Talking Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bonus:

Gram and Gramp . . . and Me.

From Delores' wonderful Monday PhotoPrompt.

Delores' picture of she and her grandparents

Gram was in the kitchen, cooking so efficiently,

Gramp was in his easy chair and I was on his knee.

Their kindly ways and gentle spirits touched so tenderly,

Way back in the early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

He was a rancher, cattleman; and honest to a 'T'.

She helped and worked right by his side and served so faithfully.

The two of them raised children strong and loved their family,

E'en before those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

When I was four, my Grampa died; he passed on peacefully,

Gram carried on as best she could, preserved his legacy.

But when I stop and think at bit, I cannot help but see,

There weren't enough of those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

My own Gram and Gramp` Stringam on their 50th wedding anniversary

Dining-Chair Buses

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher.

Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror.

Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize.

From what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem.

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals.

Sheesh.

You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too, but there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired – play.

Moving ahead many, many years.

Yesterday, some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.

All That's Necessary

Finished at last.

For one summer, the Stringams lived in a quonset.

Between moving from one ranch to another.

And waiting for our house to be finished.

You can read about it here, here, here, here, here, here, here, or here.

(It was a long summer . . .)

We had electricity, but no indoor plumbing or heat.

It could easily have been an ordeal.

My ultra-organized mother made it an adventure.

But even SuperMom couldn't control the weather.

And summers must end.

Especially in Canada.

It had been getting colder.

Noticeably colder.

We could lay in our beds and see our breath.

A fact that made us reluctant to leave said beds.

And we were setting new records for getting dressed.

Mom was starting to gaze longingly at her nearly-finished house across the field.

The one that didn't yet have any indoor plumbing or heat.

Rather like the place she was living in.

But it did have one attractive attribute.

One modern convenience.

It had a fireplace.

Okay, well, maybe not such a modern convenience.

Moving on . . .

Mom had been nervously studying the weather forecast every day.

And eyeing the house.

Which crept all-too-slowly towards completion.

Which would come first?

Winter?

Or her beautiful new home?

And then, the day arrived when all discussion became moot.

Because no one tells winter when to arrive.

Which it did.

With a fury.

A not-so-rare September blizzard.

We had a little lead time.

Schools were quickly closed to give students time to bus home.

Anyone who's ever been caught out on the shelter-less prairies in a blizzard knows that that is something to be avoided at all costs.

When we arrived at the quonset, it was to see Mom and Dad frantically packing.

For the next couple of hours, we carted carloads of necessities from the quonset to the house.

By late afternoon, though, the time was definitely up.

One could no longer see to drive.

Even in the barnyard.

We would have to make do with what had already been hauled.

Mom started organizing.

A few hours later, everyone was quite comfortably settled in the one room of the new house that was inhabitable.

The downstairs family room.

Mom had bedrolls laid out.

An electric stove set up.

And ropes strung to hang things on.

The kids were soon fed and in bed.

The dishes washed and stacked.

Mom still didn't have indoor plumbing.

In fact, nothing in the house worked.

And there was a monster storm was raging outside.

But Mom was doing something she had been dreaming about since she first set foot in the quonset, months before.

Sitting in front of a fire.

With every part of her warm at the same time.

Life was good.

Snow and Doughnuts

Okay, you have to use your imagination on this one.
Picture those hills covered in snow.
And kids. And toboggans . . .

It's nearly 30 degrees Celsius (86 F) outside.

Okay, for those of you living in warmer climates, that's probably not very hot.

For those of us in normally snow-bound northern Alberta?

Tropical.

Time to hide in the cool basement.

And tell another winter story.

I should probably mention that in southern Alberta, where we were raised, snow seldom stayed very long.

Even though it was winter.

Oh, it snowed.

Sometimes a lot.

But then the famous Chinook would blow through, raising temperatures.

And melting said snow.

In a few hours, any accumulation would be limited to the ditches and snowbanks.

So when it snowed, and if one wanted to enjoy it, one had to move quickly.

Just FYI.

Someone was out in the yard.

Hollering.

I looked out the window onto a scene of glistening white.

And my oldest brother, Jerry, holding the family toboggan.

Squealing (and I do mean squealing) with delight, I donned snow pants, parka, boots, mittens, scarf and toque (it's a Canadian thing).

Remember what I said about the snow lasting a short time?

I donned them quickly.

In no time I was out with my brother.

All of our siblings joined us.

Well the oldest five.

The baby, Anita, wasn't coming.

Because.

Jerry sat our youngest brother, Blair on the toboggan, then turned and started pulling the sled towards the river.

The Stringam ranch proper had been built in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River. Any sled-able hills were on the opposite bank.

We trudged along behind Jerry and his sled.

Across the frozen river.

To the hills opposite.

For a couple of hours, we towed up and slid down.

Our shouts and screams of sheer happiness echoing across the wide, open prairie.

Finally, it was time to head home.

Dusk comes quickly, even in Southern Alberta.

And you don't want to try to walk home in the dark.

We crossed the river once more and climbed the hill to the house.

In the entryway, we peeled off layer after layer, laughing excitedly and telling Mom about our adventure.

She just smiled and nodded.

Then produced warm spudnuts (doughnuts made with mashed potatoes in the batter. Yum.) fresh from the oven, and gallons of hot chocolate.

Sigh.

The very best of days.

All Things Yummy

Mom was right about the cake . . .

My Baby Sister, aged two, had crawled up on my Mom’s lap.

It was cuddling time.

I should probably mention that this didn’t happen often.

Cuddling, I mean.

Oh, not because Mom didn’t wish it.

No.

It was because we couldn’t get Baby Sister to slow down long enough to stay in one place.

She was one of those children who are always as bit blurry around the edges.

Because they are moving so fast.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Cuddling time.

Mom held her close.

Then counted her tiny, pink toes.

And all of her fingers.

And finally poked her round little tummy.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Baby Sister looked at her and shrugged.

“Are there yummy things in there?”

Baby Sister looked at her tummy, lifting her little dress to see better. Then she looked back at Mom.

Mom went on. “Maybe there’s some cake and ice cream.”

Baby Sister’s eyes got wide.

“And some cookies. Maybe some pie and candy and pudding.”

With each new treat mentioned, Baby Sister’s blue eyes got wider and wider.

“And chocolate.”

Baby Sister could stand it no longer.

She pulled her dress up as far as she could. “Open it!” she said, pointing to her tummy. “Open it, Mommy!”
Enough talk. Let's get to the good stuff . . .

The Magic of Mail Order

Isn't it a beauty?

I had saved forever!

It was mine!

It's not fair!

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.

Okay, yes, they still do.

But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight.

At least it was for me.

Probably because it didn't happen often.

Getting stuff, I mean.

Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.

Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.

“Dad! Is there anything for me?”

He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”

“Diane!”

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

I got smarter. Or at least more efficient.

“Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”

But the answer seldom changed.

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.

Free stuff.

Really.

Lots and lots of it.

The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.

It was a whole new world.

I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff.

I sent out dozens of requests.

And started receiving packages in the mail.

Pictures.

Books.

Games and puzzles.

It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.

Now he no longer asked what my name was.

He simply handed me packages.

Ahhhh.

Valhalla.

Then I discovered something else.

I should mention here that Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.

For special times.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Desserts.

Tuesday.

We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.

Bummer.

But that was all right.

We received permission a lot.

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

That part comes now . . .

The ice cream treats had wrappers.

Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose.

Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.

From 'Popsicle Pete'. Whoever that was.

Offers for 'free' stuff.

Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.

But I digress . . .

If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.

I studied the selection.

I made my choice.

I hoarded my wrappers.

Did you know that counting and re-counting doesn't magically create more wrappers?

Just FYI.

Eons later, I finally had enough.

I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.

Knife?

Knife.

Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?

Oh it wasn't just any knife.

There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.

And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.

It was to become the heart of my collection.

Of stuff.

I sent out my wrappers.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.

I tore into the paper.

And triumphantly held up my knife.

Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post) Mom grabbed it.

“Diane! What are you doing with this?”

I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”

“You can't play with a knife!”

“I wasn't going to play with it!”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”

“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.

The one above the fridge.

The only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.

“Mom! I bought that!”

“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”

“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”

Ten?

Ten?!

That was forever!

I stared up at the cupboard.

Then at my Mom.

She couldn't possibly mean it.

“But . . . I bought it,” I said again.

Maybe it would have more impact this time.

“I know, dear,” Mom said.

“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.

That's when the tears started.

Even those failed to move her.

Sigh.

For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard.

Not to be discovered until we moved.

“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said.

I took it from her and looked at it.

“Cute.”

“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.

Age? Ten.

“Sure.”

I handed it to him.

One should never have to wait for their fun.

Professionals. Do Not Attempt This At Home

Okay, yes, this is me. But that is a genuine 4-H calf behind me.
See that head? Solid bone.

Have I ever mentioned that cows have a head comprised mostly of bone?

Seriously.

Their head is 99 % bone.

With a tiny little space for a walnut-sized brain.

Okay, well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

Their head can go through most anything.

Fences.

Doors.

Walls.

People.

You get them running and I swear they could go through solid concrete.

And laugh about it with their friends later.

That head is a force to contend with.

You get upwards of 2000 pounds of hair and hoofs going.

With a battering ram for a head.

And anything is possible.

And we puny little humans have to deal with these animals.

On a daily basis.

You want to talk about bravery?

True statistic: Dairy bulls kill more people annually than the grizzly bear.

Mind you, Dairy bulls usually have sharp, pointy things on that solid-bone head.

How can we make the situation just a bit more dangerous?

Put sharp, pointy things on it.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

Cow heads.

And puny humans.

On to my story . . .

Every fall, the eldest siblings in the Stringam household would happily show up for the organizational meeting of the Milk River 4-H Beef Club.

It was a highlight of the year.

They would then go out to the corral with Dad and choose a suitable calf to register in said club.

Then the work started.

I should remind you here, that I never really got involved in the whole ‘work’ part of the scenario.

That’s what brothers are for.

Moving on . . .

My oldest sister, Chris was a lot more ‘hands-on’ than her younger sibling.
So to speak.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Ahem . . .

She would go out and wash her calf.

Talk to it.

Put a halter on it and attempt to drag it around.

It was while attempting this last that she came to grief.

And pain.

Chris had been trying to train her calf (And I use this term lightly. Something the animal wasn’t.) to lead.

An important skill when you plan to have the animal in a show ring.

The calf wasn’t cooperating.

Chris pulled and pushed.

The calf also pulled and pushed.

In the opposite direction.

Chris became frustrated.

In an attempt to get the animal’s attention, she shaped her hand into the patented, TV-approved karate hold and . . . chopped.

Remember what I said about solid bone?

That would apply here.

You’ve heard the caution: Professional karate chopper. Do not attempt this at home.

Or something similar.

Well, such warnings should be heeded.

Chris heard the satisfying *crunch* of bone.

For a brief (very brief) moment, she thought, ‘Ha! Got you!’

Then the pain started.

Chris spent the next weeks in a cast to her elbow.

Cursing the thick-headedness of cattle in general.

And her 4-H calf in particular.

We thought it was funny.

We never let her know, though.

Because ironically, though that hand, cast-less, couldn’t make much of a dent in a solid bone calf head, that same hand, cast-ed, was a weapon of world class destruction.

Just FYI.

Drinking Problems -or - Give me something deep and cool

Soooo simple. Soooo satisfying.

Horses are like people.

They have personalities.

Friends.

Enemies.

Like to play.

Hate to work.

Live to eat.

They even have quirks.

Some have learned to take in a deep breath just as you tighten the cinch.

Then let it out . . . later.

Loose cinches cause accidents.

Just FYI.

I could go on and on about the tricks they play.

And how crafty they can be.

But that is another post.

This story is about Harry.

Harry the Horse.

And drinking.

The horses, I mean.

Although with most cowboys, at times, there can be a lot of drink- . . . never mind.

Now, I should explain that horses, when they drink, don't lap like dogs and other animals.

They dip their lips into the water.

And suck.

Careful to keep their noses out in the air.

So to speak.

But a tired horse, coming back from a long day in the pastures, will try to drink with the bit from the bridle still in its mouth.

This results in . . . leakage.

An imperfect seal at each side of the mouth.

Leakage.

They ignore it and happily slurp up the water.

Except for Harry.

If Harry had been human, he probably would have been an efficiency expert.

He hated leakage.

It was messy.

And, for want of a better term, inefficient.

So Harry had come up with his own solution.

If one just dipped a little more of one's mouth into the water, one could avoid the whole 'leakage problem'.

Genius.

He would lower his mouth into the trough to a level just above the bit.

Problem solved.

Of course, this meant that one's nose became, at times, perilously near, and even in, the water.

No worries.

Just lift your head, take a breath, and lower it again.

Child's play.

Soon Harry discovered that he liked dipping his head into the trough.

If he was really tired, he would dunk it right up to his eyes.

Sometimes further.

And all you would see were a pair of ears, sticking out above the water.

Unusual to be sure.

But immensely entertaining.

It give a whole new meaning to the terms, 'Here you go. Dig in!'.

Or, 'Wow. He's in it to the eyebrows!'.

Or best of all, 'Go soak your head!'.

Yep.

Harry.

The perfect entertainment to end a long, dusty day.

The Bridge

From PhotoPrompt Monday
Photo courtesy of my friend, The Contemplative Cat

Source: I Heart My Snap
Boy on the bridge

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care,

It's sometimes hard, while forward bound,

To stop.

And take a look around.

At times, clear footsteps on the wood

Will tell you life is sound. And good.

With all things joyful in your track

You look ahead, and never back.

But other times the winds will blow,

And send down hail, and sleet, and snow.

The struggle's more than you can bear,

You bowed before your load of care.

Then storms move off, as all storms do,

The sun returns, and warmth anew.

And life goes on, from day to day,

With times of toil and times of play.

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care.

And though it's hard, while forward bound,

Please stop.

And take a look around.

Tell-Tail Heart

Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if I hadn’t just finished reading Edgar Allen Poe’s “Telltale Heart”.

Maybe . . .

It had been a busy day.

Busy.

Our children, and our children’s children, had just left.

With six originals, plus spouses and offspring, that comes to quite a number.

I had collapsed into the couch for some well-deserved R & R.

After the noise from so many bodies, the silence was almost thick around me.

I laid my head back.

“Ahhhhh!”

I relaxed there for a few moments.

Hmmm.

Funny.

I could hear the sound of my heart beating.

I smiled.

Then frowned.

Wait.

I put one hand to my chest.

That couldn’t be my heart.

It was a different rhythm.

I sat up and looked around.

The sound was gone.

Weird.

I got up and listened.

Made a circuit of the room.

Nothing.

I must have imagined it.

I relaxed back on the couch again.

Laid my head back.

There it was!

The steady ca- thump, ca-thump of a heart.

Coming from . . . inside the couch.

My couch was haunted!

I leaped to my feet and went in search of my Husby.

He would be able to tell me that I was just imagining things.

That my furniture hadn’t really taken on a life of its own.

“Sit down, honey,” I directed.

“No. Right here.”

He sat down, eyeing me doubtfully.

“Now lean your head back.”

He did so, still keeping his eyes on me.

Then, those eyes widened.

He sat up and looked at the couch.

“You hear it, too?” I asked.

He nodded, still staring at the couch.

He leaned over again, putting one ear against the fabric.

“Huh,” he said. “I hear a heartbeat.”

“Is it a sign or something?” I asked.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking.

What on earth would a couch with a heartbeat be a sign of?

Humour me . . .

He shook his head. “There must be some explanation.”

“Well, you have to admit that it’s not every day you have furniture that develops . . . bodily functions,” I told him.

We took turns sitting on the couch and pressing our ears against the back.

Each time, we heard the steady thumping of a heart.

Stranger and stranger.

Our front door opened.

We both jumped.

It was our second son, returning to pick up something his family had forgotten.

“Erik! Come in here!”

We directed him to the couch.

“Sit here!”

We pushed him down.

“Now put your head against the back.”

He did so, thinking all the while that both of his parents had suddenly taken the last bend in the road before reaching the loonie bin.

Then he frowned. “It that . . .?”

He turned his head and pressed his ear against the couch.

He looked up at us. “It’s a heartbeat.”

“I know!” we said together. “Our couch has a heartbeat!”

He frowned and put his head down once more. “Yup. Definitely a heartbeat.”

He got up and started probing the cushions.

“Erik, what are you doing?” I suddenly had visions of him coming up with a bloody, beating heart grasped in one hand.

“Ah!” he said.

He pulled his hand out.

Clutching a soft, furry little lamb.

With cute little ears and a tiny little stub of a tail.

“I think this is your problem,” he said.

He put the lamb against my ear.

‘Ca-thump! Ca-thump!’

“Oh!” I said. I took the lamb from him. “Ummm . . . why does it have a heartbeat?” I asked stupidly.

I’m sure the rest of you have heard of these things, but I swear I had not . . .

“It’s supposed to be soothing to a new baby,” Erik said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You put it in the cradle. The baby’s used to the sound of a heartbeat. It soothes them.”

“Huh.”

He took it back and flipped a switch.

The beating sound stopped.

He laughed at the two of us staring down at the little lamb. Then he left.

Case solved.

To All the Fathers in My Life

To my Dad, My Husby, My Sons and SILs.

I love you!

My Dad and me

It starts out with a snuffle – a voice he's never heard before,

And suddenly, he's a Father and there's a whole new world in store.

The time goes by, he's changed a thousand diapers, maybe more,

His hair's grown grey along the sides, his back is bent and sore,

He knows feeding, changing – is expert on most everything that's sold,

Imagine how much more he'll know when his child is two days old . . .

The years fly past, his baby's reached the great old age of three,

That wondrous time when head and hands reach just above the knee,

The scars have healed from babe's first tooth, the child can even talk,

The tiny hard hat's put away – his little one can walk.

The child is toilet-trained, survived each illness, scratch and sore,

Dad knows it all, good thing because his wife just had two more.

His babes grow tall - or he grows small – there's a definite shift in size,

He's not as smart as he once was, through his adolescent's eyes.

He's older now and he can see both sides of any fight,

But it matters not 'cause like his child, he knows that he is right.

And as he watches, painfully, the sometimes good and bad,

There's one thing that will never change - the fact that he's their dad.

And so it goes, he does his best, survives on little sleep,

He goes to work each day, comes home and tends his growing sheep.

There is little recognition for the work he does each day,

A baby hug, a chocolate kiss may be his only pay.

But he strangles his impatience as he watches tiny hands,

And he gently speaks when teenage heads just do not understand

His prods and pushes – anger, too, he tempers, 'cause he cares,

His one reward, his children's love, he treasures through the years.

Peeling

Okay . . . well . . . it's tougher than it looks.

My Mom could peel potatoes.

I mean, really peel potatoes.

She did it so fast, that, for years, I thought each potato had two peels.

Because there was always peel where I thought she had already . . .

Never mind.

Okay, so brilliant, I wasn't.

When I was ten, she decided the time had come for me to take my place in the 'potato peeling' scheme of things.

I have to point out that I had been totally fine in the whole 'watching'.

But moms are never satisfied with the status quo.

Sigh.

And to top things off, she wasn't even there.

She had put a roast in the oven, vegetables on the stove, ready to turn on.

I did know how to do that . . .

And a pan of potatoes to wash, peel and cook.

She even gave me a schedule.

At four o'clock, I reluctantly set down my book and headed into the kitchen.

I stared at the mound of potatoes and sighed.

Surely there was a better way.

But this was the sixties.

Instant anything was in its infancy.

And TV dinners were something other families ate.

I picked up a knife and started.

In my mind, I could picture Mom's sure, steady stroke.

Denuding each potato in seconds.

And in one long peel.

Reality was a bit . . . trickier.

Little chunks of potato began to rain down into the bowl.

Hmmmm.

My potato skins seemed to be a lot thicker than Mom's.

Must be a different kind of potato.

Slowly . . . very slowly . . . the white potato began to emerge.

Somewhat smaller than the original.

Okay, a lot smaller.

But finally it was finished.

I glanced at the clock.

Suddenly, Mom's strict starting time instructions began to make sense.

This wasn't her first rodeo.

Three older siblings has stood right where I was standing. Risking life and fingers in an effort to provide the family with dinner.

I picked up the second potato.

Half-an-hour later, I looked down, proudly, at my pristine bowl of newly-peeled potatoes.

Hmmm.

What had once filled the bowl now . . . didn't.

I shrugged and put a pot on the stove.

Filled it to the instructed depth with water.

Added my potatoes.

And turned on the burner.

A few minutes later, Mom came home.

I proudly pointed to the now bubbling pots of potatoes and vegetables and waited for her praise.

She didn't disappoint.

“Good job, Diane,” she said, smiling.

Happily, I went to set the table.

A job I was comfortable with.

That was over forty years ago.

I did learn to peel potatoes.

In a lot less time.

And with a lot thinner peels.

I have never been able to match my Mom's lightning fast, and amazingly efficient knife, but I can make a fairly credible showing.

Or so I thought.

At our last family dinner, two of my granddaughters, ages six and nine, peeled all of the potatoes for the meal.

And when your feeding some twenty people, that is a mound.

They were quicker than I am.

I was suddenly reminded of my mom.

Sometimes excellence skips a generation.

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.