First Love

What's not to love, right?

I was in grade four.

Nine years old.

At the dawn of a new age.

I had discovered boys.

Or more specifically, boy.

KS was smart.

Cute.

Sweet.

Taller than me.

And my neighbor.

He had everything important going for him.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with my newfound crush.

I really didn’t know what it was.

I had had plenty of boy friends in the past.

Boys that I competed against at every opportunity.

Sports.

Schoolwork.

But none that I just wanted to . . . be near.

Puzzled, I did all the normal things.

Followed him around at a discrete distance.

Hid behind cars and buildings if he looked in my direction.

Stared across the room at him in class.

Avoided him at recess.

What was this weird attraction?

I had suddenly developed mental ‘global positioning’.

I could tell you the precise location of KS at any time of the day.

Without ever seeming to look at him.

I’m sure I was pretty obvious in my interest.

But when you’re nine - and you wish it - you’re invisible.

Our class had a Box Social.

Okay, I know that dates me, but the fact remains.

All of the boys brought a box lunch for two and then shared it with his assigned ‘girl’ partner.

We lined up and the teacher numbered us off.

I tired to position myself so that I would match KS.

But my counting was off.

I ended up with a boy who brought peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Peanut butter and banana?

Revolting!

I had never heard of such a thing.

Nor had my stomach.

I looked longingly across the playground at KS and his partner.

Happily munching on whatever KS had brought.

Sigh.

Later that day, tired of listening to my bleating, my friends cornered KS and his friends and wrung a confession out of him.

He liked me!

It was the happiest day of my life!

So what did we do then?

Nothing.

We were nine.

Oh, occasionally, we would . . . you know . . . talk.

And once, I sat next to him in Sunday School class.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But that’s about it.

My family moved.

And soon another crush filled my life.

Moving ahead.

I hadn’t seen or thought about KS for nearly fifty years.

Then, one day, there he was.

In my church congregation.

Now, until that moment, I couldn’t remember what the nine-year-old boy had looked like.

But I knew him as soon as I saw him.

Strangely, he hadn’t changed much at all.

Taller.

And definitely older.

But still that boy.

My first crush.

It made me smile.

Number One Aunt

Doing what she does best . . .

There's one in almost every family.

That wonderful Aunt who collects children and adults around her like a rock star.

Our family has one.

The Aunt, I mean, not the rock star.

I will call her Aunt June.

Or AJ for short.

Where she is, there are changing hair colours.

Plenty of hugs.

And much laughter.

She might be tiny, but she's mighty.

She was one of the last to join my mother's family, marrying the youngest brother, Leif.

And has been a joy to the entire family ever since.

AJ was a city girl.

She and my Uncle met at a dance class.

Which he was taking.

And she was teaching.

It was love at first . . . step? Twirl? Swoop?

All of the above.

They courted.

People did that back then.

Married.

They did that, too.

And set up housekeeping.

*  *  *

AJ knew that her new husband came from a long line of ranch stock.

Known horsemen and women.

She decided that she need to fit in.

She would take riding lessons.

Presenting herself at the local stables, she was paired up with a gentle horse.

She groomed it.

Talked to it.

Hugged it.

Even got up on its back.

When telling the rest of us about this experience, she exclaimed, “It was such a sweet gentle horse. I could climb all over it and it never even moved!”

Whereupon (good word) Uncle Leif, in his quiet, dry manner said, “Because it was stuffed!”

That earned him a smack on the shoulder.

* * *

AJ has long been a great favourite with my children.

Have I mentioned that my children have a rather bizarre sense of humour.

Heaven knows where that came from . . .

When our eldest son was married, AJ and the rest of the great Berg family were all invited to the festivities.

Two of our sons brought a clipboard to the party.

I wasn't sure why.

Until AJ showed up.

She was met by the aforementioned sons . . . and their clipboard . . . as she queued up to enter the building.

“Name?”

“Aunt June.”

Obvious checking of a 'list'.

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, you're not on the list.” Turning to Uncle Leif. “You, sir, you're okay to go in.”

“Oh!” Aunt June said, laughing. “You come here! I'll show you a list!”

Remember where I said tiny, but mighty?

That would apply here

* * *

At the time of my eldest daughter's wedding a year later, our second son was deployed in Bosnia. We had a life-sized picture of him made and hung on the wall in the foyer of the church.

Life-sized is, for him, really, really tall.

In the picture, his hand was extended.

Written beside this hand were the words, 'You must be this tall to get into the reception. Except for you, Aunt June. You have KP. Get to the kitchen!'

We were all standing in the reception line, greeting and smiling.

Suddenly a loud cry emanated from the front foyer.

“Oh!”

We all looked at each other.

“Aunt June is here!” my Husby said.

* * *

When our military son was preparing for his overseas tour, AJ was more than a bit concerned.

She insisted that he couldn't go unless he received her 'official permission'.

Finally, my Husby drafted up a letter for her to sign.

In it, our son's 'commanding officer' agreed to:

1. Ensure that Erik ate well and was happy and healthy.
2. Was in no danger.
3. Was tucked in at night.
4. Jammies donned.
5. And Teeth brushed.
6. With his teddy bear.
7. And that said CO would read him his bedtime story.

All in return for her support.

AJ signed.

Reluctantly.

Then kept close tabs on our overseas son.

* * *

I was recently at a gathering of my wonderful Berg family.

AJ was there.

Warmly welcoming everyone – and I do mean everyone - with a firm hug and lively interest.

Ahhhhh!

Does your family have an Aunt June?

If not, we loan her out.

Sort of a 'Have Hugs – Will Travel' program.

There's certainly plenty of love to go around.

P.S. We love you, Aunt June.

Watering the Pigs

My Husby and I were leaving for ‘town’.

Living where we were at the time, on a farm between Fort Macleod and Lethbridge, said trip, or others like it, were a highlight.

We buckled our baby in.

I climbed into my seat.

Grant started the vehicle and began backing up.

Suddenly, he stopped.

And shut off the truck.

I looked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Just realized that I forgot to water the pigs! I’ll be right back.”

He jumped out of the car and ran to the pig pen.

Now, I should mention, here, that the pig pen was just out of sight of where my baby and I sat in the truck.

We waited.

And waited.

Finally, impatient, I climbed from the truck and walked over.

But as I came around the corner of the building, I saw my husband, back to me and facing away from the pig pen.

I won’t say exactly what he was doing, but it definitely had something to do with water.

I stood there for a moment.

Finally, “Just what are you watering those pigs with?”

He jumped. “Ummm . . .”

But a new term had just been created.

From then on, in the Tolley family, if someone had to . . . relieve themselves, instead of the generic, ‘have to see a man about a horse’, or the more boring, ‘where’s the restroom?’, we used the newly created, ‘gotta water the pigs’.

It worked.

And yes. Our family is weird.

Mom? Can I Have a Taste?

Mom and her mixer. The source of all that was delicious 

Mom was in the kitchen.

Baking.

My favourite thing.

I was in my usual spot.

Seated on the cupboard beside her Sunbeam mixer.

That maker of all things delicious.

She added something to the mixture already in the bowl and turned on the beaters.

Mmmmm.

Could anything look better?

I leaned closer.

“Mom? Can I have a taste?”

“Honey, it’s just sugar and butter and eggs.”

“But it looks so good!”

“Okay.”

She stuck the tip of the spatula into the batter and held it up for me.

I leaned in and licked.

It was delicious!

Mom just shook her head, rinsed the spatula and continued adding ingredients.

“Mom? Can I have another taste?”

“In a moment, dear. It’s almost ready.”

I sighed and fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, she added one last ingredient.

Vanilla.

I should mention here that vanilla smells much better than it tastes.

Just FYI.

Then she got a spoon and gave me a dollop of batter.

Mmmmm. Even better than the last taste.

“What is it?” I licked the spoon.

“White cake.”

“I like white cake.”

“I know.”

Mom scraped the batter into a cake pan and shoved the pan into the oven.

I looked around.

Usually, by this time, the sound of the mixer had attracted all the youngsters in the vicinity.

And some of the adults as well.

But there was no one.

The world was mine!

“Mom? Can I lick the bowl?”

Licking the bowl.

That ultimate in rewards.

That oft hoped-for and seldom granted treat of treats.

I should point out that it didn’t actually involve ‘licking’ the bowl.

Mostly it consisted of running a spatula around the inner surfaces, catching every minute spec of deliciousness.

Okay and there was some licking involved.

Mom set me on the floor and handed me the bowl and spatula.

I sat where I landed and started in.

Could life possibly offer anything better?

Moving ahead . . .

I was making banana bread this morning.

My fourth granddaughter was seated on the cupboard beside me, mouth sticky from ‘tastes’.

I spooned the batter into pans and put them into the oven.

“Grandma? Can I lick the bowl?”

The circle is complete.

Art for the Non-Artist

I'm not an artist.

Really.

I'm not being modest or anything.

I'm really not an artist.

But in elementary school, everyone was an artist.

Because the teacher said so.

I should probably mention, here, that my painting of a tree looked . . . ahem . . . nothing like a tree.

Oh, it had a trunk.

Or more accurately, a TRUNK.

One large swath of brown paint.

Straight from the bottom of the page to the top.

Then there were leaves.

Okay. Well I thought they were leaves.

My teacher was kind.

She merely smiled, tucked my painting away, and gave me something else to work on.

A lump of clay.

This was more like it!

She handed out more lumps of clay. “Now class,” she said, “I want you to make me a dinosaur!”

Oooh! That would be so much fun!

I tackled my lump of dark grey clay with enthusiasm.

Around me, dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes began to appear.

Triceratops.

Tyrannosaurus.

Looking more and more realistic.

I looked at my clay.

It closely resembled . . . a snake.

I worked some more.

Molding. Pressing.

Then looked around again.

Next to me stood a Brontosaurus.

Next to him? Stegosaurus.

I turned back to mine.

A snake.

But with legs.

I made the legs thicker.

Now I had a snake.

With thicker legs.

I kept at it.

My teacher walked by and nodded encouragingly.

Well it looked encouraging to me.

I thickened the body.

Accidentally pressing down on the back end.

My sculpture sat up.

Yup. Sat up.

Huh.

Suddenly, it looked like a bear.

I smiled and made a large pot-shaped lump and put it between the four feet.

It really did look like a bear.

My teacher stopped beside my desk.

“Diane, I thought I told you to make a dinosaur.”

“Ummm,” I said.

“That's definitely a bear.”

I looked down at my sculpture and nodded.

“A remarkably good bear.”

The teacher sounded as surprised as I was.

Again, I nodded.

“But you were supposed to make a dinosaur.”

“Do you want me to start over?”I asked, my hand hovering uncertainly over my work of art.

“No!” she said quickly. Then, a little more calmly, “No. You just keep working on that and we'll see.”

I shrugged and bent the legs around the honey pot.

Then I flattened them a bit at the bottom to form paws.

Then I stared at it.

A bear.

Where had that come from?

My teacher was just as astonished as I was.

She entered my sculpture in the local elementary level art fair.

My family and I moved before I found out how it did.

And definitely before I got my sculpture back.

But I've often wondered.

Both where it came from.

And where it went.

Music to Get Ejected By . . .

Okay, I'm not sure, but I think this is what it looked like . . .

 Dad had a new toy.

A small musical instrument called a ‘musette’.

The fact that he was in his first year of university didn’t stop him from playing it.

He and a group of friends were riding the streetcar home from Sunday Services.

They were a happy bunch.

Talking.

Laughing.

Dad was tinkering about on his new toy.

Much to the discomfort of the other passengers.

I should mention, here, that Dad has a beautiful singing voice.

I’ve never heard him play the musette.

Possibly because of what follows.

Moving on . . .

The streetcar conductor called back to the group of boys, “You! On the harmonica! Please stop playing!”

Dad stopped.

For a moment.

Then, thinking that the conductor could no longer hear him over the noise of the rest of the passengers, he started again.

“You! Stop playing or I’ll have to kick you off the bus!”

Dad sighed and dropped the musette into his lap.

He looked down at it.

Just one more . . .

“Okay. That’s it!
The bus slid to a sudden stop.

“You! With the harmonica! Off!”

Dad got to his feet.

“And the rest of you with him! Off!”

His friends looked at each other.

Then, disgusted, they too got to their feet and followed the author of their misfortunes off the bus.

And began the long walk back to the University.

Moving ahead nearly seventy years . . .

My Husby and I had moved our family to Edmonton.

Six hours north of where I was raised.

I met an elderly couple at church.

We started to visit.

They discovered that my maiden name was Stringam.

“Well, who do you belong to?” the man asked.

“Mark is my dad,” I said proudly.

“Mark,” he said. Then, “Mark! He got me kicked off the streetcar!”

The good things we do are quickly forgotten.

The mistakes?

They go on forever.

Sally

It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.

Not a pleasant experience.

And I'll never forget it . . .

When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.

Parents, children.

The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.

I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Sally - on the first day of school in September.

She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.

With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.

And freckles.

We started visiting.

And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.

We started to 'hang out'.

I invited Sally to my house.

And she reciprocated.

I remember my first visit to her home.

Her parents were very glad to see me.

Almost tearful in their welcome.

It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.

But I shrugged it off.

Because they were kind.

And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.

Almost like being in my own.

They asked me about myself and our family.

Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.

Served Sally and I a piece of cake.

I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.

Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.

Though the cake was delicious.

Moving on . . .

As I was preparing to leave, Sally's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.

I smiled.

I liked her daughter.

I liked the whole family.

After that, Sally and I were together a lot.

Hanging out at school.

Hanging out at each other's homes.

One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.

Visiting.

A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.

For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.

Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.

“No. I'm staying here with Sally,” I told them.

“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”

I stared at him.

The town hated my friend?

I had never heard of such a thing.

My friends left.

But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.

The town hated my friend and her family.

Hated.

Weird.

I looked at Sally.

I looked at her kind, caring family.

Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.

Their almost tearful excitement over Sally having a friend.

Their interest in me.

I talked to my parents about it.

They looked at each other.

“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”

“But I was told the whole town hated them.”

“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”

I shrugged it off.

And kept on being Sally's friend.

I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.

Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.

I kept Sally with me when other kids at school teased her.

I didn't understand any of it.

These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.

Caring.

Considerate.

How could everyone not see that?

One day, Sally wasn't at school.

I walked over to her house.

It was empty.

She and her family had moved.

Gone back to where they came from.

For weeks, I was sad.

She had been my friend.

I had loved playing with her.

And now she was gone.

A new family moved into Sally's house.

A new leader for her church.

Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.

They stayed.

But I never forgot Sally.

My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.

Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

A Good Cow Pony

A good cow pony is more than just transportation in the ranching world.
It is partner, confidante, shelter, and yes, even protector.
Dad's horse had been superbly trained.
By him.
Calving season is a rather exciting time of the year.
For at least a couple of reasons.
Because new babies are appearing in the fields.
And I don't care what you think, new baby calves are cute.
And because you are getting up close and personal with warm, furry creatures who outweigh you by several hundreds of pounds.
See? Exciting.
In an unpredictable/ohmygoodness sort of way.
Most cows on the Stringam ranch calved between January and March.
Without ceremony or fanfare.
In the field.
Calves were tagged and given their newborn shots within a few feet of where they were born.
I should mention here that Hereford cows are docile and easily managed.
Except when they have a newborn calf nearby.
You've heard the stories about getting between she-bears and their babies?
Well, Hereford cows would kill to have that reputation.
Actually, they would have to kill to get that reputation.
Just thought I'd point that out.
Because it really has nothing to do with this story.
Moving on . . .
Hereford cows may not be the black-leather-clad, chain-toting members of the bovine family, but they can still be rather aggressive when their babies are in danger.
Or when they think their babies may be in danger.
As when people are around.
My Dad found this out the exciting way.
He had come across a newborn calf, lying 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Dismounting, he straddled the calf and prepared to vaccinate.
And that's when Mama noticed him.
Suddenly, a thousand pounds of red and white indignation were breathing down his neck.
And I do mean down his neck.
I know this will sound funny, but when a cow is threatening, the best place to be in the wide-open prairie is 'under' one's well-trained horse.
Really.
You crawl under your horse and no cow will come near.
Hastily, Dad pulled himself and his captive under his horse and continued with his work.
The cow snorted and fidgeted, circling around, trying to find the flaw in this scenario.
The horse kept one eye on her.
Constantly turning to keep his hind quarters directed towards the irate bundle of hair and aggression.
This worked for a few moments.
But finally, even the presence of a larger, stronger, and infinitely smarter creature didn't deter.
She charged.
Remember where I mentioned that the horse kept his hind quarters towards the cow?
That's because that is a horse's 'dangerous' end.
Always loaded.
And ready to fire.
He let fly.
With both barrels.
He caught the cow in the head.
In mid-charge.
Now a cow's head is composed mostly of bone.
They can be hurt.
But it takes a lot.
This kick merely stopped the cow for a moment.
She shook her head, confused.
Then looked around.
What had she been doing?
About that time, Dad finished with the calf and let it go.
It trotted over to its mother and the two of them hurried towards the nearest far-away place.
Dad stood up and gave his horse a pat.
“Good boy.”
Then mounted up and continued his ride.
Another rather mundane day in the life of a good cow-pony.
What would we do without them?

In the Dark

Cute. AND can see in the dark!

My Baby Sister was the cutest little girl ever!

Really.

She still is

Cute, I mean.

But that's another story . . .

Baby Sister gave a whole new meaning to the word active.

She was born when our mother was nearing forty and slowing down.

Which gave a whole new meaning to the word ironic.

Mom would carry on with her usual daily chores.

And just let Baby Sister run laps around her.

And I do mean laps.

Mom would wash the dishes.

Baby Sister would run laps through the kitchen/dining/living/bed rooms.

And the hall.

Mom would do laundry.

Baby Sister would run laps through the kitchen/dining/living/bed rooms.

And the hall.

Mom would tidy the bedrooms.

Baby sister would run laps through the . . . you get the idea.

'Busy' would have described her very well.

As would 'independent'.

And that's where this story starts . . .

In the spring calving season, as the community's only vet, Dad hardly saw his bed.

Cows usually waited until the middle of the night before getting down to business.

Like many women.

Myself included.

Maybe it's a female thing.

Anyways . . .

The wee hours of the morning usually found him creeping through the house as quietly as possible, heading for his much-anticipated bed.

In complete darkness.

He passed the closed door to the youngest childrens' room and made the turn towards his own.

Then he heard something.

What was that?

He paused and glanced back at the closed door.

Had he just heard a noise from in there?

He looked down where the door skimmed the linoleum.

No light.

Another noise.

Okay. That was a 'thump'.

He moved closer and put an ear to the door.

Definite sounds emanating from within.

He could hear more thumping.

Then a small grunt.

He turned the knob and silently swung the door inwards.

Now I have to paint the picture for you.

The house is in complete darkness.

The only lights on a ranch this far from town come from natural sources.

ie. Moon. Stars.

Or from the mercury vapour lamps which light the feedlots and barnyard.

Neither effectively illuminated the scene before him.

Unrelieved, ebony blackness was all he could see.

But the noises continued.

There was nothing for it.

He would have to turn on a light.

Taking a quick breath, he flipped the light switch.

The room sprang into view.

Double bed, with two sleeping children in the far corner.

Crib, empty, directly ahead.

Wait.

Shouldn't there be a baby in there?

He looked down.

The noises he had heard were explained.

The not-yet-two-year-old 'Baby' had wet her training-pants.

Crawling out of the crib, she had found some clean ones and, seated in the center of the rug, was trying to effect changes.

All in near-perfect darkness.

I don't know about you, but I think toilet-training was moot at this point.

Although some sort of 'I-can-see-in-the-dark' career could have definitely been considered.

Maybe vampire-ism.

The little girl looked him and stood up.

Finished pulling up her pants.

Then crawled back into her crib.

Abandoning her used pants in a little heap in the middle of the carpet.

Dad just stared.

Then, grabbing said pants, he threw them into the clothes basket and turned out the light.

And made his way to his own bed.

Relaxing beside his sleeping wife, he stared up into the darkness.

What else went on in the dark?

Maybe he didn't want to know.

Of Brothers and Cookies and Raisins

It only LOOKS delicious . . .

I love raisins.

Especially in trail mix.

Or coated in chocolate.

I should probably point out, here, that coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.

If you coated a hubcap in chocolate, I'd eat it.

Moving on . . .

I did not always love raisins. (Even now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be raisin-free.)

It wasn't until after I was married that I learned to appreciate them.

There is a reason for that.

Which I'm happy to tell you about now.

My brother, George, is two years older than I.

Throughout our growing-up years, his prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.

He practised his craft at every opportunity.

Mercilessly.

And became very good at it.

One day, our mom made cookies.

Something she did a lot.

On this particular occasion, she had produced mounds of raisin cookies.

They were spread out temptingly across the table.

The aroma drew my brother and I from the depths of the house.

“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin cookies today.”

“You did?” I asked innocently.

“Yep. I did,” he said.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You can tell by the smell?”

“Partially. But that's not the real reason.”

“Well, I give up. How did you know?”

He leaned towards me, a big grin on his face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”

And from that moment on, in fact for the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.

Smart cookie.

P.S. He also tried to convince me that my rice was moving.

But that is another story . . .

How Do You Take Your Milk?

Not for the shy or faint of heart . . .

Recently, there had been a lot of press about women nursing their babies.

Usually because it has been carried to extreme lengths.

I nursed my babies.

And loved doing it.

But this isn't a commentary about that.

Though it is about 'extremes'.

Maybe I should explain . . .

A veterinarian friend of my father's had stopped in for a chat.

An immigrant from the UK, he was very fond of his tea.

My father offered him a cup.

Uncharacteristically, he declined.

With a slight shudder.

Dad stared at his friend.

What could possibly have put Dr. Ilovemytea off his favourite beverage?

He realized that he had aroused Dad's curiosity.

An explanation was in order.

He told Dad that he had just come from a vet call to a farm at the furthest border of his practice.

'Out in the sticks', you might say.

His veterinarian business had been concluded.

And successful.

Hoping to prolong what was, to her, the highlight of a normally solitary day, the woman of the household had invited Dad's friend into her front room for a visit.

She had recently given birth to a fine son.

And was anxious to share her story with someone.

All was well.

She and baby were thriving.

Baby was nursing well and growing rapidly.

The woman offered the doctor a quick cup of tea before he began the long trek back to town.

Happily, he accepted.

The tea was brewed.

The woman brought it in and set it in front of her guest.

“Would you like milk?” she asked.

Dad's friend said that, indeed, yes, he would love milk.

Whereupon (good word) the woman flipped out a breast and squirted some milk into the doctor's tea.

He blinked.

Well . . . at least it was fresh.

As the story unfolded, Dad burst into laughter.

“So, did you drink it?” he asked his friend.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“How was it?”

“Well, it tasted just fine,” he said. “Put me off a bit. But tasted fine.”

“Well,” Dad said, “You're braver than I am!”

Tea, anyone?

Party Line Panic

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word, thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

Then gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

In the Beginning . . . Part 2

Grant's story. Told in my own words . . .

Grant and his 'blonde'.

In Grant's family, dating a blonde was . . . frowned upon.

By the patriarch of the family.

Whenever one of the five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, or otherwise indicated that an activity with a girl was being contemplated, their father would hold up the keys and say,”She's not a blonde, is she?”

Whereupon (good word) the boy would invariably look properly horrified and shake his head.

The keys would be bestowed.

The son would happily go off on his date.

Who probably was blonde . . .

No one knew where this aversion to blondes came from.

Their dad would never tell.

But it was rooted deep.

If you'll pardon the pun.

On occasion, he would threaten to grow out his beard.

Something his wife abhorred.

And she would, in turn threaten to dye her hair blonde.

All discussion ceased.

Moving on . . .

Grant had been serving a mission in Paris, France.

Every week, he received a letter from his family, written by his mother.

When he had been out about six months, one of those letters had included a short note from his father:

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

Love, Dad"

That was it. Short and sweet.

His letters from his mom continued to arrive regularly.

But nothing more from his father until he was about six months from coming home.

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

I have a blonde picked out for you.

Love, Dad”

Grant read this note several times, not believing his eyes.

Surely his father, that dispenser of all knowledge, And allergy-est of blondes extraordinaire, had flipped.

He grabbed a pen.

Letters were hand-written and posted in 1975.

“Dad!

Good to hear from you!

Tell me about this blonde!!!

Love, Grant”

Nothing.

For six months.

Finally, it was time to come home.

Mission accomplished.

So to speak.

As mentioned in my last blog, due to a little mix-up with his flight booking, Grant was forced to take a different flight.

One that dropped him off for a connection in New York City.

The telegram he sent went through to the nearest telegraph office.

In Lethbridge.

Which, for the first time in history, had shut down.

His family, following his original instructions, went to the airport to await his arrival.

He didn't.

Arrive, that is.

After a day of waiting, they returned home.

To make a few frantic, but fruitless phone calls.

Grant's plane touched down in Calgary.

Knowing what a fuss people tended to make of a returning missionary, he waited until he was the last to get off.

And entered a waiting area devoid of . . . waiters.

To say this was a bit of a let-down would have been to put things mildly.

But soon, he was reunited with his family and all was forgotten in the scramble of bringing their missionary home for the first time in two years.

Once in the car, though, he turned to his father.

“So, Dad. Tell me about this blonde.”

His father just grinned.

Grant looked at his mother.

Who shrugged.

Grant had to wait until Church the next week to find out what was going on.

He walked into the building.

A fifty-something woman was standing there, hands on hips, obviously eyeing him.

Politely, he walked over and extended his hand. “Hello, I'm Grant Tolley.”

She grasped his hand and leaned closer. “I wish my daughter, Diane, was here,” she said.

Grant smiled, rather uncomfortably and moved on down the hall.

There, he saw another woman, this one younger and red-headed.

Again, he extended his hand.

She gripped it and leaned in close. “I wish my sister, Diane was here!”

Doesn't this begin to sound like the 'Puss in Boots' story?

“Make way for the Marquis of Carrabbas!”

Just a thought.

Moving on . . .

Diane (me), was in Lethbridge.

I had spent the night with the family of the boy I was currently dating.

Okay, yes, I knew Grant was the one, but that didn't stop me from dating . . .

Ahem.

The next week, again at church, we finally came face-to-face.

We were heading to class and I 'happened to be' following him up the hall.

He pulled aside a curtain and stepped back to let me pass.

“You must be Diane,” he said. 

No, 'I've heard so much about you.' 'So, you're the blonde.'

Just that. “You must be Diane.”

“You must be Grant,” I answered.

He looked exactly like his picture.

And suddenly, in my mind, I heard the words, “That is the man you're going to marry.”

Really.

So clearly.

I even glanced around to see who had said it.

Of course, Grant didn't hear it.

He maintains to this day that either his dad or my mom were hiding somewhere in the vicinity and whispering the words into my ear.

We sat together in class that day.

He, more or less still in 'missionary mode' where girls don't exist.

And me, determined that my 'happily ever after' was definitely on it's way.

Which it was.

It took us a while to get to that first date.

It's a must-read and you can find it here.

But the rest, as they say, is history.

In The Beginning . . . Part 1

Yep. Mine!

Grant didn't have a chance.

Really.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Dad sold the Stringam Ranch in Milk River and bought another ranch in Fort Macleod in the spring of 1974.

We – those of us still living at home - were rather excited.

Alright, yes, it was hard to leave the town where we all grew up.

And where the Stringam's had been a fixture for two generations.

But we were about to meet new people.

Have new experiences.

We packed our boxes and headed out.

I won't describe the move to you.

Mainly because I wasn't there for most of it.

I was studying Journalism at college.

But I managed to show up on weekends.

Mom and Dad worked their usual magic.

And within a few weeks, the Stringam family was officially ensconced in its new digs.

It was a beautiful spot.

In the shadow of the Porcupine Hills.

Just below Head Smashed In buffalo jump.

More about that later . . .

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with Grant.

Especially when he was living in France at the time.

Wait for it . . .

Our family are church-attending folk.

The first Sunday after moving found us standing at the door to our new chapel.

About to meet our new congregation.

It was a time of . . . hesitance?

Excitement?

Doubt?

Exhilaration?

No. I think fear more aptly describes it.

We entered and stood, uncertainly in the foyer.

Hanging on the wall directly across from the door, was a picture frame.

I walked closer.

It was actually a picture of . . . pictures.

Young men, ranged from the top to the bottom in a row.

Twelve of them.

With a country and dates listed beside each name.

The missionaries currently serving from that congregation.

I ran a practised eye down the row.

Hmm . . . pretty cute.

Also pretty cute.

Wow! Most of these guys were gorgeous!

I started at the top again.

This time, I looked a little more closely.

There! I thought to myself.

Third from the top.

That one's mine!

I sounded out his name.

Grant Tolley.

Yep.

Mine.

I studied the information beside his picture.

He was serving a mission in Paris, France.

Cool.

He had been gone six months.

That meant . . . eighteen months before he got home.

I'd be ready by then.

Time passed quickly.

And, suddenly, it was time for Grant to come home.

By this time, I knew his family quite well.

The anticipated Sunday when he was supposed to make his first appearance arrived.

No Grant.

“We've lost him!” his brother told me.

And they had.

Sort of.

Cancelled flights.

And a night's stay in New York had put him in the airport in Calgary a a day behind his anticipated arrival.

A lost telegram put his family at the airport at the originally scheduled time.

They waited in vain, finally giving up and making the two hour trip back to Fort Macleod . . .

Grant arrived.

I should tell you that the return of a Mormon missionary is pretty important.

His family and friends all gather at the airport and scream and make fools of themselves welcome him home.

Grant got off the plane, expecting his loved ones.

Picture here the quiet chirping of a lone cricket.

Okay, it wasn't quite that deserted, but you get the point.

He made a quick phone call.

And two hours later, his excited and worried family was gathered around him.

Ah. This was a little more like it!

The next Sunday, I finally got the meet him.

Mr. Third-From-The-Top.

Mr. I-Live-In-France.

Finally.

Mine.

Yep. He didn't have a chance.

Tomorrow. Grant's side of it . . .

Recording Life

You call it graffiti. I call it family history!

First, a little background . . .

I have to admit that I think it’s cute when kids write on the walls.

Okay, yes. I’m weird.

When my kids wrote on the walls, I usually accredited and dated it.

It was a record of their life.

We were living in a small house, built by my Husby, and set on a cinder block basement.

Also built by my Husby.

It was a temporary dwelling that would one day be our shop/cold-storage.

Once the real house he was building was finished.

The cinder block walls were bare and . . . grey.

Not pretty.

But as it was a temporary set-up, we endured.

Our eldest son, Mark had other ideas.

Okay, on to my story . . .

Mark was learning how to write his name.

Actually, he was getting pretty good at it.

M. A. R. K.

The trouble it is usually looked like this: K. R. A. M.

But he wasn’t even three yet, so we were pretty impressed.

We found his name scrawled everywhere.

On papers.

Furniture.

The piano.

But there was one place he most preferred.

The one place that seemed to get him the most ‘press’.

The walls.

Mark had been sitting on my bed in the cinder block basement, drawing.

I had left him happily engrossed while I went to change his baby brother’s diaper.

When I came back, the word, KRAM had been neatly inscribed on the cinder blocks.

In purple felt.

He had even followed the lines.

I looked at it.

Then at the suddenly-anxious little boy seated beneath it.

“Look at that!” I said.

He looked, then studiously turned back to his papers and continued to draw.

“Who did that?” I asked.

Again he looked.

Finally he shrugged. “Erik,” he said.

I glanced at six-month old Erik in my arms. “Erik?”

“Yup. Erik.”

“Erik wrote ‘Mark’ on the wall.”

“Yup.”

“Erik’s pretty clever.”

“Yup.”

Working on telling the truth remained.

But thirty-plus years later, K.R.A.M. is still written there.

Clearly.

Moving ahead . . .

When Mark’s eldest daughter Megan was two, she wrote on my wall.

He got a pen and put her name and the date beside it.

For posterity.

(Who says kids aren’t watching us?)

But eventually, the wall was painted and the precious record lost.

We learned something.

If you or your kids are going to chronicle your lives, make sure you do it on something that’s going to last.

Because it’s not just what you record.

But also how you record it.

So far, cinder block seems to be your best bet.

The Tolley 'Spots' - And - Teaching Modesty to Three-year-olds

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chicken pox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chicken pox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chicken pox were an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her and she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chicken pox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1.   I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

 2.  The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

Remembering Recess

Milk River Elementary. My home away from home.

The Milk River Elementary School, house of learning to some two hundred children, was on the north-east corner of the town.

On the north and east, it was bordered by farmland.

On the south, by houses.

And on the west, by the field that stretched between it and the high school two blocks away.

The only playground equipment was a set of teeter-totters (see-saws) at the east end of the school building, and a monkey-bar on the west.

Oh and sometime between grades three and four, near the garbage, they installed a tether-ball pole.

The very latest in school-ground play equipment.

Let’s face it, dependance on toys and/or playing apparatus for entertainment wasn't expected.

Or necessary, as it turned out.

Because we made up our own games.

And two hundred-plus kids pooling their collective imaginations can come up with a lot of 'entertainment'.

We held impromptu races.

Which Kathy 'The Jet' Angyal always won.

Flag football games.

I should probably mention, here, that I never saw the use in just grabbing the flag when you can grab the whole kid.

And Lloyd Eagleson has the scars to prove it.

Climbing 'the rock'.

But that was only for the older, cooler kids.

Hide and seek.

Fun, but limiting when you had nothing but an open field in which to hide. (Or the neighbour's barley crop, which stood some feet over our heads. Just FYI.)

Tag. In its many incarnations.

Regular.

Frozen.

Poison.

Kick the can.

And King of the Castle.

Games of hopscotch.

There was one time we tried to get really creative and have some fun 'off site'.

And had an early brush with the law.

But that is another post . . .

Several of the girls played jump rope games.

Very popular and truly amazing to watch.

I, who had a hard time walking and breathing at the same time, was astounded at what many of those girls could do.

And while chanting/singing, too.

I never saw the use for it, though I did try.

But after getting my feet knocked out from beneath me for the 40^th time, I gave it up as hopeless.

And put the jump ropes to better use.

I should remind you that we were mostly farm kids.

And I and many others, like me, were completely infatuated with horses.

Thus, skipping ropes immediately brought to mind – harnesses.

Because.

We would pass the rope around the middle (waist) of our chosen horse, hang onto the ends, give the accepted 'start' command in a firm voice.

Giddyap! or something similarly creative.

And we were off.

Horse pulling.

'Driver' . . . umm . . . driving.

Around, over and through the other kids on the playground.

It was fun.

When we tired of running, we would nip into the aforementioned barley crop across the road and pull up armloads of green, sweet-smelling 'hay'.

As feed.

And to build little nests for our steeds.

You know, now that I think of it, I wonder what the farmer thought when he saw the ragged south-east corner of his crop.

As Milk River still went on to produce three 'Barley Kings', I guess our armloads of stolen barley stalks didn't make too much of a difference.

Back to my story . . .

I was there recently.

At Milk River Elementary, I mean.

The school now has extensive and obviously expensive playground equipment.

And trees.

And tall fences.

The monkey bars are gone.

As are the teeter-totters and tether ball.

There are still farmer's fields to the east.

But a large ball-diamond had been constructed on the west side, between it and the high school.

And houses and development on the north, completely eliminating our old barley field.

I stared at the 'developed' space and pictured us kids playing and laughing at recess and noon hour.

Do these modern children, with their modern conveniences, have as much fun as we did?

Somehow, I doubt it.