Mystery Meat

Mmmmmm . . .

Every family has customs at Christmas.

Some are fun.

Some funny.

Some weird.

Our family has several that fit into this last category.

One is Christmas stockings.

Okay, yes, I know that many, many families enjoy the custom of stuffing a stocking for each family member.

It's what goes into said stockings that sets our family apart.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On Christmas, after the kids have been shuttled off to bed, Mom and Dad (alias Santa) bring out the loot.

Erm . . . gifts.

Each stocking is laid out and stuffed full.

I look after the common, everyday, run-of-the-mill gifts:

1.Toothbrushes.

2. Socks.

3. Underwear.

4. The orange in the toe.

My Husby looks after the strange and bizarre:

1. Various styles of catapults.

2. Magnets.

3. Quirky -- ie. strange – books, puzzles and games.

4. Expanding T-shirts. Just add water.

5. And little tins of meat.

I know what you're thinking.

Why on earth would someone give his kids catapults.

You weren't?

My mistake.

Sooo . . . tinned meats.

Every year, each of our children found a tin of . . . something . . . stuffed into the inner reaches of his or her stocking.

And I'm not talking tuna fish here.

These were tins of something fancifully called: Vienna sausage.

In various flavours.

All neatly and brightly and attractively packaged.

And yes, I realize that there may be people around the world who love Vienna sausage.

My kids were raised on the prairie.

And served beef three meals a day.

With the occasional foray into the world of chicken or pork.

If the animal didn't originally bellow, oink or cluck, they regarded it with deep suspicion.

Or outright revulsion.

Okay, the ingredients listed on the Vienna sausage tins said: beef and/or chicken and/or pork and/or meat.

But it was mechanically de-boned and mixed with . . . other stuff.

So in the words of my kids, mystery meat.

Need I say that my Husby's gifts weren't received with gladness?

Probably not.

Oh, they tried it.

The very first year.

It . . . wasn't popular.

No tin was every willingly opened again.

And when the detritus had been cleared from the front room after the all-important opening of the gifts, the only things remaining were several tins of meat.

Left where they had been dropped upon being discovered.

Husby immediately scooped them up and stowed them carefully away.

Only to bring them out and drop them into another stocking the next year.

One particular tin of sausage re-appeared six years in a row.

The last year in Argentina, where our youngest son was living at the time.

His roommate ate it.

Something we didn't think was possible.

One of our kids asked their father why he kept putting those little tins of -to them- inedible meat in the stockings.

His answer surprised all of us.

“Because I want you to appreciate that we live in a place where we have plenty. That tiny tins of mystery meat can be laughed over and disregarded. We are very blessed.”

We truly are.

Judgement Seat

Me and my Partner in Crime/ Future Best Friend

I was sitting in a Sunday School class yesterday.

The group was studying a particular scripture.

It concerned what happens when we all die.
The teacher explained that, when we die, all of us will be taken back to that God who made us.

I was with him that far.

Then he explained that everyone will wait there until the final judgement.

The righteous in a state of peace and calm.

The wicked in a state of anxiety knowing that the final judgement won't be pretty.

It was an interesting class.

It reminded me of something.

Because I have an active imagination.

And because I can't pay attention to anything for more than two minutes.

Unless there are moving pictures and/or shiny things . . .

My next older brother, George, and I used to squabble.

A lot.

It was his fault.

I can say that because this is my blog.

Okay, yes, it's connected to his blog, but I'm going to worry about that later.

Moving on . . .

I don't think we could exist in the same room for more than a few seconds before a fight would break out.

She's touching me!

He's taking my toys!

She's playing stupid games!

He says I'm playing stupid games!

HE/SHE'S BREATHING MY AIR!!!

You know the drill.

My mother tried all sorts of remedies.

Chores.

Confiscation of treats.

Loss of privileges.

The only thing that worked was 'time out'.

George and I spent many, many minutes thus engaged.

Or rather dis-engaged.

For first offences, such as minor disagreements over toys, she started out small.

“You two go and sit on a chair!”

This punishment was usually informal.

Consisting of a few moments spent sitting at opposite ends of the table.

If the crime was a bit more serious, ie. name-calling, time was added.

“You two sit there until the timer on the stove goes off!”

Rats.

Then there were the major offences.

Where things had gotten a little . . . physical.

Hair pulling and/or pinching and/or scratching.

“Both of you sit there on that piano bench until your father gets home!”

Oh, man.

Not only did we lose playing privileges.

But we had to sit in very close proximity to the person who had landed us in this predicament.

Sigh.

Did you know that, sometimes, older brother have cooties?

Well, they do.

Just FYI.

So there we sat.

Back to the discussion in Sunday School.

And I don't mean to be disrespectful.

But I think I know precisely what the teacher was trying to tell us.

My brother and I sat on that piano bench for what was probably only a matter of minutes.

But which seemed like hours to a four-year-old.

In a confined space.

Unable to leave.

Waiting for the punishment of a just father.

Yep. I know.

Insignificant. A short story. Part Three

What would you do?

If you could . . .

Part Three

“It is with great pleasure that we present this award to the team of Lucy Snow and Lawrence McGovern.”

The applause was thunderous as Lucy and Larry made their way to the podium. Breathless and smiling, they stood there in the spotlight and waved to the crowd.

“Dr. Snow? Dr. McGovern?”

They turned.

“The Scintell Company is proud to present you with this award of astounding achievement,” Dr. Rogers said, holding out a large, silver plate. “In recognition for your amazing contributions this year.”

Lucy reached for the heavy trophy. “Thank you, Dr. Rogers,” she said.

“We are honoured,” Larry added.

Dr. Rogers laughed. “It's so nice to be able to come out from behind the president's desk once in a while and mix with the people who do the real work in this company.” He put a hand on each doctor's shoulder. “And especially when it is for something this momentous.”

“Well, Dr. Rogers, we have to return the thanks,” Lucy said. “If it weren't for the support and the faith of this company, Dr. McGovern and I would never have been able to achieve this milestone.” She looked out at the crowd. “And thanks to all of you!” She held up the trophy. “This is for all of us!”

The applause and cheering were deafening.

Dr. Rogers was back at the mike. “So, what's next?” he asked.

“Oh, we have many plans,” Lucy said, her eyes glowing. “Many, many plans.”

* * *

“Is that what you're going to wear?” Larry asked.

“Lare, this is all about functionality, not fashion,” Lucy said.

“Okay,” Larry grinned. “If you say so.”

“Oh, shuddup and get on with it,” Lucy said, grinning.

Larry laughed. He twisted a couple of dials. “Okay, I'm ready,” he said.

Lucy pulled the strap of a small bag over her shoulder and buttoned her heavy, cotton jacket. “Me, too,” she said.

“You're sure you've got it right this time?”

“Lare, haven't we done this enough times that you can stop asking me that?”

Larry shrugged. “You keep looking and looking,” he said, “and you haven't found them yet.”

“I'm feeling lucky this time,” Lucy said. “My research was just a trifle off before. I'm sure I've got it right this time.”

“So . . . how long do you want me to give you?”

“Oh, say . . . two days?”

“You think you can find them and finish the job in that short amount of time?”

“Lare. I told you. I've done my research this time.”

Larry shrugged. “You're the boss.”

“I am,” Lucy grinned. “And don't you forget it.”

“Well, I guess we should get on with it.”

“Wish me luck,” Lucy said, stepping into the booth.

“You don't need it,” Larry said. “You've got research!”

Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.

“But, good luck!” Larry pushed the brown button.

An orange glow filled the booth. With a slight 'pop', Lucy disappeared.

Larry set some controls and glanced at the clock. He pressed a button. “Trial 238, proceeding,” he said. “Time: 2:59 PM.” Then he left the room.

Naptime

Okay. Sometimes, it worked.

Naptime.

Next to bedtime, the highlight of a mother's day.

Or at least in my mother's day.

Mom was a great believer in the taking of naps.

It didn't matter if her children – ie. me -- weren't tired.

It they, meaning me, were willing and able to perform amazing feats of strength and energy. Provide positive proof that a nap definitely wasn't needed.

Someone needed a nap.

She would march me to my room.

Pull the blinds.

And point to the bed.

Sigh.

Reluctantly, I would lie down.

Mom would lie down beside me.

To make sure I stayed.

It worked.

I did stay.

Until she went to sleep.

See? One of us definitely needed a nap.

But I digress . . .

And that's when the skills I had learned over time at great personal cost came into play.

Let me describe . . .

First, I would slide out from under Mom's arm.

You have to know that this was only the beginning.

And, oddly enough, the easiest part.

Because once free of that arm, things got more complicated.

Mom was attuned to the slightest shift in the mattress.

I had to make sure that I didn't get careless and move too quickly.

Slowly, I would slide toward the edge of the bed.

An inch.

Another.

And carefully.

With long pauses between.

That fourteen inches of mattress looked mighty big at times.

And I didn't get a second chance if I got caught.

Countless times, I would have nearly reached my goal and Mom's eyes would snap open. “Diane! Get back here!”

Rats.

But there were glorious days when I was really sneaky, and would make it clear out to the living room before she noticed.

She would appear in the doorway, bleary-eyed and unsteady.

“Diane! What are you doing?”

It was a small victory.

But a victory nonetheless.

P.S. You know you're truly an adult when you no longer take naps.

But wish you did.

I have a special request for all of my wonderful Blog Friends:
Would any of you be interested in reading my newest Christmas story, Kris Kringle's Magic?
I need some readers willing to give it the once-over and report their feelings/impressions in a short sentence or two.
Interested?
Leave your email in the comment box.
Thank you so much!!!
I write for you!

Truck Ballet

Okay. Picture it in orange . . .

If one was raised on a ranch in Southern Alberta, one was driving by the time one could clearly see above the dashboard.

This involved getting physically taller.

Because Dad wouldn’t allow one to use the Sears catalogue for added height.

By the time I was 12, I was there.

Dad handed me the keys, took me through car control basics in a nearby empty field, and set me loose.

Oh, I wasn’t allowed on any roads.

And my driving was strictly limited to running errands to and from said fields.

But I was driving!

Oddly enough, in those early days, I never had any accidents.

Not one.

Those were reserved for after I received my driver’s license and had discovered the joys of driving on real roads.

Case in point:

I was driving a friend’s cool, orange, 1974 Ford truck.

Four-on-the-floor with a smooth clutch.

The steering was a bit dodgy. Armstrong, as we were fond of calling it.

But it was a sweet truck to drive.

We were heading to the track.

I should mention, here, that I used to help my friend with his uncle’s racehorses at the track.

It was . . . fun.

But that is another blog post.

Moving on . . .

It was time to feed and start the day’s training.

And, as is usually the custom in Alberta in February, the roads were icy.

Icy=slick.

We were coming to a curve.

Slowing was indicated.

Now I had been well-instructed by my brothers on the best way to begin.

By down-shifting.

I pressed the clutch.

Expertly shoved the gearshift into the next lower gear.

And let out the clutch.

All while driving over a sheet of black ice.

Oops.

The next few moments are a blur.

I do remember the sensation of spinning.

Because we were.

That old truck performed maneuvers that could have put it on center stage during a performance by the Royal Alberta Ballet.

Did you know a truck can pirouette?

Arabesque?

Sauté?

Well, it can.

And very gracefully, too.

Eons and multiple circles later, we finally came to a rest, parked neatly on the median.

Facing the wrong way.

We had, somehow, managed to miss three traffic signs, two trees and one astonished pedestrian.

With dog.

For a moment, we caught our breath and counted limbs.

Then I put the truck into gear and started forward.

Down off the median and onto the street.

The wrong way.

“In Canada, we drive on the right side,” my friend pointed out shakily.

Oh. Right.

I drove back onto the median and crossed over it to the other side of the street.

We made it to the track safely.

But, for some reason, my friend would never let me drive his truck again.

Even though I pointed out, rather intelligently I believe, that there couldn’t possibly be ice on the streets of Lethbridge in the middle of July.

Some people simply don’t forgive and forget.

Emphasis on forget.

Bonk Eye

Recently, I've noticed something.

That, in itself is remarkable.

Moving on . . .

I work with a group of elderly people.

Some of them like nothing better than talking about their health.

Or lack thereof.

I've been treated to stories of gall bladders.

Knees.

Hips.

Hearts.

Mysterious lumps.

And a plethora of aches and pains.

I cluck sympathetically.

Knowing that each of these ailments will probably visit me at some point.

But what is truly remarkable is the fact that the very young people I also associate with, ie. my grandchildren, are equally interested in their health.

Scrapes, bruises and cuts are examined minutely and then displayed, accompanied by a lurid tale of woe.

Often.

Sometimes, a tiny wound might go undetected for several days. Have scabbed over and be well on its way to healing. But once discovered, it must be fussed over and bandaged and kissed.

Several times.

My two-year-old granddaughter had fallen and bumped her head.

Just above her eye.

After the initial tears and hysteria, she had examined her wound in the mirror.

There was a distinct bruise above her eye.

“Mom!” she said loudly. “Bonk eye!”

Her mother agreed that, yes, she had 'bonked' her eye.

But that wasn't enough.

She had to tell everyone in the room.

Several times.

Later, at dinner, she mentioned it again.

Several more times.

Her uncle Tristan, having been at an activity, was late to dinner.

He slid into his chair and started dishing out food.

Here was someone new to tell.

“Unca Tristan!” she said, “Bonk eye!”

Tristan looked at her. “Yes, I see that you bonked your eye,” he said. He started eating.

“Unca Tristan, look! Bonk eye!”

“Yes,” he said.

“Bonk eye, Unca Tristan!”

“Yes.”

She took a couple of bites of food. Then, “Unca Tristan!”

“I know,” he broke in, rather wearily.

“Bonk eye!”

“Yes.”

This went on through the remainder of the meal.

And every time we saw her for the next few weeks.

Long after the slight bruise had healed.

And until the next injury pushed it off the front page.

Then it was, “Unca Tristan! Look!”

He looked at me. “On, man. Are we going to have another chorus of 'bonk-eye'?” he said.

I laughed.

Health issues.

Most important at each end of the age scale.

Differing only in seriousness.

Not in concern.

Through My Kitchen Window

For three years, we lived next to a haunted house.

Okay, it really wasn't 'haunted'.

But strange things went on there.

Maybe I should explain.

We lived on a street of tiny, beautiful starter homes.

Less expensive and perfect for people living on a lower income. They were filled with senior couples and young families.

We fit into the second category.

The house beside us, whose front porch I could see from my kitchen window, was home to a little elderly couple.

Sweet people.

Quiet.

Private.

We saw them seldom.

Then, one day, I noticed that two young girls were going in that front door.

I should mention, here, that I spent a lot of time at my kitchen window. It was over my kitchen sink.

Enough said.

For many months, we saw those girls regularly.

Then, suddenly, more people appeared. A young woman with tattoos, piercings, a neanderthal whose whose origins were questionable, and a baby named Levi.

Then I realized that I hadn't seen our elderly couple in quite some time.

In fact I never saw them again.

For several months the two young girls and the couple with their baby came and went.

Then two young boys, similar in age to the two young girls, appeared.

And the two young girls stopped.

Appearing, that is.

Now, as near as we could figure, the young couple and their baby and the two young boys lived there.

Then all activity ceased.

No one came or went.

One morning, I opened my front door to a very tall police officer. “Do you know the people who live next door?” he asked.

“That house?” I asked, pointing.

He nodded.

“I'm ashamed to say that I don't,” I said. “There was a nice elderly couple there. Then two young girls. Then a young couple and a baby. Then two young boys. But that's about all I can tell you.”

“Come with me,” he said. He led the way to the house.

I stopped in the front doorway.

Aghast.

I've always wanted to use that word . . .

The cute little house had been destroyed.

Cupboards had been ripped down off the walls and shredded into matchsticks. Every single wall and door had been punched out. The bannister ripped off the stairway and broken. Toilet ripped off the floor and thrown out the window.

The damage was unbelievable.

Incredible.

And, over the din of five kids and seven day-home kids, I had heard absolutely none of it.

Obviously someone had been very angry.

Or very, very disturbed.

For six months the little house remained empty.

Then, one day, crews appeared and effected repairs.

And, finally, a sweet young couple and their baby moved in.

Ahhh. Normal at last.

Then the fights began.

Usually in the wee hours of the morning.

One morning, after breakfast, I was again at my post, hands in the sink, when a police car, followed by a van pulled up next door.

Two policeman, one carrying a large camera got out.

Oh, no. He's killed her, I thought.

The two went into the house.

Sometime later, more police cars arrived.

It took me a while to notice because I had the phone and was sitting on the floor calling my husband.

“I don't want to live here any more,” I said, tearfully. “Please move me somewhere else!”

I ended my phone call and stood up.

Just as the front door opened.

A policeman came out.

Carrying two large, beautiful, healthy marijuana plants.

Oh.

He was followed by another, carrying two more.

Then another.

And another.

In all, I counted 16 plants.

Okay, not what I expected.

The officers stowed the plants and left.

I must admit that I was quite surprised when things next door became more or less normal for a while after that.

Then the fights began again.

One particular night, we heard the loud slam of a door.

Then pounding.

Then, “Open this door!”

The husband had pushed his wife outside and locked the door.

Soon we heard the starting of a vehicle and the squealing of tires.

Exit wife.

For a few weeks, the young husband and the baby continued to live there.

Then we moved.

I couldn't take it any longer.

Who needs TV when one has a kitchen window?

July First Miracle

We had decided to take our children for a holiday over the long July first weekend.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But we had made a couple of mistakes.

1. We hadn't planned. Anything.
2. We hadn't made reservations.

Did you know that you need reservations to camp in Alberta over THE long weekend?

Well, you do.

Sigh.

It was getting late on June 30.

We had been through dozens of campgrounds.

All completely filled with people who were better planners than we were.

Or at least had started out on their holiday a bit earlier in the day.

We saw a sign for yet another campground.

Almost hidden in the undergrowth.

Hmmm.

Maybe others would have missed it.

We drove in.

Right away, we saw an empty campsite.

Things were looking up.

The site wasn't very big.

Just down the street was a second.

Also tiny.

Forgetting the hours we had spent searching, we decided to do a loop and see if there were any better.

We completed the circuit.

Nothing.

A second loop opened off the first.

We decided to give it the once-over.

Grant turned.

We had gone only a few dozen feet before we realized that this was not part of the campground.

The road we were on trailed off into the trees, instantly becoming a small path.

We needed to turn around.

Grant nosed the car into the tall grass on an approach to a farmer's field.

There was a thump.

And the steering on the car . . . quit.

We couldn't turn.

Grant got out and inspected.

A large log had been pulled across the approach.

Presumably to stop exactly what we were trying to do.

The car had rolled over it.

And completely destroyed the power steering.

Grant stared at it, shaking his head.

Finally, he moved the log, opened the gate, and drove our car straight out into the field.

It was the only thing we could do.

We stopped.

And looked at each other.

It was seven pm on Friday, June 30.

The beginning the THE long weekend.

A disabled car.

Six hungry kids.

And no options.

We got out.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” one of the kids said.

Good idea.

We gathered close and prayed.

For help.

For guidance.

For some miracle that would instantly replace our ailing car with a new and pristine model.

Then Grant grabbed a basin and started out for the campground.

A few minutes later, he was back.

Basin brimming with cold, clear water.

But what was even more wonderful was the police car following directly behind him.

The kids and I surrounded Grant, peppering him with questions and turning to stare at the car.

Two officers emerged.

As they came closer, I realized that there was only one officer.

The other man was dressed in 'civvies'.

Grant handed me the water and turned to the men.

“This is the car,” he said.

The second man walked over, lifted the hood and bent over the engine.

Grant joined him.

It turned out that this second man was good friends with the officer. He was a mechanic and the owner of the nearby auto wreckers. He had decided to come along with his friend as the officer ran his evening rounds.

The two of them, Grant and the mechanic, began to converse in 'car'.

Finally, they straightened.

“I'll send someone over in the morning to pick it up,” the man said. “We can fix you up. No problem.”

I could have kissed him.

But there was the fact that we were total strangers.

So I shook his hand instead.

True to his word, a tow truck arrived the next morning at 8:00 AM. Took the car and disappeared.

At 3:00, the car was back.

Driving under it's own abilities once more.

Our prayers were truly answered.

We had been granted a miracle.

My daughter looked at me. “The car's fixed?” she asked.

“It is, Sweetie,” I said.

“It's a miracle.”

“It is.”

She looked at me again. “I wonder what that policeman thought when the mechanic appeared beside him after our prayer.”
I smiled. I wonder, too.

Typing 10

In high school, amid the myriad choices, there was one class everyone was expected to take.

None of us could understand why.

It was a useless class.

What on earth would we ever need it for?

It's not like it had any practical applications.

Yep. Typing 10.

The colossal waste of time.

But we were, if nothing else, dutiful.

Daily, we would report to our teacher.

Then scurry to get the best machine.

I should explain, here, that the machines we used were all elderly 'Olivetti Underwoods'.

Non-electronic.

Totally manual.

Capable of jamming if any two keys approached the action zone at the same time.

Heavy.

And able to take whatever abuse we chose to mete out.

And, believe me, that was Abuse with a capital 'A'.

One friend would systematically pound on her machine for every mistake she made.

It was quite entertaining.

And made the typing of the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog not quite so mundane.

And repetitive.

We were taken through exercises designed to improve our accuracy.

Our speed.

And our ability to type while looking anywhere other than our keyboard.

None of which were my forte.

Our teacher would stand at the front of the room with her trusty little stopwatch.

And holler 'Go!”

Dozens of keys would begin clicking.

Okay, another thing I should mention is that manual typewriters, at least the ones we used, were noisy.

All of us typing together would constitute what could only be considered a 'din'.

With the sound of my friend periodically rising above as she stopped to punch her machine. “Stupid, useless . . .!”

“Stop.”

Hands in our laps.

Then we would roll out our paper and check for mistakes.

This is where I always came to grief.

Well, one of the places.

I could type fast.

I just didn't ever hit the right keys.

Of all the kids in the class, I probably scored the worst.

Oddly enough, I'm the only one who now makes her living . . . typing.

The irony is just sickening.

Honey Bucket Wars

Our second son is tall.

Taller than average.

In his stocking feet, he stands six foot eight.

Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.

I have a close family friend.

I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.

Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.

But she makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.

Feisty.

Describes her perfectly.

Erik, said second son, used to tease her.

About her height.

Or lack thereof.

I should point out that this woman has six children of her own.

She could give it right back.

One day, he stood looking down at her.

And grinning.

“Oh!” she said.

Nearby was a bucket of honey.

Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.

Moving on . . .

She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.

I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.

“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do about that?”

Erik merely stepped backwards.

“Oh!” She said. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him again.

Then she stepped up once more.

“Ha!” she said again.

He stepped back once more.

“Oh!” she said.

This went on for some time.

She pushed that honey bucket all over the kitchen.

Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.

Hmm.

Maybe an important point to consider . . .

The Frog

When my Husby was a teenager, he bought an old truck.

Which he painted green.

Forever after, it was known as The Frog.

And became a common sight on the streets of Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

The Frog was Grant's pride and joy.

He loved tinkering with it.

Often, his father commented on the amount of time spent with that old truck.

And the dollars.

“What are you doing now?” he asked one day. “Nickle-plating it?”

Grant laughed, but an idea was born.

He bought a small tin of aluminium paint.

Then crawled under the truck.

Scraped the rust and dirt off the chassis.

And painted it.

Shortly thereafter (oooh! good word) his father took the truck down to the local shop to have the oil changed.

The mechanic slid underneath to begin proceedings.

“Hey!” he shouted. “It's chrome-plated under here!”

Grant's dad had to see it.

He just shook his head and snickered.

Yes. Snickered.

“I knew it!”

Later, Grant and many, many friends were heading to a youth activity down near the river in Lethbridge.

The cab of the truck was stuffed with young bodies.

And the back with many more.

A policeman pulled them over.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked my Husby.

“No, officer,” came the respectful reply.

It's my story, I'll tell it how I want.

Moving on . . .

“No officer. We are just heading to a youth activity.”

“Well you have a taillight out,” the officer said. “While we're at it, let's give this truck the once-over.”

“Okay,” Grant said.

The officer and his trusty flashlight began a systematic search for 'things wrong'.

Lights.

Brake lights.

High/low beams.

Horn.

Grant pulled out the ashtray.

The horn honked loudly.

The officer swung his flashlight back to the console.

“Do that again!” he said.

Grant pulled out the ashtray.

HONK!

“This thing belongs in a museum!”

He was right.

I never got to meet The Frog.

It had been sold long before I came on the scene.

But my Husby has described it.

And the many adventures they shared.

Good stories.

Ineffective Snitching

Our eldest son isn't someone who could be considered 'sneaky'.

In fact, I think he swings quite the other way.

Oh, he tries.

In fact, when he was little, he used to fancy himself a ninja.

The master of subtlety and sneak-iness.

But when it came to actually . . . shifting the blame, or obfuscation of facts?

He was lost.

And oddly enough, it was usually because he couldn’t bear to leave things in a disorderly manner.

Let's face it. Sneaking into other people's possessions, and tidying them before you leave?

Better than they were before?

Not the most subtle of practices.

When Mark was 12, his scout group was fund-raising.

He dutifully received his case of chocolate-covered almonds.

I should point out that he was supposed to sell them.

He didn't.

The case rested - for safety's sake and because I knew my almond-loving son - on the floor in my bedroom.

Daily, I lifted one of the boxes on top and rattled it.

Just to make sure it hadn't been tampered with.

In hindsight, I should have dug deeper.

Moving on . . .

The evening came when we had been planning to go door-to-door.

I lifted the case.

It was surprisingly light.

Much too light.

I discovered that the only boxes that actually contained almonds were the four on the top.

Mark had been systematically eating the rest.

Then tidily sealing the empties and putting them back into the box.

Sigh.

He also had a thing for ice cream.

The sneaking of which was a family Olympic sport.

But where the other kids would grab a spoon and sneak a bite, then dispose of said spoon into the sink where it would instantly achieve anonymity.

Mark would get out a bowl.

And spoon.

Sneak his ice cream.

Then rinse the bowl and spoon.

And set them in the freezer.

With the ice cream.

Remember what I said about subtlety?

Yep. Not happening.

Years have passed.

I can't comment about his almond/ice cream snitching ways or their effectiveness today.

His wife has to worry about that.

It's a perfect world.

When Mom DOESN'T Know Best

My future Husby and I were preparing for our wedding.

It had been a painless process to this point.

We were standing in the Men's Wear shop.

The best one in Lethbridge.

Husby-to-be was dressed inn a new suit.

Light blue.

Spiffy. (real word)

He looked fantastic.

It was the 70s.

Styles were . . . unusual.

I loved this new, light-blue suit.

I thought it would look fantastic with a dark blue shirt and a light tie.

Now, I should explain here that Husby-to-be had spent his whole life, and particularly the last two years in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie.

He never noticed how the rich and famous and photographed were dressed.

Never caught a glimpse of the 'fashion' ads.

Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie were what a young man wore.

Every young man.

His wife-to-be was just a touch more daring.

I had seen the fashion ads.

Had glanced through the Movie Star magazines.

I knew Husby-to-be would look amazing in a light suit, dark shirt and light tie.

Like the men in the Godfather.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that.

I had gotten him into the suit.

But there, all progress had stopped.

He stared suspiciously at the dark shirt I was holding up.

And the light tie.

Finally, he uttered the words that every husby-to-be learns, sooner or later, NOT to say.

Those fateful words that draw a neat line between pre-marriage days and post-marriage days.

“I'll ask my mom what she thinks.”

I'm sure the look on my face spoke volumes.

Volumes.

Because he immediately recognized he had said something wrong.

He wasn't sure what, but . . . definitely wrong.

He did wear the light suit.

But with a white shirt and dark tie.

All totally without any input from his mom.

Compromise at its best.

Chaps

In the calving field at the Stringam Ranch was a large patch of bullberry bushes.

Or at least that's what we called them.

I don't know what their 'official' name is.

It doesn't matter.

Whatever their name, they're deadly.

Spikes – I am not exaggerating – up to two inches long.

Against a tender and unprotected human hide, they could do some real damage.

The cows in the field had learned to use them.

When a *gasp* human appeared, they would charge into the bushes.

And chuckle with their friends.

I know.

I heard them.

Moving on . . .

The first time or two, my horse decided to charge in after them.

I should explain that a horse's hide is equally as tough as a cow's.

A human's? See above.

Inevitably I would emerge from such incidents rather the 'worse for the wear'.

As my mother was so fond of saying.

The second time I showed up at home with bloodstains on my shredded jeans, my mother drug out Dad's moose-hide chaps.

Now, I should mention here that chaps look really good on a tall slim cowboy.

Really, really good.

Ahem.

And certainly they have their uses.

The chaps, not the cowboys.

Okay yes. A cowboy, too, has his uses.

But that is a completely different sort of post . . .

Back to my story . . .

Chaps provide protection from the ravages of ranch work.

They have saved many a pair of jeans from wear during haying.

And many a cowboy from damage when things get up close and personal.

But they are perversely hard to ride in when one is doing so bareback.

I know.

I tried.

Bareback riding requires balance.

Intuition.

And a good grip with the knees.

Chaps, especially heavy ones, prevent the all-important knee grip.

And actually make balance a bit more difficult.

Sigh.

What to do?

Protection won out.

I wore the chaps.

And they sported the scars to prove it.

Picture leather nearly a quarter of an inch thick.

With cuts that went almost all the way through.

That could have been me.

Years later, I showed them to my children.

Who expressed proper and well-deserved awe and amazement.

Yesterday, my Husby and I were wandering through a store in cattlemen country.

Hanging from the rafters just inside the front door were a pair of chaps.

But not just any chaps.

These were made of leather, dyed green and purple and gold and pink.

With silver fringe.

I stared at them.

Chaps had obviously changed.

Not just for protection any more.

Now they could be worn to scare cows out of the bush.

Or so that their rider could be seen by satellite.

Ranching has come a long way.

Picnic

Picnics are a fixture of the great Canadian summer.

Something anticipated throughout the long, dark winter.

The reward for spending months huddled around the wood stove.

Okay, I'm exaggerating.

But Canada does have winter.

And Canadians definitely look forward to summer.

And picnics.

The trouble with picnics is that they are so dependant on so many factors.

Weather is a biggie.

For instance, it's rather hard to picnic in the rain.

Though it has been done.

Wind, too can play havoc with one's plans.

As well as one's picnic blanket, napkins, paper plates.

And smaller guests.

But one of the most insidious of picnic problems is the uninvited guest.

And, believe me, they show up for every picnic.

They show up if a picnic is merely being contemplated.

I'm sure they have poked their noses in at your picnics.

And I do mean poked.

I'm talking mosquitoes here.

Those little, lighter-than-air messengers of doom.

Irritators extraordinaire.

High-pitched precursors to prolonged itch and expressive words.

Known to achieve sizes heretofore only seen in the pre-Cambrian days.

With the ability to carry off unsuspecting small animals.

The reason Canadians wear their winter gear year round.

And learn to eat quickly and with one hand.

While the other hand feverishly stands guard.

My friends were picnicking.

Their entire family had turned out.

They were visiting.

Eating.

Laughing.

Enjoying the beautiful day and fresh air.

And generally doing those things that make a picnic so enjoyable.

Grandmother was seated at one of the many picnic tables.

Enjoying a hamburger.

With a sesame seed bun.

In the company of one of her young grandsons.

That's when the uninvited guests arrived.

One particularly determined individual was making life miserable for said Grandmother.

She lifted a hand and grabbed at it.

Now the normal hand motion is: Grab. Look. And if one is successful, Smash.

She completed the first two manoeuvres.

Grab.

Look.

Rats. She had missed.

But she did see a sesame seed, stuck to her finger.

Which she then, happily, licked off.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the grandson was seated opposite, watching his beloved grandmother.

I probably don't have to describe what he thought he saw.

But I will.

Grandmother grabbing mosquitoes.

And eating them.

His horrified expression and the words 'Grandma! Yuck!' which burst out of him alerted her to what he was seeing.

She quickly explained.

And peace and appetite were restored.

But she raises an important point.

Instead of making mosquitoes the uninvited guests at a picnic, why not make them the picnic?

Who's with me?

Smashing hands up!

Six-Man Hot Tub

For over twenty years, we ran a family business.

Mikey's Music Machine.

We were DJs.

Specializing in family dances.

We had . . . fun.

Running a family business is wonderful in many respects.

Telephone solicitors trying to sell your business advertising . . . aren't.

Wonderful, that is.

In fact, annoying would probably be the correct term.

With my apologies to anyone reading this who may have 'telephone solicitation' on their resume.

Ahem.

One particularly persistent individual had been on the phone with me for longer than I cared to talk to him.

Which was more than five seconds.

He wanted to sell our company pens.

Pens with 'Mikey's Music Machine' printed in a number of different fonts.

On an even greater selection of backgrounds.

In an attempt to convince me of the need for said pens, his company would guarantee that, by placing an order, I would receive one of the following:

• A new car
• A new, big-screen TV
• A six-man hot tub.

It was there I stopped him.

“Six-man hot tub?” I said. “Does it come with the men?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“Ummm . . . no.”

“Darn,” I said.

Then the unexpected response. “Are you married?”

It was my turn to say, “Ummm . . . yes.”

And his turn to say, “Darn.”

I really don't know what path the conversation had taken, but it was definitely not the one that we had started out on.

Time to get off the phone.

Which I did.

Without my pens.

Yep. Running your own family business.

An eye-opener.

In so many different ways.

Regrets

I have to admit it.

I'm not always a nice person.

I've had my moments.

Confession time.

This is my worst one . . .

I was doing something important!

Well . . . important to me.

All right, I was reading.

But it was a good book!

Sigh.

You're right. I have no excuse . . .

We had a large family.

And several hired men.

“Diane. Dishes!”

Meals were plentiful.

The dishes following said meal? Numerous.

And the time required to clean them?

Extensive.

“Diane this is the second time I've called you! Come and wash the dishes!”

It was my turn.

But . . . my book!

Another sigh.

Mom poked her head into the living room, where I was so happily engrossed. “Diane, this is the third time. I'm not going to ask you again!”

Oh good. If she wasn't going to ask me again that meant I was in the clear, right?

Wrong.

Dad came out of his office. “Diane.”

“Fine.” I carefully closed my book and set it down. Then, feet dragging, headed mutinously for the kitchen.

And the 'mountain' of dishes waiting for me.

Mom was putting the last of the left-overs away.

“The dishwasher's empty, dear,” she said.

“Hrmphrfmphmrfamum,” I said.

I should point out a couple of things here.

Our dishwasher was the 'roll out' kind.

It normally resided under the cupboard.

When needed, it was pulled into the centre of the room, loaded with dishes, and rolled to the sink.

Where it was connected to the faucet.

It was heavy.

And my mom, she-of-the-annoying-habit-of-finding-chores, was standing directly in front.

I grabbed the handle and, regardless of what portion of my mother's body was in the way, pulled.

I caught the toes of one of her feet under the front of the dishwasher.

She yelped and jumped out of the way.

I mumbled an unconvincing apology and, feeling rather ashamed of myself, continued with my chore.

I really didn't mean to hurt my mom.

I was crabby and feeling ornery.

And that's absolutely no excuse.

Forty years later, I still regret it.

Temper and immaturity.

Not a good combination.

To this day, I wish I could kiss that poor bruised foot and tell her how sorry I am.

Maybe someday, I'll get the chance.

Our Furry Camping Neighbours

Camping.

Sometimes our attempts to get up close and personal with nature gets us UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL with nature.

For many years, our family vacationed yearly at a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.

Kimball Lake.

It is considered one of the top ten beaches in Canada.

Yes. Canada does have beaches.

Moving on . . .

One momentous year, we named the 'Year of the Bear'.

For obvious reasons.

I'd like to tell you about it . . .

Our family, being large in numbers, preferred to camp on the outer reaches of the vast campground.

The overflow area.

Usually we and our friends were the only people there.

It was amazing.

The kids could play 'Kick the Can'.

'Capture the flag'.

Tag.

Venture all over the site.

And never disturb anyone.

Wonderful times.

When our kids were happily engaged in something quiet, it was also peaceful.

Perfect.

But one year, its remote location attracted another kind of camper.

The furry, four-legged kind.

Fortunately for us, these 'other' campers were two-year-olds.

Recently pushed out of the nest by new arrivals.

They were young and inexperienced.

One afternoon, I was happily relaxed in the hammock, reading.

My Husby was sitting nearby, working on yet another diamond willow project.

“Diane,” he said quietly.

“Hmmm?”

“Diane.” A little louder.

I looked at him.

He pointed past me with his chin.

I turned to look behind me.

Not ten feet away, a coal-black young bear was demolishing a rotten log.

“Gee!” I rolled quickly off the hammock and joined my husband.

The bear looked at us.

“Maybe if we make some noise, it'll scare him off,” my Husby suggested. “Maybe.”

Meanwhile, behind us, our friend was frantically corralling children and putting them into cars.

I joined her.

My Husby got a large kettle and spoon and banged on it.

The bear, ears up and definitely interested, started towards him.

He quickly scrambled into our car.

Okay, that didn't work.

We had some neighbouring campers that year.

They too heard the noise and, carrying coffee and donuts, came over to see what was going on.

Horrified, we watched them from the safety of our car.

Fortunately for them, the park rangers were alert to the visit.

One arrived at the climactic moment.

Armed with rubber bullets.

He shot our little visitor in the butt.

Squealing loudly, the bear disappeared.

The ranger than gave us a lecture on bear safety.

Something obviously needed.

And continued his patrol.

Sometime later, a second bear, light brown in colour, appeared across the campground.

Near a deserted picnic table.

Which it proceeded to use as a scratching post.

Ugh.

Please note: Always wash your tables before use.

We remembered our bear-safety lecture and stayed well away from it.

But this time, our dogs noticed it and one of them barked.

The bear disappeared.

Whew.

The third bear of the year was at the neighbour's site when we came back from the beach.

Licking the cans in the neighbour's recycle.

I should mention, here, that we all knew to pick up our garbage and deposit it in the bear-proof containers. But none of us realized that our empty cans were also a temptation.

The ranger was already there.

Unfortunately, this last bear had already been 'relocated' once.

She had returned.

She was out of chances.

The sound of the ranger's gun, this time, was eerie and final.

He loaded the carcass into his truck and drove away.

We watched him sadly.

Such a beautiful creature.

Who had the misfortune of discovering 'man'.

Yep. Camping is a chance to commune with nature.

Sometimes, the act of communing is a little poignant.

But always it is memorable.

Camping Survival Skills

For over twenty years, my Husby served as Scout supervisor.

This included acting as a leader on numerous scout camps.

A true test of one's manhood.

Or at least one's patience and endurance.

These camps were held, invariably, in the great outdoors.

Woods. Mountains. Streams.

Wild animals.

They glimpsed many, many of these latter.

But the animals they saw most were the cute, little furry ones who ran in and out of their campsites.

Made messes.

And stole food.

Squirrels.

The original camp robbers.

On one camp, there was a particular little scamp.

A little bolder and craftier than others like her.

She got into one too many bags of treats.

One of the scouts, one who had aspirations to play major league, threw a rock at her.

Hit her square.

And knocked her dead.

I don't know which of them was the most surprised.

My Husby looked at the chagrined boy and decided this was a perfect teaching moment.

One did not waste what was given in the woods, he told the scouter.

He made the boy skin the squirrel out.

Clean it.

And cook it.

Unfortunately, the lesson was rather lost.

It was a young squirrel, tender and succulent.

Rather tasty.

The boys talked about the incident throughout the rest of the camp.

And into the next season.

And winter camp.

Attended by the younger brother of the first scout.

Who now had some big shoes to fill.

Or so he thought.

Again, there was an abundance of squirrels.

He chose one.

Took aim with his rock.

And hit it with one shot.

So far so good.

After enduring the getting-to-be-standard lecture from his scouter, he skinned the squirrel out.

Cleaned it.

And cooked it.

And suddenly discovered that not all squirrels are the same.

This one, a rather elderly male had been surviving on winter fare and was . . . nothing like the first.

Tough, stringy and decidedly . . . un-tasty.

Unhappily, he chewed his way through it.

Then hung up his stones and throwing arm for good.

Some records just aren't made to be broken.

Fishing for Brothers

It's July.

Camping time again.

Something our family has done for the past 1000 years.

Okay, so I only remember the last fifty or so, so I'm guessing.

We have had a lot of adventures in that time.

Today, I'm remembering one that happened because of our little blue tent trailer.

Our little trailer was purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978.

It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.

In my defence, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.

Moving on . . .

When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself.

Three neat beds and a square central floor.

Perfect for a family of eight.

It has taken our family everywhere.

For many years, we camped yearly in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.

Kimball Lake.

And that's where this story takes place.

Our two youngest were napping.

I use this word lightly.

Because there was no 'napping' happening.

Tristan was in the playpen on the floor.

And Tiana on the bed she shared with her older sister.

Tristan had learned to crawl out of his pen and onto one of the beds.

Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem.

Let me describe our trailer to you.

It has three wings that fold out to form the beds.

The canvas wraps around each of these wings and hooks securely underneath.

With elastic cords.

It is possible to slide through those spaces.

If your small enough.

And Tristan, at thirteen months was definitely small enough.

He crawled up onto the bed.

Rolled against the side.

And slid through.

Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.

Tiana, three, had been watching.

She saw him slip through.

And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed him.

“Mo-om!”

My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.

Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.

I ran into the trailer.

Tiana and the top half of Tristan were visible.

She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.

He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.

“Mo-om!” she shouted again.

I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.

Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.

That tiny son is now a husband and father.

But every year, when my Husby and I put up our little trailer, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.

I picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.

And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..

It's a good memory.

Breakfast!

My Husby loves to cook.

And he's good at it.

His family is very, very appreciative.

Well, his wife is.

Moving on . . .

He started out cooking breakfasts.

Mostly out of necessity.

I seldom got back from my run in time to achieve 'hot and wholesome'.

Mostly, my family got “cold and fast'.

I don't have to tell you which my Husby prefers.

As the years went by, his breakfasts got more elaborate.

And delicious.

And his family scurried to the breakfast table, anxious to sample that day's offerings.

Not.

Grant usually had to call two or three times before anyone showed their sleepy face in the dining room.

None of them wanted to risk getting there too early or they would be immediately enlisted in 'table setting' duty.

He started calling them earlier and earlier in an attempt to get them there before the food got cold.

Finally, it became common for him to start calling when things started cooking.

A good fifteen minutes before any food approached the table.

But what was the custom in our house, wasn't necessarily the custom in others.

Something we learned by experience.

A young woman was staying a few weeks with our family.

It was her first morning.

Grant walked into the kitchen and started adding ingredients to pans.

The he hollered,” Breakfast!”

And went back to stirring.

I had finished my run and walked into the kitchen to set the table.

There was our little house guest, looking very small and lonely at the large, empty table.

All by herself.

She looked at me. “I thought Mr. Tolley called us for breakfast,” she said in a tiny voice.

I laughed. “Maybe I should explain a few things,” I said.

Sadly, she learned to show up with the rest of the kids.

Maybe learning about other cultures first-hand isn't always a good thing.