ahem . . .

The only things I had to worry about were keeping true and not going too fast.

If one went too fast, the tamper couldn't keep up and hay would get clogged in the baler.

Which then resulted in a broken cotter pin.

And your brother running alongside the tractor and banging on the side to get your attention so he could put in a new one.

Or so I'm guessing.

It was a wonderful way to spend a hot July day.

The smell of fresh mown hay.

The blue sky.

Fresh, clear Alberta air.

Mountains shimmering on the horizon.

Your brother singing at the top of his lungs on the stooker.

And your mind busily creating all sorts of adventures.

A perfect world.

And discovered when I was eight.

From atop a tractor.

When Rude Requires Rude

Our family loves taking holidays.

And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.

We have had wonderful experiences.

Sunsets over the Mediterranean.

Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.

Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.

A wild bus ride through the streets of London.

The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.

The bustle on the streets in Paris.

But, sometimes, when we travel, we have . . . 'adventures'.

Let me explain . . .

We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.

And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.

We wandered into a very popular tourist site.

And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.

These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.

At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.

They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.

And I do mean 'knot'.

Pretty.

Then stand back and loudly demand money.

Great scam.

We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.

“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.

“Don't let them grab you!”

I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.

And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.

The tourist's best friend.

If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.

This didn't work here.

If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.

One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.

There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.

You would be forced to pay.

We managed better than most.

You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.

But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.

An outspoken girl of 21.

She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.

Firmly.

Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.

Politeness and patience were wearing thin.

And not working in the slightest.

The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.

She shifted back and forth, eluding them.

We started towards her, intent on rescue.

We weren't needed.

Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”

Did I mention outspoken?

All heads in the square turned.

Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.

The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.

Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”

They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.

There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.

Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?

I was proud of my daughter.

She had tried to be polite.

She had tried to be firm.

But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.

And won the day.

This was an isolated incident.

Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.

But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .

Good old 'country spunk' will.

Travelling?

Take a farm girl.

"I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

A Little Carbon in the Biscuits

Picture him 20 years younger.
The hair was red . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.

He had never been anywhere.
His father needed to take supplies to one of the family cow camps.

Dad was five.

Old enough, finally, to go along.

The two of them started out.

The camp was about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.

Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.

As often happens in Southern Alberta.

Before they could start for home, a blizzard blew in.

Travel quickly became impossible.

Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales), of the camp.

Dad was beyond excited.

It was his first time sleeping away from home.

The next morning dawned bright and clear.

As often happens in Southern Alberta . . . too.

Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.

He made bacon and eggs and, because the old camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.

At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.

They weren't too bad.

He even got through a second.

Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.

Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.

He wished he could have stayed.

His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.

It had been great, he enthused.

And he had eaten all of it!

"What did you have?" his mother asked.

"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.

No wonder people were hardier back then.

Totally By Surprise

Caught One!!!

May 1, 2006 was my Husby's and my 30^th anniversary.

Rather exciting on many levels.

But, because we had celebrated our previous anniversary in a more exotic locale, and were still paying off the bills, we opted for a quiet celebration with just the two of us.

At home.

That was the plan.

Then our youngest daughter announced that there was going to be a banquet for her College graduating class on that date.

We were excited to observe our daughter's special time.

It would be a dress-up affair.

Ooooh!

With free food.

That someone else cooked.

Life just didn't get any better.

My Husby and I could celebrate our anniversary on any date about or near the actual date.

So we happily dressed in our best and got ready to go.

It had been a busy day already.

Our daughter, Caitlin and her husband, Steven had borrowed our music equipment to do a dance for some friends.

My Dad had come up for the weekend.

He was on the board of his housing development and needed to see their lawyer first thing on Monday morning.

So he had decided to make a weekend of it and stay with us.

I was happy to have him there.

He didn't visit often enough.

Just before we left for Tiana's dinner, we made certain that Dad was able to visit with relatives while we were gone.

He left.

All was well.

Then Tristan, our youngest son, announced that we needed to stop at the Church on our way past.

They were rehearsing a play and he had promised them a costume.

No problem.

We drove into the parking lot and our two youngest got out and went inside.

My Husby and I waited.

Finally, Tristan came out.

“Oh, you guys have to come in and see this,” he said. “It'll knock your socks off!”

I looked at my Husby, who shrugged and shut off the van.

“What's a couple of minutes?” he said.

We went inside.

The hallway was deserted.

Tristan led us to the gym.

He pushed open the door.

And the first person I saw was my Dad.

What on earth was he doing here?

At a rehearsal?

He was with my Aunt June.

The relative he was supposed to be visiting.

Okay, this was getting weirder and weirder.

The door opened wider.

And I saw that the room was filled with friends and family.

Wow! Everyone I knew in one room.

My only thought? 'Oh, boy. We're going to be late to my daughter's dinner.'

Then I saw my daughter.

She was smiling and excited.

And standing next to the music equipment that had been borrowed 'for a friend's dance'.

And that's when it hit me.

There was no graduation banquet.

There was no friend's party.

There was no lawyer's visit.

They had all been a ruse to get my Husby and I into that room for our surprise 30^th Anniversary party.

And I was truly surprised.

And had a wonderful time, visiting and sharing memories.

And listening to beautiful music.

How my kids managed to plan and execute it, on Facebook and through assorted emails without me catching on or even becoming suspicious is a mystery to this day.

Well, this is me we're talking about.

Okay. Maybe not such a surprise after all.

If You Can't Take the Pressure . . .

Note the pressure 'bob'. It's there for a reason . . .

During their early years on the ranch, my parents sponsored several German immigrants.

They all proved to be wonderful, industrious, conscientious people.

Eager to work and to become 'Canadians'.

One of the girls, Erica, was helping Mom in the house when my next older brother was born.

She proved to be invaluable with the household chores and cooking, but struggled at learning English.

Mom knew a little German, however, so they managed to muddle through.

On a few occasions, though, the language barrier proved to be a . . . barrier.

Erica was fascinated with the pressure cooker.

That miraculous appliance that could cook food in a fraction of the time.

The microwave of the 50s.

Apparently, though they were widely used in Canada, they hadn't caught on in Erica's part of Germany.

Mom had tried to school Erica on the proper use of this amazing new contraption.

She had managed to get through steps one through four.

1. Food and a small amount of water is placed inside
2. Seal adjusted
3. Lid screwed on and
4. Pressure bob applied.

I should point out, here, that those are the easy steps.

Then comes the actual cooking part.

And this was where Erica always came to grief.

She couldn't seem to grasp that, if the pressure rings are up on the pressure bob, the kettle is full of . . . pressure.

Up to this point, Mom had always been there to divert disaster.

But on this particular day, Mom was still in town running errands.

Erica decided to cook dinner on her own.

What a glorious opportunity to try out the fabulous new invention!

All went well.

Pots alternately steamed and bubbled.

Dinner was nearly ready.

Erica pulled the large pressure cooker off the stove and gave it a quick dunk under a cold stream of water.

Then she wrenched off the lid.

The lid and released steam hit her full in the face.

Beets flew everywhere.

Erica screamed and ran out on the front steps.

Dad heard her screaming and come running.

There he found the poor girl, confused and in obvious pain.

Her nose was bleeding profusely and she had obviously been scalded.

He got her into the bathroom, where he started her soaking her face in cold water.

When Mom came home a short time later, she bundled Erica into the girl's bedroom and applied teabags to the exposed areas.

They proved to be quite soothing and she was able to rest.

Then Mom was able to start on the kitchen.

Which looked like a slaughter house.

Beets were everywhere.

Mom even found one on top of the knick-knack shelf in the corner.

Remarkably, a month later, Erica had healed without a mark.

But Mom was taking no further chances.

Though the pressure cooker remained in plain sight, the pressure bob, the little gizmo that made everything . . . dangerous, was hidden in a very secret place.

Never store the gun and the bullets in the same cupboard.

Husband for Sale

Perfect for each other.

My Mom had been raised on a ranch.

She knew cattle

And  could speak the language with anyone.

But there were times when she longed to change the conversation.

She and Dad were out with a group of friends.

Fellow ranchers.

The conversation veered, as it always did, to the discussion of the newest miracle bull.

"That 55L! What a bull! Longest animal I've ever seen!"
An animal's length is important. More beef on the hoof.

Just FYI.

The men were enraptured.

The women, silent, polite listeners.

Mom tried to add some colour other than red and white to the conversation.

We did something different this weekend," she said. "We went to a Gilbert and Sullivan . . ."

But the men's conversation continued unabated.

"You know, 55L was unknown until his calves hit the ground! Long. Tall. Big as colts!"

"We saw the Pirates of Penzance," Mom finished weakly.

No one heard her.

She sighed and withdrew.

But her mind was working busily.

A few days later, Mom again took a back seat to Dad's cows.

Giving up on a much anticipated wedding because Dad couldn't go.

That was the last straw.

The next day, she decided to play a prank on my Dad.

She called the local paper and had this ad inserted:

            HUSBAND FOR SALE - Cheap

            Complete with blue jeans, SSS monogrammed shirt, 

            rubber boots, old floppy hat, B.S. spattered coveralls, 

            pitch fork, scoop shovel, feed bucket, 

            25 Hereford cows and one grumpy bull. 

            Not home much. 

            Speaks only COW. Call 244-2108

Then she waited.

Not a word was said, though she saw my father reading the paper and knew that he always finished every word.

The next day, another ad appeared, directly below Mom's.

This one read:

            HONEY FOR SALE

            The sweetest gal this side of Texas. Good mother, 

            helpful, kind, patient, understanding, loving,

            cheerful, caring, cooperative, self-sacrificing, 

            grateful for all favours, especially a frugal income, 

            and as a bonus, is beautiful and loves 

            my Hereford cows. Call 244-2108.

Enough said.

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.