Less Than Quiet

It's 'take a friend to Church' day!
Take these!

We are a church-attending family.

Always have been.

We love it.

The quiet, peaceful feeling that comes from stepping into the Lord's house.

There is only one problem.

One is expected to keep that quiet, peaceful feeling by being . . . quiet.

And peaceful.

Maybe you haven't noticed, but our family isn't very often quiet.

Well, seldom.

Okay. Never.

Sigh.

So, going from loud and noisy to . . . less loud and noisy takes effort.

And resourcefulness.

Something my Mom had 'in spades'. (A gambling term for 'a lot of'.)

Not that I've ever gambled.

Ahem . . .

She would tote a huge bag of books and things quiet to church every week in a bid to effect reverent behaviour.

It worked.

For a time.

Then we outgrew her books and toys and games.

I know. I know.

That's about the time we should have been able to sit and listen without visual aids.

We didn't.

Instead, our teen-aged selves resorted to more grown-up ways of entertaining ourselves.

And remember – electronic diversion existed only in the mind of Gene Roddenberry at this time.

We had pens.

We had paper.

We drew pictures.

But not just any pictures.

No.

Pictures designed specifically to make whichever sibling was sitting next to us, laugh.

And get glared at and shushed by Mom.

It was a fun game.

My next older brother, George, was the best at it.

He could quickly sketch the weirdest people or animals or machines.

Then supply them with the best captions.

His was a rare form of genius.

I will call it spiritualavoidance supersonicus.

Or SAS for short.

He could have taught classes.

There is a codicil:

My Husby always had his pockets full of strange and wondrous treasures specifically designed to keep our youngsters quiet during our hour-long Church service.

I often marvelled at his ingenuity.

And resourcefulness.

His little figures and toys kept all six of them entertained right up until the time that they moved out and into their own lives.

But shortly after the youngest left, I realized that Grant's toys weren't specifically to entertain his kids.

Remember SAS?

And having somethings 'in spades'?

That would apply here as well.

Grant still had his pockets full of animals.

I wondered why.

I didn't wonder for long.

I lead the music.

Several times during the service, I have to make the short trip to the front of the chapel.

While he remains sitting on our bench.

Second back, directly in front of me.

That's when his little friends come out to play.

Solely for my benefit.

Picture it.

I'm at the front, waving my arm and trying to act dignified and serious.

He's on our bench, making his little friends dance and sing to the music.

I should mention, here, that his favourites are the little animal heads on a stick, whose mouths open and close by working a trigger system.

And those little suckers can sing!

His goal?

To make me smile.

It works.

Where's my Mom when I need her?

Could I just Take One to Go? And Come. And Go.

Just look at it.
So innocent. So tempting.

My Husby has as secret longing.

Oh, it's not a bad thing.

Unless you are the one purchasing the replacements.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby has a secret yearning to run over traffic cones.

You heard me right.

He has always wanted to run them over.

I don't know why.

Because they're there?

Because they silently direct his life?

Because they forbid entrance?

All of the above?

But the fact remains that he would dearly love to run one over.

And probably would, if he weren't married to me.

The person who happily keeps him on the straight and narrow.

“Honey, you're getting a bit close.”

“Honey, you'd better move back into the middle of the lane.”

“AAAHHH! HONEY, YOU'RE GOING TO HIT ONE OF THOSE CONES!!!

Calm now.

Driving with us is an interesting experience.

Moving on . . .

He finally gave in to his urge.

But not in the way you may think.

No.

He went out and bought himself a cone of his very own.

For two days, it sat on my kitchen table.

Where he could admire it.

Then it found its permanent home.

In the center of our driveway.

Close to the garage entrance.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

What on earth was he thinking?

I soon found out.

Every night when he comes home from work, he drives over it.

Flattening it completely.

Then, when he backs out in the morning, it springs back upright.

Ready and waiting to welcome him home once more.

He's a happy man.

But who knew those things were so tough?

If I had found out sooner, I might have let him hit a couple.

Not.

Now what are we going to do about my secret urge to drive through one of those little wooden barriers that they put across restricted roads?

Wanted: Troll (Must Have Own Bridge)

For three wonderful years, we lived in a perfect house.

Oh, don't get me wrong, all of our homes have been wonderful.

And very comfortable.

But this particular house was all of those things.

And a little bit more.

Because it had a stairway that was perfect for playing 'Troll Under the Bridge'.

It's a real game.

You can look it up.

It will be found somewhere under 'Tolley: Favourite Games'.

True story.

Okay, my Husby made it up.

But it was still fun.

The stairway in our house consisted of a short upper set of six thickly-carpeted steps.

Ending at a wide, also-carpeted landing.

Then a 180 degree turn before descending the last six steps to the basement.

A beautiful hunting/trapping/escaping set up.

Which was very well used.

My Husby would pretend he was a troll and lay on the stairs.

His head just poking above the top stair.

All of his little Billy Goats Gruff could try to run past him along the upper hallway.

Screaming and giggling wildly.

One by one, he would nab them and demand to know who they were.

One by one they would answer, “I'm a Billy Goat Gruff!”

Whereupon (good word) he would shout, “No Billy Goats on my bridge!” and set them behind him on the landing/prison.

Then, as he hunted for more victims, the entrapped would escape back up the stairs, still screaming and giggling.

And join once more with their fellow little goats in teasing and tantalizing the troll.

This went on for some time.

Usually until Dad got played out.

Then, one day, we moved from that house.

Subsequent (Ooo, another good word!) houses had similar, but not quite as perfect designs for playing Troll Under the Bridge.

The family made do.

Move forward 15 years . . .

Our present house is entirely unsuitable for the game.

It is a bungalow with one long, very dangerous, grandma-nightmare-inducing stairway.

We have put a gate at the top, which is rigidly patrolled whenever grandchildren come over to play.

A great disappointment to grandchildren who have been raised on stories of Troll Under the Bridge, as fondly told by their parents.

But in our front room, we have a large hassock.

(Ottoman, pouffe, footstool.)

Leather covered.

Padded top.

And it stands in front of our couch.

With a two-foot space between.

Hmmmm . . .

A few pool noodles strapped together with a bit of duct tape.

Voila!

A bridge.

Propped between the couch and the hassock, the scene for the new and improved Troll Under the Bridge.

Which the next generation of Tolleys has taken to with great enthusiasm.

With just as much noise and exuberance as their parents.

There are a couple of subtle differences, though.

1. The grandkids are a bit craftier than their parents had been.

Our nearly-four-year-old grandson, when seized and questioned by the troll, answered readily, “I'm a troll.”

My Husby/troll blinked.

This was a first.

But, since trolls are allowed on the bridge, the boy was allowed a free pass.

Smarty pants.

2. The troll gets played out rather quickly.

He is, after all, an older troll now, with lots of grey hair and a few creaking joints.

Usually, he is finished long before the shrieking hoards are even close to admitting defeat.

And after they leave, he collapses on the couch and takes a nap.

Ah, the price of joy.

Smoking Can be . . . Scary

Admit it. This strikes terror into your heart!

Okay.

Maybe I overreacted.

Maybe.

We were on holiday.

In a foreign land.

France, to be exact.

And having a glorious time.

Our family had just finished an underground rafting trip.

Did I mention that we were under the ground?

Well we were.

And it was fantastic!

Feeling slightly euphoric, we had driven to our hotel and were unpacking in the parking lot.

Suitcases.

Food.

Other stuff that wasn't suitcases or food.

Our rooms were on the second floor.

One door opening from the long communal balcony into two separate units.

I dragged myself and my load up to the second floor.

Then looked back into the parking lot where the rest of the family was still in the process of unloading/loading.

There, standing in the very center of the lot was a young man, dressed completely in black.

Black hoodie pulled up over his head so that only his nose showed.

He was just standing there quietly.

Looking up at me.

It was . . . startling.

I stared back at him for a moment, then turning, shoved my key in the door and escaped into my room.

Throwing my load onto the closest bed, I took a quick look around.

Nice, quiet little room.

Two double beds.

Comfortable.

Then I walked over to the window.

And threw open the curtains.

The man in black was standing directly outside the window, now looking into my room.

I screamed.

I admit it.

He had been mysterious, standing down there in the parking lot.

Standing right outside my window, he was downright frightening.

And really, really creepy.

He made some sort of gesture, but I didn't notice.

I was too busy pulling the curtains shut and crawling under the bed.

Okay, so heroine material, I'm not.

My husby toted his burden of suitcases, etc. into the room a couple of seconds later.

And stared at me as I crawled out from under the bed.

“Ummm . . . looking for anything in particular?”

“No. That guy just frightened me,” I said, as calmly as possible.

“What guy?”

“The one dressed in black. Out there on the balcony.”

“There was a guy out on the balcony?”

“How could you miss him!” I demanded. “He was right there!”

My Husby walked across the room and whipped the curtains back.

I caught my breath.

Isn't this sounding mysterious?

There was no one there.

“But he was right outside! Looking into the room!” I stomped over to the window and peered out.

The man had disappeared.

“Huh. Weird.”

My husband was staring at me. “I think you were down in that cave too long,” he said.

I snorted.

I want to point out that it was a ladylike snort. Because I am a . . . oh, never mind.

When my kids arrived a few seconds later, I challenged them.

“Did you guys see the scary guy in black?”

They too, stared at me. “Scary guy in black?”

“Yeah. He was down there.” I pointed.

“Oh, you mean the one down in the parking lot who was trying to bum cigarettes?”

Cigarettes? Ahem. "Yes. That would be the one.”

“Yeah. We just told him we didn't smoke and he left.”

“Oh.”

So much for my scary encounter.

I had been hiding under the bed to escape a . . . broke smoker.

Holidaying can be such a learning experience.

But never quite the way you imagine it.

I Can Do It! - or - The Night the Lights Went Out in Alberta

When this . . .

Becomes this . . .

Dinner time on the Stringam ranch was the best part of the day.

Plenty of good food.

Lots of company.

Stimulating conversation.

The quiet melding of day's work and evening's relaxation.

But, as usually happens, the good times must end.

And be followed by the un-stimulating.

The mundane.

The dishes.

A subtle reminder that there was payment required for the privilege of eating at one of the world's best tables.

Sigh.

Everyone had their assignments.

Up until this point, mine had been to collect the silverware.

And things un-breakable.

Oh, and stay out from under foot of those whose job it was to deal with the more fragile of the table's settings.

But I had recently turned eight.

My duties had suddenly become more onerous.

Remember what I said about things breakable?

That would definitely come in here . . .

My job now included the ceremonial carrying of the plates to the sink.

The beautiful plates that featured a hand-drawn etching of either a horse or a bull.

For the first few weeks, I carried them one at a time.

It took a while, but no plate was damaged.

Then I got . . . efficient.

And creative.

If I scraped everything onto one plate, I could stack the plates at the table and, theoretically, carry them several at a time to the sink.

A much more efficient system.

And a great saving of my valuable time.

I did it.

First with a couple of plates.

Then three.

Four.

Finally, through a system of trial and error, I discovered that I could carry a total of eight plates at a time.

The time savings were astronomical.

I staggered under the weight of so many heavy dishes, but I got my job done in a fraction of the time.

Genius.

One evening, Dad had watched me at my job.

Eyeing the heavy stack of plates uncertainly.

“Are you sure you can carry all of those, Diane?”

“Oh, I do it all of the time, Daddy!” I chirped happily, pulling the stack towards me.

“Well they look a bit heavy for you.”

“On, no! Look. I can do it!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth then the entire stack of beautifully illustrated plates slipped from my hands and fell to the floor.

It was a crash of Biblical proportions.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds mighty.

Which it was.

The crash, I mean.

For a moment, I stared in horror at the mass of broken crockery at my feet.

The sound had drawn people from the far reaches of the house.

And even in from the yard, where the cowboys were enjoying an evening smoke.

Everyone was present to witness my utter failure.

There was only one thing to do.

Cry.

And I made it good.

Angry words were swallowed as everyone rushed to comfort me.

Not.

“Diane, what did I just say?”

Gulp. “The stack was too heavy.”

“And . . .?”

“It wa-a-a-a-s!”

“Okay, no use crying over it,” Mom said, coming to my rescue. “Help me clean it up.”

I should mention here that Jerry, he whose job it was to wash that night, should have thanked me for relieving him of a large part of his chore.

He didn't.

He owes me one.

Moving on . . .

One plate survived.

One of the bulls.

And it remained.

A gentle, subtle reminder that one should never take on too much at once.

Or tragedy can follow.

Good lessons.

Expensively taught.

Sigh.

Prairie Eye Tests

Sigh. Just put them on . . .

My children were raised on Disney movies.

And the Great Canadian Plains are flat.

What do those statements have to do with eyesight?

Maybe I should explain . . .

In some parts of Alberta, the prairies stretch out, flat and almost featureless in all directions.

And you can see for miles.

If you can see.

Our eldest daughter was having greater and greater difficulty making out what was being written on her grade two blackboard.

We suspected that she would soon follow in the footsteps of both of her parents.

And all three of her older brothers.

Glasses.

We were saddened by this.

Caitlin had always been our little 'eagle eyes'.

Able to spot a MacDonalds sign from miles away.
The first one to spot a coyote or antelope.

Remember what I said about the prairies being flat?

We decided to test her.

One last attempt before we admitted defeat and took her to our good friend, soon to become our better friend, the optometrist.

Sigh.

We were driving.

A sign approached.

Visible for miles.

An easily read sign.

“Caitlin,” her dad said. “What does that sign say?”

Caitlin straightened up in the back seat, craning her neck to see out the front window. “It says . . .”

“Don't step on the mome raths!” came another little voice from the back seat.

Three-year-old Tiana had joined the conversation.

With the usual interesting results.

Maybe one too many times watching Alice in Wonderland?

Chokecherry Wine -or- You Made This, How?

Chokecherry syrup.
Delicious in so many ways.
And after so many months.

The digging out of the 'berry pails' wasn't always a reason for celebration.

When Mom headed towards the saskatoon bushes, yes.

But when the car turned to the chokecherry patch.

Not so much.

Don't get me wrong, we loved the end product of both enterprises.

But the picking of saskatoons also involved interim rewards.

Like the eating of said berries.

Chokecherries?

Again, not so much.

Fresh from the bush, they were . . . how shall I say this genteel-ly . . .?

Icky.

In fact, before any of the bright red berries passed our lips, they had to be cooked and treated.

And added upon.

And poured into jars.

As jam.

Or even better, syrup.

You have to know that there was nothing quite like homemade chokecherry syrup on Mom's fluffy pancakes.

Mmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Syrup.

It was a great family favourite.

My Husby's mother made fabulous chokecherry syrup as well.

Every year.

She then dispensed bottles of it to eagerly awaiting offspring.

It went fast.

As soon as one bottle emptied, another took its place.

And therein (good word) lies a tale.

We had been using one bottle of syrup.

Then, as often happens in a household where ten people are sharing the fridge, our little bottle got pushed to the back and hidden behind a bottle of pickles.

I should explain, here, that we always purchased everything edible in gi-normous (made-up word denoting humongous-ness) sizes.

Because mealtime for our bunch strongly resembled the feeding of a threshing crew.

So the idea of a quart-sized bottle being hidden behind a monstrous jar shouldn't be too much of a surprise.

Moving on . . .

There our little jar remained.

While I opened another.

Which was subsequently used.

And replaced.

Some months later, when I finally reached the back of our fridge, I discovered our forgotten, woefully neglected little bottle of chokecherry syrup.

Dismayed at the thought of lost deliciousness, I opened the lid.

And sniffed.

Huh.

Weird.

Probably, I should mention that neither of us drink alcohol.

What follows makes more sense if I do.

“Grant, what's wrong with this chokecherry syrup?” I asked. “It smells . . . funny.”

“Funny, how?”

“Well, funny.”

I handed him the jar.

He sniffed. “I think you've created chokecherry wine, hon.” he said, grinning at me.

“What? How did I do that?”

“Fruit. Sugar. Neglect.”

Huh. So that's how it's done . . .

“So what do I do with it now?”

“Well I know someone who would probably enjoy it!”

We took it to our friend, who looked at it.

Swirled it around in the jar.

Sniffed it.

Then finally tasted it.

He looked at us. “Best chokecherry wine I've ever had,” he said, grinning.

Trust the two teetotallers to do it up right.

From the chokecherry patch, through Mom's kitchen (and fridge), to a tavern near you.

Bottom's up!

Prairie Pies

Saskatoon season.
The very best of times

On the prairies, pies come in two forms.

The edible.

And the inedible.

One kind is made from prairie fruit.

The other comes from cows.

One smells wonderful.

The other . . . doesn't.

Just FYI.

Sooo . . . prairie fruit.

This comes in the form of raspberries, strawberries, some apples, choke cherries and saskatoons.

The first three are grown mostly in gardens.

The latter two, in the creases and folds of the landscape near water.

The first three can be picked at any time during the summer, as they ripen.

The last two need planning.

Especially the saskatoons.

Their picking requires a family adventure.

And that's where the fun comes in.

Sometime in the summer, Mom's stack of pails would magically appear.

It was the signal for all of us kids to quickly get into our swimming suits because we were making a trip to the river to pick berries and go for a swim.

The best of times.

Mom had several favourite berry-picking spots.

All of them thick with bushes.

And none of them near our house.

She would load us, our pails and our towels, into the car.

And in a cloud of dust, we were off.

The saskatoon bushes started at the top of the cliff.

And grew downward.

Toward the river.

You had to move carefully.

And hang on.

Like little goats, we would scamper all over those bushes.

Picking.

Or pretending to pick.

Mom's plan was always to have each of us fill a bucket.

Simple enough.

If kids hadn't also come equipped with mouths.

One handful into the bucket.

One handful into the mouth.

And so it went.

After a while, each of us would have half a bucket of berries.

A blue mouth.

And full tummy.

With the hot, summer sun shining down, the smell of baking sage and grass in ones nostrils, and one's family gathered around, it was pure heaven.

Then we would swim.

And to top it off, fresh saskatoon pie when we got home.

Did I mention the best of days?

There is an addendum:

Picking chokecherries wasn't nearly as much fun.

For one thing, they are SOUR.

But they make the nicest syrup.

And that is another story.

Dads, Dates, Football and Spaghetti

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

The best of times.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of my life.

Or the best time of my life.

Just saying..

Moving on . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. Not that I'm admitting anyway . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to having your father be good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader.

I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line.

By whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation.

“Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much.

“Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant.

The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing.

Quiet talk and laughter around us.

Gentle chime of silverware on china.

Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, ate and perused.

Now you know why it is my favourite restaurant . . .

Dad was studying his menu.

“Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match.

Then used its light to read his menu.

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.

Service by the Stupid

Server and Servee.

I'm a people-pleaser.

Or try to be.

Call it a weakness.

But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.

Most of the time, it's fun.

Occasionally, not.

Let me tell you about it.

When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.

I worked hard at it.

Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.

I had meals ready at meal times.

Kept the laundry done.

Cleaned the house.

Ran errands for him.

This went on for some time.

Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.

And probably should.

Case in point:

Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.

True story.

Can everyone say “gullible”?

This went on for nearly three years.

Then, one day, we were at a reception.

My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.

Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.

The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”

Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.

And that's when I hit him.

Oh, not hard.

Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.

And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.

Ha!

There.

I said it.

Kleenex, anyone?

Riding Lessons

See? Blue.

When my husband married me, he got more than he expected.

I came with baggage.

More correctly.

A horse.

Blue in colour.

Aptly named, 'Bluey'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

Bluey was . . . not a pretty horse.

She was an appaloosa mare.

About ten years old.

Like many of her breed, she had no mane.

And an embarrassment for a tail.

But she was gentle and quiet.

Patient and un-stampedable.

Perfect for farm kids.

But she had one fault.

She was tall.

Too tall for the average child to climb on unassisted.

And that's where my story starts.

Mark and Erik, our two oldest boys, were in Bluey's field.

Playing.

Mark, 4, especially loved to ride.

But neither he nor his younger brother could climb up on their gentle friend.

Even though she was perfectly willing to stand quietly while they tried.

First, it was Erik helping his brother.

But they quickly discovered that three-year-old Erik's muscles simply weren't up to the task.

Finally, Mark had an idea.

He could help his little brother get up on Bluey.

At least one of them could have fun.

I have often imagined the conversation . . .

Mark: “Here, Erik, I'll boost your up.”

Erik (eyeing the mare suspiciously): “I want to go home.”

Mark: “In a minute. First, you get to have a little ride.”

Erik: “Don't want to ride.”

Mark: “Yes you do. It's fun.”

Erik: “Pretty sure I don't.”

Mark: “You're little. What do you know? C'mon.”

Erik: “Sigh.”

He submitted.

Once he was safely installed, Mark stepped back.

And gave the mare a slap.

'To get her going'.

She went.

Right out from under Erik.

Not a good thing.

A short time later, two boys came to the house.

One in tears.

They had both learned an important lesson.

The hardest thing about learning to ride is the ground.

Welcome to the Neighbourhood. Not.

For farm use only . . .

For kids who had been raised on the farm, moving to the big town was a big step.

They handled it well.

The street we were on was a 'local traffic only' type.

Alive with kids and bikes and . . . playing.

Perfect for anyone excited at the prospect of making new friends.

Which my kids were.

In no time, they had troops of buddies traipsing through the house.

Playing in the yard.

Running in the street.

Okay, that last activity probably sounds . . . dangerous.

But there were nearly 50 kids living in the houses on our street.

Anyone coming into the street lived there.

And drove carefully.

Moving on . . .

For the first while, our family was simply happy to have landed in such a wonderful place.

Friendly neighbours.

Private park.

Tons of playmates.

A dream come true.

But, like many dreams, this one came with a cold dose of reality.

Let me explain.

Our house was built on the side of a hill.

With a potential walk-out basement.

Which didn't.

Walk-out, I mean.

Sigh.

But the balcony looking out from the back had a lovely view of the neighbours below and on either side of us.

And on to the fields outside of town.

Perfect.

The kids spent a lot of time out there on the balcony.

Talking and playing.

Hollering across at the neighbours' kids.

Generally having a good time.

But our children were essentially farm kids.

They were virtually innocent when it came to the sophisticated 'town' children.

One day, a young man came home with our oldest son.

They had played Nintendo for a while, then moved out on the back deck to see the sights.

Which included our next-door neighbour's three children, happily playing in their back yard.

Now, here is where the story gets sticky.

My son had a BB gun.

A 'You'll put your eye out!' BB gun.

On the farm, it had been great fun.

Target shooting.

Trying to hit gophers.

Sometime, I'll tell you about the gophers.

Ahem.

But once we had moved to town, the gun had stayed in a rack on the wall.

There was nothing to safely shoot at in town.

I emphasize the word, 'safely'.

But my son's new friend was intrigued by this toy.

He asked if he could hold it.

Sure.

Take it outside.

Sure.

Shoot at the fence boards.

Ummm . . . I guess that's all right.

But it didn't stop there.

The boy shot a couple of times at the fence.

Then decided that the little kids next door offered better targets.

My horror-struck son watched as the boy shot over the fence.

Then he grabbed the gun and ran down to his room.

Soon, there was a knock at our front door.

I opened it to find our neighbour, red-faced with anger.

“Did you know that your kids were shooting a BB gun at my kids?”

I stared at him.

Surely not.

My kids knew better than that.

Didn't they?

I hollered for my son, who dragged himself up the stairs.

The picture of guilt.

I didn't even have to ask.

“It was my friend,” he said. “He shot at the kids over the fence.”

“Well, he hit one of them,” the outraged dad said.

I looked at my son, horrified. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't know what to do,” my son said. “I grabbed the gun and ran with it.”

“Where's your friend?”

“He left.”

“Probably a good thing,” the dad muttered. “What's his name?”

My son told him.

He looked squarely at my son. “You have some apologizing to do,” he said. Then he stalked off down the street, intent on retribution.

My son and I stared at each other for a moment.

Then he quietly handed me the gun.

And walked next door to apologize.

We learned a few lessons that day.

1. You can make friends with kids.
2. But all kids don't make good friends.
3. And farm toys seldom make the transition to town.

The BB gun never saw the light of day again, until we moved from that house and it ended up in the garage sale.

And my son found different friends.

Good friends.

Painful lessons, in more ways than one.

But well learned.

The Great Moor of Southern Alberta

How peaceful it all looks.
So deceptive . . .

The 'tree field' on the ranch was just that.

A field.

With trees.

Distinguished from all of the other fields by their lack of said trees.

Because it had trees, it also offered cover.

And ideal place for spring calving.

I was Dad's herdsman.

It was my duty to oversee the spring calving.

And make sure that all calves . . . and their mothers . . . survived.

Normally, thing went well.

Occasionally, they did not.

But that is another story.

Usually, when I rode out to check the cows, I rode.

On a horse.

One of a selection of bone-headed ex-racehorses, I will admit.

Also another story.

On this day, I was in a hurry.

So I fired up Dad's one-ton truck.

The one with the dual rear wheels.

And headed out to the field.

I should explain, here, that the tree field had trees because it was situated next to the irrigation ditch.

A wide trench that meandered through the country side

And with which I also have a history.

Moving on . . .

In the spring, the gates are opened and water from the Old Man River diverted into the canals for irrigating the dry land farms and ranches throughout Southern Alberta.

It is an effective system.

But the canals were getting old.

And water seeped from them into the adjacent land.

Great if your land was close by and needed water.

Which the tree field was.

And did.

Thus – trees.

But the land could also become quite saturated.

And boggy.

Particularly in the clearing in the centre of the trees.

We thought it was very entertaining.

One could stomp on the seemingly dry ground and the land all around would quiver.

Cool.

There was enough dry soil on top to hold up a cow.

Or my horses.

But remember, I was in the truck.

Considerably heavier than any horse or cow.

Back to my story.

I innocently drove out to check the herd.

The first pass, the one near the road, went well.

But there were no cows near the road, either.

Sigh.

I moved into the trees for a second pass.

Starting at the far east side of the field, I worked my way west.

Stopping now and then to walk into the trees to investigate a barely-seen patch of red hide.

I reached the far west side.

And started to turn.

It was then that I realized that I . . . and my truck . . . were sinking.

Here's something you don't see every day.

A truck, sinking out of sight in the middle of a dry land ranch in Southern Alberta.

I had two options.

1. Holler for one of my parents.
2. Mat that gas pedal and pray.

My parents were my parents. They lived to get me out of scrapes.

Right?

Ahem.

But both of them were at the ranch a mile away to the West.

I was on my own.

I went with my second option.

Mud and water sprayed from those dual tires as the truck struggled for purchase.

For a few, heart-stopping moments, it looked as though the bog would win.

Then, slowly, the truck started to climb up out of the hole.

Finally, I was flying along atop the bog.

I kept the gas pedal to the floor until I was through the tree line and solidly back on dry ground.

Then I stopped the truck and simply breathed.

I left the truck and walked (I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.) back to inspect the ruts I had left.

They were three feet deep and rapidly filling with water.

My brother told me later that I was a heartbeat away from losing the truck entirely.

“And the only thing that would have salvaged the situation would have been to call in a cherry-picker.”

I don't have to tell you that the 'cherry-picker' he is talking about had nothing to do with picking cherries.

And everything to do with being expensive.

Thank goodness for gas pedals.

And prayer.

My Short Personal Chef

Oh, sure. He looks like that now . . .

I had a project.

Or more appropriately a PROJECT.

And a household to run.

And three little boys, aged six months to four years.

I needed help.

Let me explain . . .

My Husby was the director of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police Museum.

And he had asked me to create a display for it.

A secret display.

Does that make sense?

Moving on . . .

I was to create, in latch-hook, the RCMP crest. 

No small feat.

I had a pattern.

I bought the materials.

I started in.

Now, I should point out, here, that my pattern had originally been designed to create the picture for a 'petit-point' medium.

250 stitches wide by 250 stitches long.

And should end up about four inches in size.

It could also be used for cross-stitch.

Which would make it about twelve inches.

I was doing latch hook.

Six feet square.

Enough said.

A project of that size and scope naturally was going to take time.

But the board of the museum was awaiting my 'surprise'.

Anxiously.

I had to speed things along.

How to do that with three little boys.

Hmmmmm.

Some of my usual duties were going to have to be shared.

Someone was gong to have to take over the cooking.

And the most likely candidate was my oldest boy, Markie.

Have I mentioned that he was four?

He was.

But, for six weeks, my four-year-old did all of the cooking in our house.

We ate fruit.

And anything he could manage to cook in the microwave.

We had hot dogs.

Fish sticks.

Soup.

Lots of hot chocolate.

Oatmeal.

Cream of wheat.

Bowls of steamed vegetables.

Our menu was rather unvaried, but at least we ate.

And at the end of six weeks, fitted with an old barnwood frame created by my Husby, my RCMP crest 

was unveiled to the world.

The world liked it.

And I was able to smile and go back to being a Mom.

And relieve Markie of his cooking duties.

Everyone was happy.

There is a codicil . . .

To this day, Mark loves to cook.

His menu has grown vastly from hot dogs and anything 'microwavable'.

But when he's puttering in the kitchen, I still see that little boy.

The one who had to climb up on the cupboard to reach the microwave.

My little chef.

Picture it six feet square.
On a red Background.

When the 'Clean Bug' Bites Deep

Don't let the outside fool you . . .

Mom was a 'clean machine'.
She loved swept floors, made beds and clean surfaces.
And spent her days with a dust rag in her apron pocket and a broom in her hands.
She often requested assistance.
But her six kids and assorted hired men didn't always comply.
She never gave up.
She was nothing if not persistent.
"Pick that up!" was a favourite saying.
Followed closely by, "Make sure you put that away when you're done!"
Which went with, "If you had put it where it belonged, you'd be able to find it now!"
And there was always the ever popular, "Be sure you leave a place cleaner than when you found it!"
Yep. My Mom.
She tried hard.
But her offspring and assorted other residents were slow to take up the slack.
My brother, George, 'got it' first.
Dad had built a new shop, to my two older, mechanically-minded brothers' specific specifications.
It was a beautiful shop.
Brightly lit.
Containing all of the newest and best of equipment.
And organized to the 'nth' degree by George.
He spent a lot of time there.
Organizing.
One day, Mom needed something.
Her quest took her into the hallowed halls.
She opened the shop door and stepped inside.
George looked up.
"Wipe your feet," he said.
Mom's legacy truly lives on.
The apple definitely stayed in the near vicinity of that tree.

Blessed Art Thou, Mother

My Mom.
She of the wicked pen . . .
and wonderful cooking.

From my Mom . . .

Blessed art thou, woman.
For thou shalt be called 'Mother'.
Yea, and thy tasks and thy chores shall follow thee all the days of thy life.
And thou shalt eat the bread of thine own baking.
And thou shalt dwell forever in a dirty house, if thou dost not choose to clean it thyself.
Thou shalt arise before the cock croweth.
And thou shalt say unto thyself, "Where are the offspring which were given me? Yea, the sun has risen high in the sky and the hour grows late, wherefore I have been long at my labours."
And thou shalt go and find thine offspring prostrate in their cot.
And thou shalt say unto them, "Haste, arise and shine, for I have many labours for thee to perform; wherefore I have been many hours preparing the way."
And thine offspring linger in sleep and shall say unto thee, "Thou didst not watch the late, late, late show as I did last night and mine eyes are heavy and mine bones acheth."
And thou shalt say unto thy offspring, "Get thee up from thy cot; ere I lay a hand upon thee, and go ye hither and scrub a sparkling tub, for thou hast left black rings upon its sides."
And thy offspring shalt say unto thee, "I will go and do thy bidding - in a minute."
And thy rage shall know no end.
And thou shalt weep and wail and gnash thy teeth mightily.
Never-the-less, thou shalt scrub a sparkling tub thyself and glory shall be added unto thee, for thou didst not strike the lazy beast.
Thou are blessed above all others and thy descendants shall call thee 'Blessed', for thou preparest a table before them. Thou cookest meat and all manner of tasty vittles and they shall sit at thy table with thee and partake with thee.
And they shall add glory unto thy crown for they shall let thee also wash the dishes, if thou wilt.
And when the night falleth thou shalt be deflated, and thy offspring shall say unto thee, "She is an old woman, wherefore she neither goes dancing, nor does she watch the late, late, late show."
Thy art and thy craft shall make thee called upon and thou shalt labour at many tasks in thy kingdom for whosoever asketh.
Thou doest his bidding.
Thy back shall acheth with arthritis; thy cane and thy husband shall be thy support.
Thy veins shall be varicose in thine aching legs, but thou shalt do thy duty with a smile; neither shalt thou complain.
Thou are blessed with a crown every second Sunday in May.
Wherefore, thou art blessed above all others for thou are 'Mother' and thou shalt find joy in thy offspring forever.
If thou endureth to the end!

Chewing Gum

. . . or something similar . . .

We were driving to town.

Maybe that doesn't sound like earth-shattering news to you, but we lived a half-hour away.

When the roads were good.

This was an event.

Mom piled us six kids into the car.

Inquired as to bathroom status.

And started out.

I should mention, here, that the roads into Milk River were never great.

In dry conditions, they were a narrow, dusty, dirty track between two deep ditches.

In wet weather, they were a narrow, greasy, slippery amusement-park ride.

That was anything but amusing.

And they had to be navigated with utmost care and caution.

Always.

Picture my Mom's 1964 Envoy hurtling along at 65 MPH.

With six kids rolling about like dried peas.

But we were safe.

Mom had both hands on the wheel.

She would put out her arm if she was applying the brakes.

All was well.

Suddenly, we reached a stretch of road that had been 'graveled'.

I use this term lightly, because said gravel was uncrushed.

Fist to shoe-size.

Not good.

Mom slowed down, but rocks still spun and bounced, hurtling off into the ditch or hitting the underside of the car with deadly accuracy and vicious intent.

Finally one rock, a little larger than the others, hit with a metal 'clang' that shook the entire car.

Mom applied the brakes.

And deployed her patented arm gesture.

We all got out.

The smell of gasoline was strong in the dusty air.

We leaned down.

The last rock had put a hole in our gas tank.

Precious fuel was escaping, even as we looked.

Mom straightened.

What to do? What to do?
My oldest brother's jaws were moving, rhythmically.

For a moment, Mom stared at him.

Then she pounced. "Jerry! Are you chewing gum?"

My brother froze.

In our family, one wasn't allowed to chew gum in the car.

Because.

"Is anyone else chewing gum?"

We all stared at her.

She turned back to my brother. "Spit it out!"

"Um . . . why?"

"We can stuff it in the hole and fix the tank!"

"Oh."

Weird.

But Jerry complied. Spitting a large wad of pink gum into his hand, he wriggled under the car and applied it.

We all bent down and looked.

It seemed to be working.

"Everybody in!" Mom said.

We lost no time, but scrambled back into the car and resumed our journey.

When we reached town, the car slid to a stop and we all piled out and bent over to look.

The gum had worked!

No more leak!

"We patched our gas tank with gum!" I proudly told curious passers-by.

They glanced at Mom's red face for confirmation.

She nodded.

Sheepishly.

Gum saves the day!

There is a codicil.

The shop that could have repaired our tank was closed for the weekend.

They used to do that in the 60s.

Mom had to drive home with her gum-patched tank.

Then drive back into town the next day for Church.

And back to the ranch again.

Then into town on Monday to finally effect repairs.

That gum not only got us into town, but it got us back home, back in, back home and back in.

Miraculous.

I defy duct tape to perform - or taste - as well.

Gum
The perfect repair material.
Who knew?

Of Brothers and Horses

A reworked repost for a busy day. Enjoy!

My elder siblings. Before they were elder . . .

I was witnessing a miracle.
My brother, George, was on a horse.
Voluntarily.
The professed hater of horses was astride one.
I was so proud of him.
And excited.
A whole new world was opening up for me. 

I could picture long rides together, exploring the ranch, picnics in our saddlebags.
Okay, so neither of us actually had saddlebags, but we did know how to tie a bread bag of food behind our saddles.
That was almost as good.
I also have to admit that we never had quite acquired the knack of packing said food so that it didn’t mix together. Once we had chocolate cake and cheese, that . . . 

But that is another (shudder) story.

Moving on . . .
George was riding.
He was on his little pony, Star, doing circuits of the barnyard.
A slow start, but a start nonetheless.
I was on my way to the corral for my horse, Pinto. This amazing event simply had to be shared. I couldn’t pass up such an incredible opportunity.
Even as I approached the corral, however, I could see that destiny was working against us.
Destiny in the form of one of the hired men.
He was standing, motionless, next to the gate of said corral. In his posture I could detect . . . malevolence? Cunning? Creepy-ness?
No, just stupidity.
He reached out and . . . opened the gate.
Now the horses imprisoned there had been standing around for hours, heads hanging, trying their horsey best to look as unenergetic as possible. The hope being that, through their posture alone, they could discourage any potential slave drivers from inflicting them with our frivolous plans for . . . work.
Or anything work-y.
Dynamite couldn’t have moved them.
Only one thing could send the electric shock that would awaken them from their comatose state.
The promise of freedom.
Through that open gate, they could glimpse . . . far away-edness. 

And they made a straight line for it.
Right through my brother, George.
He was calm. He didn’t panic.
He had me for that.
I watched in horror as his little horse was scooped up by the rest and whisked off towards . . . wherever they were going.
With horses, you never know.
They don’t even know.
The entire group galloped as one, down the hill, along the river.
My brother’s blue coat was clearly visible in the melee as he clung desperately to the smallest horse.
Now one can only imagine the deadly possibilities.
The churning hoofs, flint hard and razor sharp.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
But they still could cause some rather serious damage.
Even at four I knew that.

I spun around and headed for the house screaming at the top of my lungs, “My brother! My brother!”
Not really original, I’ll admit, but effective.

My Mom came on the run, white faced and breathless.

I pointed at the cloud of dust rapidly moving towards the nearest far-away place and jumped around a bit. 

The two of us stared at it.
And at the little cloud that was rapidly losing ground against the larger horses.

Star was falling behind.
It was then that we saw pony and blue jacket part company.
Sensing a safer moment, still not too far from the ranch buildings, George had decided to cut his losses, discard dignity, and bail off.
As his tiny figure began the long trek home, the two of us raced to meet him.
It was a joyous reunion.
Not.
George was bruised, both physically and emotionally.

And mad.

And no one can get mad like George.
Picture Dad.
But smaller and more concentrated.
Fortunately, he wasn’t mad at us.
Just at the hired man.
And every horse in the world.
A fact that (sigh) remains to this day.