Little Green Panties

Me - at my best . . .

A reworked post for a busy Sabbath.
Enjoy!

I hated them.
Maybe it was the color. Yucky green.
Maybe it was the fit. Tight elastic on the legs.
Whatever.
I only wore them under duress, when there was simply nothing else in my drawer. And following a highly intellectual and diverting argument with my Mom . . .
"Put them on, Diane!"
"Mo-om!"
"Put them on!"
Sigh.
Being the semi-obedient four-year-old that I was - and because 'going commando' hadn't been invented yet - I would haul my little green panties out from under the bed where I had hidden them and . . . shudder . . . pull them on.
Quickly, I would then hide them under a pair of blue jeans and try to put them out of my mind by heading outside to play. 
They itched.
They crawled into unwanted places.
They made me sweaty.
Sighing, I ignored them and joined the group of kids on the corner.

Now a couple of points of background . . .
In 1959, as in every neighborhood in Canada, weather permitting, we local kids gathered. Play commenced. As our mothers were working busily in their homes, we kids ran up and down the street, engaged in one of a thousand different imaginative schemes. At lunchtime, we were called home. We ate as quickly as we could, then returned to the street. Our mothers cleaned up and went back to their ironing or canning or one of hundreds of other chores. We kids played until supper was announced. 
When the lunchtime scenario was again enacted.
Actual physical parental supervision was unheard of. We policed ourselves. Tattled on each other. Looked after each other. When Kenny fell and broke his arm, an army of kids ran to his house and brought his mother. When Brenda got sick on the merry-go-round, same thing. 
It was a wonderful, carefree way to grow up.
Also, at this particular time, my Dad and older brothers had put up our family's brown canvas tent in the back yard.
I know this doesn't sound like an actual part of the story, but wait for it.
Now, back to my story . . .
My best friend and next door neighbor was Laurie. A sweet-tempered, agreeable girl just a bit younger than me. 
She followed me in everything.
Not always a good idea.
By early afternoon, I had been wearing the dreaded panties for much of the day. They had been my largely unwelcome companions while running, climbing, crawling, doing gymnastics, climbing, rolling, spinning, climbing . . . okay, I did a lot of climbing, but that is another story. 
They were really starting to bug me.
But there was no way I would ever be able to sneak into the house to remove them.
And then it hit me! 
If I ducked into the tent, I could shed the dreaded panties and my Mom would never know!
It was a brilliant plan. Awe inspiring.
Completely fool proof.
I acted immediately.
"Were are we going?" Laurie was right behind me, as usual.
"Into the tent."
"What are we going to do?"
"Take off our panties."
"Okay."
Did I mention that I often got Laurie into a lot of trouble?
In a few seconds, the deed was done. I wadded my cast-offs into a little ball and stuffed them down into a hidden corner of the tent.
Laurie did the same.
Then I pulled on my jeans and headed back outside.
Laurie followed.
Hah! Mission accomplished. No one would ever know.
Our friends were sitting around in my front yard, breathing hard from yet another race up and down the street. I pranced to the middle of the circle with Laurie close behind.
"We're not wearing any panties!" I sang out.
Okay, so, secret agent material, I wasn't.
"Panties!" Laurie echoed.
And suddenly, Laurie's mom was there, grabbing her little daughter and running with her towards their house.
I watched them go, wondering at the shocked and dismayed expression on Laurie's mom's face.
What on earth was wrong with her?
Maybe I should point out here that Laurie's mom always dressed her in frilly, feminine dresses.
Short-skirted dresses.
I got a lecture. Something about modesty and being a good example.
Who listened.
Parents are so weird.

Candy Fluff Beauty

Yes

No

Remember the 'fashion' dolls of the fifties?

The straight-standing, frozen featured, supposedly beautiful dolls?

That creative people crocheted or knitted clothes for.

Or sunk into cakes.

Those dolls.

Well, besides being known for arriving 'without wardrobe', they were also known for their pre-styled, fine, beautiful hair.

Hair that was not comb-able.

That stuck together in a tight ball and defied any efforts at style change.

I know that hair well.

Because I was born with the same stuff.

Fine.

Soft.

And matted permanently together.

Candy-fluff hair, my Mom called it.

Okay, 'candy fluff', I loved.

Candy fluff on my head?

Not so much.

Every morning, and several times throughout the day, Mom would come at me with a comb.

Or some other implement guaranteed to make my hair behave.

None of them worked.

All of them . . . hurt.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Me: “Waaah!”

And so it went.

As I grew, my hair . . . changed. Subtly.

Oh, it was still fine and soft.

But it no longer stuck together in one fuzzy lump.

No.

Now it stuck together in several fuzzy lumps all over my head.

Sigh.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! There's just one more!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, by about age eight, I outgrew the 'fuzzies'.

But made another important discovery.

Yes, my hair no longer matted together, defying all attempts at style.

And it was now longer and straighter.

But . . . it still hurt to comb it.

Yes. I was a hair wuss.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! Your hair will look beautiful!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, in frustration one day, she uttered the fateful words, “Diane, don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

I stared at her. “Really?”

She nodded sagely.

Wow.

I put it together.

If I suffered, I would be beautiful.

It was that simple.

This went on for several years.

Every day, I suffered.

Every day, I looked in the mirror.

Nope. Same face as yesterday.

Finally, at age fifteen, I challenged my mother's hypothesis.

Me: “Mom! I've suffered! Why aren't I beautiful!?”

Mom (In true 'Mom' form): “Oh, honey, you ARE beautiful!”

Right. Wait. Who made this rule?!

I see where this is going . . .

Moving ahead several years . . .

I was combing my granddaughter's fiery red, naturally curly hair.

ME: “Kyra, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Kyra: “Waaah!”

Me: “Don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

She stares at me. “Really?”

And so the story continues . . .

Mom, The Cow . . . and Me

Me. Afterwards.

My very first memory occurred when I was two. 

To tell the truth, I’m not sure if it is a real memory, or if I simply heard my mother tell the story so often that I have pieced it together from that.
Whichever. 

It is very real to me now.
I had my new little red cowboy boots on. I was ready for anything. 

Dad was out in the blacksmith shop and I knew he would be happy to see me. Certainly, I would be happy to see him. I decided to make the journey. 

But there was a fence and a large barnyard between us.
Oh, and a milk cow.
It was the custom in those days to take the calf away from the milk cow and only put the two of them together morning and evening, after the cow had been milked. That way, the cow’s production stayed very high, we were assured a constant supply of milk, and the calf received enough milk to ensure its proper growth.

A good system all around.

Except that one usually ended up with a rather irate, over-protective full-grown mama cow wandering at will in the barnyard. 

No problem. If you were an adult, or very fast.
I was neither.
Having been raised to nearly three on a ranch, I was fully confident of my ability to speak cow. I walked over to the fence, put my face against the bars of the gate and proceeded to bellow impressively. I don’t know what I said, but it must have been something truly insulting because the cow wasn’t impressed. In fact, she began to make noises of her own. 

And then she started running feints at the gate. 

Being two, I thought she was merely trying to amaze me. I continued to ‘talk’. She continued to react.
It was a fair dialogue. 

We were communicating.
Finally, in a positive froth, she pounded over to the barn, to make sure that her baby was still in his pen, unharmed. 

The way was clear for me to climb the fence and cross the no-man’s land that was the barn yard. I proceeded to do so. 

I probably made it a few yards before she hit me. I don’t remember much about that part. My mother definitely takes over the story from there.
She had been working in the kitchen and keeping an eye on me through the window. Suddenly, as with any toddler, I disappeared. She didn’t waste time in searching. She knew instinctively where I had gone. She started out on the run, spotting me just as I dropped down from the fence in triumph.
On the cow side.
Mom’s sight was obscured for a few moments as she ran. 

Trees. Sweat. Whatever. 

By the time she again had me in her sights, I was down and the cow was turning for a second engagement.
Somehow Mom was able to put herself into ‘super-mom’ mode and leap the fence at a single bound. (Actually, I think she opened the gate and ran through, but this sounds better.) 

She reached me just ahead of a black and white frenzy who was not pleased to place second. 

Mom scooped me up and screamed for my Dad, while the cow proceeded to try to knock me out of her arms. For a few seconds, Mom avoided the angry, gesticulating cow by spinning, pirouetting gracefully.
There was some real ‘bull-fighter’ potential in my mother.
But soon, the cow tired of the performance and changed tempos. 

She decided that the best way to the child was through the mother. Fortunately this new ‘barn dance’ with me at the centre was cut short by the arrival of my enraged father.
That’s the part I wish I could remember. 

When anyone, or anything, was threatening one of his children, my dad would . . . well let me put it this way. 

Two words. 

Mount Vesuvius. 

In work boots. 

Needless to say, in short order, the cow forgot all about her ongoing problems with me and was headed for the nearest far-away place with her tail tucked – figuratively speaking – between her legs, and I was being closely examined by not one, but two anxious parents. 

My only injury was a red cowboy boot crushed flat. 

The foot inside miraculously survived.
Ready to toddle off to new adventures.

Baseball Butts

Take me out . . .

I love baseball.

In fact, if I was to think about it, baseball is probably my favourite sport.

My mom was a helluva heckuva player.

I don't know if I ever equalled her ability.

But I sure enjoyed trying.

But did you know that baseball and self-image go together?

Well, they do.

In my grade twelve year, I boarded with my best friend Debbie's family while attending school in Magrath, Alberta.

I should mention that her family were . . . characters.

Moving on . . .

During that time I played, along with Debbie, for the Del Bonita team.

It was a blast.

And we made a respectable showing in the league.

One afternoon, we were back at Debbie's house.

Celebrating a win.

I was euphoric (Oooh! Good word!) because I had hit a three-bagger that had brought in two runs.

The team hero.

Well, in my eyes, at least.

Debbie's parents had watched the game.

And were enjoying re-hashing it with us.

Her dad sat back and took a deep, satisfied breath.

“Yep. That was a good game,” he said. He looked at me. “It's a good thing you joined the team.”

I smiled, feeling quite satisfied with myself.

He looked at his daughter and grinned. “Yep. Until you came, Debbie had the biggest . . .”

He paused.

I waited. Was he going to say hit? Arm? Throw?

Hero ability?

“ . . . butt on the team.” He looked back at me. The grin widened. “Now she has the second biggest.”

“Hey!” I said, my euphoric bubble bursting abruptly.

He laughed. “What makes you think I was talking about you?”

“Hmph!”

“But it was a good game,” he said.

I stared at him, narrow-eyed.

Did he really mean it?

Did I have a big butt?

I looked down at my 28 inch waist men's jeans.

Did they hide a monstrous backside?

He laughed again, got up and left the room. “Yep. Good game.”

“You don't, Diane,” Debbie said.

“What?” I looked at her.

“You can stop checking. You don't have a big butt. In fact, you don't have a butt.”

“Oh. Ummm . . . okay.”

“And you played a good game. That's just Dad's way of telling you.”

“Oh.”

Did I mention that her family was quirky?

To this day, when I see a well-played baseball game, I think of . . . good plays.

You thought I was going to say big butts, didn't you?

Nope. That I save for when I'm playing.

Sigh.

My Aunt Emily

Sometimes you think you know someone.

But you really don't . . .

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.

Nine boys.

And two girls.

The youngest girl, my Aunt Mary, was a short, round, happy lady with numerous children and even more numerous grandchildren.

More about her in another post . . .

His other sister, Emily, was an entirely different person.

Emily was the eldest child in the family.

She was a tall, spare, maiden lady.

Erect and correct.

And I was terrified of her.

Emily had served a mission for her church in her early twenties.

Briefly entertained the thought of marriage.

And lived the rest of her life teaching home economics and helping her mother care for the family home.

She was the professed cleaner to my Grandmother's cooking.

The maker of everything tidy.

The bestow-er of a set of sewing scissors to every niece who reached grade nine.

And the dragon in the den at the top of the stairs.

A note . . .

Aunt Emily's office was the first room to the left as one went up the stairs of the family home.

It was a lovely place. Neat and organized.

With a little window/door that opened out onto the roof/sundeck of the garage.

Us kids loved to sneak into that room and let ourselves out onto that deck.

But only when Aunt Emily wasn't about.

Back to my story . . .

Throughout my childhood, I loved visiting Grandma Stringam's home with my parents.

But walked softly around Aunt Emily.

When I was eighteen, all of that changed.

I had moved to the city to attend college.

Journalism.

Go figure.

For four months, I stayed with my Grandma and Aunt Emily.

At first, though I'm sure they tried to make me feel welcome, I spent very little time in their home.

Choosing, instead to study at the college or at a friend's and returning only at bedtime.

Then I got sick.

Really, really sick.

Strep throat.

Ugh.

One evening, after we had put the paper to bed (a newspaper term for sending everything to the press and washing our hands of all responsibility), I collapsed.

My friends carried me, quite literally, to my grandmother's home and to my little bed on the second floor.

I remember very little of it.

There, safely ensconced, I lost all consciousness for several days.

Someone took care of me.

Gave me liquids.

Fed me.

Cleaned up after me.

Helped me to the bathroom.

Hauled me to the hospital for a shot in the backside.

I do remember that . . .

And generally took excellent care of me.

As I slowly became more cognisant, I realized that the person who had been so patiently and lovingly nursing me was my scary Aunt Emily.

One afternoon, I opened my eyes and felt . . . almost human.

Aunt Emily appeared beside my bed.

“Feeling better?”

I nodded uncertainly.

“Oh, I'm so glad! I'm going to the store to get you something special. What would you like?”

And it was then that I realized that eighteen years had gone by without me knowing my special aunt at all.

Eighteen years of misunderstanding and unwarranted fear.

Wasted years.

I wasted no more.

In the following weeks and months, we became friends.

Aunt Emily died at the age of 85 from complications following surgery.

We were given twenty five years of friendship.

I will always be grateful.

Every Family Needs a 'Pat'

Could have been Pat . . .

Pat was a mixed breed, bit-of-everything, tour-of-the-world-on-four-feet breed of dog.

Shirley’s family belonged to him.

And he took his responsibilities seriously.

Allow me a couple of illustrations.

1. Shirley and her family lived in a small town in Alberta.

They went to school near where they lived.

But Shirley’s parents were determined that their children be raised with music.

Lessons were offered in a church in another part of town.

Beyond the school.

Once a week, on Monday afternoons, they would walk directly to the church after school, rather than stop at home first.

It just made sense.

Immediately after the close of the school day, the three of them would head out for their weekly lesson.

Surrounded by other children intent on their own afternoon assignments and activities.

In short order, they were at the church.

Lessons proceeded.

Then it was time to go home.

And this is where Pat came in.

Literally.

Whenever they opened the church door, there would be their faithful companion, waiting to escort them home.

He never showed up at the school, when there were other children about.

No.

He waited until his kids were ready for the long walk back to the house after lessons.

And he did this every Monday.

Every Monday.

Occasionally, when there was no school, and by association, no lessons, Pat would sit vainly in front of an empty church.

Then, finally working it through his doggy brain that there was no sound emanating from the building, and no kids exiting, he would head home.

The very best and most attentive of escorts.

2. Shirley’s family was planning a summer holiday.

Two weeks of fun.

But someone must be found to care for their beloved Pat while they were away.

A neighbor on a nearby farm offered.

Shirley’s Dad packed their faithful dog up and carted him off to the farm for two weeks of chicken-chasing and fun with the resident dogs.

Leaving him happily cared for, her Dad headed back into town.

The family packed up the car and pulled into the road.

And there was Pat. Heading for home as fast as his legs could carry him.

Holiday over, he was ready to rejoin his family.

See what I said about responsibilities?

Every family needs a Pat.

Beauty Meets the Beast

Would you put these two together?

Me, neither.

Growing up in the great outdoors gave me an appreciation for all things . . . outdoors-y.

IE: horses.

But sadly, instilled in me a complete ignorance of the finer points of creating a beautiful home.

IE: embroidery.

My Mom ran a very efficient home.

She cooked, cleaned and organized.

Gardened.

And even, on occasion, helped in the barnyard when the need arose.

With all of that, somehow, she also found time for the pretty things in life.

She embroidered pillowcases and tablecloths.

Runners and handkerchiefs.

Even tea towels.

And did them beautifully.

Unfortunately, the urge to 'pretty' things up had been left out of my makeup.

Or so I thought.

It was merely dormant.

After the birth of my first baby, I was suddenly bitten by the sewing bug.

I had to sew.

A lot.

I started out simply: overalls, pants and shirts for my boy.

Then moved on to more complex: dresses for me.

And blue jeans.

But that is not what this story is about . . .

From sewing practical, functional garments, my next logical progression was to the finer stitching.

My Mom would be so proud.

I got hooked, quite literally, on counted cross stitch.

Pictures.

Wall hangings.

I loved it.

Whenever there was a break in the day's routine . . . and even when there wasn't . . . I was back on the couch.

Stitching.

I should point out, here, that I had always been a 'night owl'.

Preferring the hours after my kids were in bed, to indulge in whatever pursuit was currently consuming me.

Usually reading.

Occasionally watching TV.

Now, my staying-up-in-the-evening time was taken up with those fine little needles and yards and yards of cotton floss.

I made dozens of beautiful pictures and hangings.

Working far into the night to complete some intricate piece.

It was a peaceful moment in time.

Until one evening.

Allow me to describe . . .

It was quiet there in the night.

Everyone in the household was asleep.

All the lights, save the one that snared me and my comfy armchair in a noose of light, were off.

I worked silently away.

Consulted my pattern.

Switched colours.

Continued on.

Then I started to feel . . . creepy. Like someone was watching me.

I looked up. Peered intently into the shadows of the kitchen and hallway.

No one.

Weird.

I went back to my stitching.

Again, that feeling came over me.

Eyes.

Again, I looked.

Nothing.

I was really starting to get spooked.

I tried to concentrate on my work.

I had only put in one stitch when I was nearly overwhelmed by the feeling that someone, somewhere, was silently watching.

I dropped my sewing into my lap and peered toward the kitchen.

Then I turned and looked the other way, into the living room.

And nearly died.

Two eyes were indeed staring at me.

From about two inches away.

I screamed and pressed one hand to my suddenly hammering heart.

It was then I realized that the two large, staring eyes belonged to my son's Bopo the Clown which was standing directly behind my chair.

They didn't blink or move.

They didn't have to.

Just the sight of them staring at me out of the dim light was enough to totally shatter my night.

I did what any normal person would have done.

I 'bopped' Bopo in his large bulbous, red nose.

“Honk.”

I hit him again.

“Honk.”

Sigh. I felt marginally better.

But it was definitely time for bed.

The next evening found me back in my chair.

Needle in hand.

With Bobo turned forcefully to the wall.

Beauty definitely doesn't need a beast.

Creative Excuses

Creative jobs require creative excuses

Everyone, at some point, calls in sick to work.

Everyone.

Even the toughest of the tough.

The weather-hardend cowboys.

Their excuses are just a bit more . . . creative.

In my grandfather's day, his hired men were all experienced, life-hardened individuals.

And I do mean individual.

One morning, one of his cowboys failed to report with the others.

Grampa handed out the day's assignments, then went in search.

He found the man seated snugly in the bunkhouse, both feet comfortably propped up on a chair.

Grampa stopped in the doorway.

“Are you coming out to work?” he asked.

“Can't. Toik,” the man said.

Grampa stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Can't. Toik,” the man repeated.

“Oh.” Grampa thought about that for a moment.

Then, “What?” he asked again.

The hired man looked at him. “Toik,” he said carefully.

Grampa nodded. “That's what I thought you said.”

He turned and headed back to the barnyard.

For some time, he puzzled over the man's answer.

What on earth was a toik?

Finally, he found himself working alongside one of the other men.

“Smith not coming?” the man asked.

Grampa shook his head. “No. He said something about a toik.”

The hired man grinned. “And you had no idea what he was talking about?”

Again, Grampa shook his head. “None whatsoever,” he said.

The man laughed. “You can't guess what a toik is?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe I should translate.”

Grampa looked at him. “Please,” he said.

“Toe ache,” the man said.

“Ahhh!” Grampa said.

Things suddenly made . . . sense.

Sort of.

“Toe ache.”

“Yep.”

“Ah.”

Now I'm sure you've heard the excuse of 'a cold coming on'.

The flu.

Sore throat.

Sinus infection.

Broken bones.

Even the occasional bout of 'explosive diarrhoea'.

But I'd venture to guess that you've never before heard of a toik.

Well, now you have.

To Violin Music Lovers Everywhere

Beauty? Or the Beast?

The world is full of divine music.

Violin music.

And it has my Husby to thank for it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When Husby was eight, his parents, like many parents have, decided that he should do something . . . musical.

Piano?

Trumpet?

Tuba?

No.

They opted for the violin.

And he agreed.

A small violin was purchased at no small sacrifice for a less-than-wealthy family.

Dutifully, Husby carried it to the home of his chosen violin teacher, Mrs. Baines.

A woman of nearly two hundred years of age.

Okay, probably not quite two hundred.

But to a small boy of eight, a woman in her seventies was truly ancient.

Back to my story . . .

Once a week, throughout the fall and the winter, she taught.

And he learned.

She took him on a slow and careful tour of the violin world.

Demonstrating proper technique.

Bow handling.

Correct finger positions.

Tried to pour into his young mind, her love of all things violin.

He was, admittedly, a slow learner.

She taught.

He struggled.

In the spring, his parents received a phone call.

There would be no more lessons from Mrs. Baines. The poor woman had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Shocked, Husby wondered if he was somehow to blame.

He put his violin away for a while. He needed to think this through.

Thinking lasted throughout the summer.

Finally, in the fall, he consented to try again.

His parents found another teacher.

One who was only one hundred and fifty years old.

Again, they started in.

She taught.

He struggled.

A few months went past.

Another fateful phone call.

Another heart attack.

Not fatal this time, thank goodness. But strong enough that his second teacher was hanging up her baton for good.

Sigh.

This time, when Husby put his violin back into its case, nothing could induce him to remove it.

Nothing.

He was convinced that his playing – or lack thereof – was the reason that both of his violin teachers suffered heart attacks.

That conviction remains to this day.

He takes the argument further.

By hanging up his bow, so to speak, he saved violin teachers everywhere.

Enabling them to continue to teach the bright, talented young people who have grown into the world's foremost violin players.

Thus preserving and ensuring beautiful violin music everywhere.

So when you hear an exquisite piece?

Thank my Husby.

Gone. Again.

I'm happy to announce the winner of a copy of my newest Christmas novel, Kris Kringle's Magic: 

Teresa Thompson! 

A huge thank you to everyone who entered. I hope you will spread the word about this wonderful story! Available for pre-order from Amazon.

And now, Today's post. 

A tribute:

Happy Barn Burning

What was left of the barn

October second. My birthday. A time of reflection and renewal. Time to reminisce.
It was exactly 53 years ago that I made my way into the world.

Feet first.

Fourth of six children and second daughter for Mark and Enes Stringam. A pretty exciting time for everyone. Well, for me at any rate.
I grew, healthy and strong in a loving, ordered world. My birthdays approached, were celebrated with varying degrees of success, and then left behind. First. Second. Third. For my fourth, something special was planned. Very special. And very secret. No one knew what was coming.
No one.
Early on the morning of my fourth birthday, a frantic phone call jolted my Dad out of his bed.
“There is a rather major emergency at the ranch. Would you possibly be able to come out?”
“Emergency?”
“Erm, yes. The barn is on fire.”
“On my way.”
Or at lest that is how I picture the conversation. It was probably something more in the way of . . . “EEEEEEE (high pitched screaming)!”
And Dad, “AAAAAAAAAH (Not quite so high pitched)!”
And that was the total exchange. But I digress . . .
So dad jumped into his truck and drove the twenty miles to the ranch in record time. Really record time. The only other occasion that would warrant such reckless driving and high speeds was the imminent arrival of yet another small Stringam . . . but that event was months away. He arrived just after the fire department.
By then, the barn was well on it’s way to being a memory. Flames had consumed most of it and the remainder was burning purposefully . . . and cheerfully . . . in the early morning light. Acrid smoke coiled across the barnyard, obscuring the crowd gathered to watch. Tears filled most eyes. Some because of said smoke. Others due to the fact that their most precious possessions had – literally – gone up in it.
One hired man stood there, in his longhandles, shaking his head helplessly. It took some time, and the appearance of the attractive ranch cook, for him to realize that his attire was . . . less than conventional. He beat a hasty retreat to find something a little more . . . conservative . . . to wear.
And not just the humans were concerned. The smaller denizens of the barn had been rudely awakened and forced to – quickly – find new lodgings. One mouse, intent on that very errand, scampered from the mass of smoking debris that had been his home, and into the pale morning light. He stopped. Something was very wrong. There were two humans standing directly in his path. He worked it through his little mouse brain, then darted back into the smouldering pile. Better the evil you know . . .
There was great loss. Two litters of pigs - with sows, several horses, calves. Not to mention saddles, tack and equipment. None irreplaceable, but all valuable. Oh, and my birthday. Somehow, in all the melee, that was lost as well. Not that I cared. I was happily perched on the fence, just within toasting distance of the glowing fire, watching the spectacle. Not really understanding what was going on. Knowing only that, in four years of mischief, I’d never been able to come close to this excitement. Never.
The barn was rebuilt. Bigger. Better. More modern. And my . . . birthday was never forgotten again. Every year, Dad calls on this date to wish me a . . . Happy Barn Burning.

With music.

And the dance.
There is a codicil. Twelve years ago, my barn burned down. Our losses were not as enormous as the ‘original’ barn fire. We lost two little pigs and some equipment. But the most important fact was the date. April first. My father’s seventieth birthday. I had to phone to wish him . . . Happy Barn Burning.
Payback is so sweet.

Further news:

Huge grass fires in Southern Alberta this week have consumed all of the outbuildings on the old ranch.

Including the 'new' barn.

It was a landmark.

I am devastated.

Phlippant Phone Phrases

King of creative calling

Answering the phone is an art form.

Ranging from cheerful.

My personal favourite.

To surly.

Not so popular.

Then there’s: Clever.

Quirky.

Crass.

Even disgusting.

How you answer the phone says a lot about you.

Maybe not in actual words, but the meaning’s pretty clear . . .

Hello!! L (What d’ya want!? I’m having the worst, terrible, awful, no-good day. And you just made it worse!)

Or: Hello!! JJ (I’ve been running through soft fields of primroses and I’m so happy, I just want to share, share, share!)

See what I mean?

In the Stringam household, telephone answering was very often . . . creative.

My brother, George, being the king.

Case in point:

The phone rang.

I should probably explain, here, that these were the days of the rotary phone (google it). There were no such things as call display, call waiting, or even answering machines (Except, maybe in the CIA or FBI or CSIS).

So there was absolutely no way to know who was calling.

Also, an actual electrical cord attached the single home phone to the wall and yet another cord attached the receiver to the phone.

It was entirely possible to get completely wrapped up in you call.

So to speak.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

My brother, George, he of the creative phone answering technique, was closest.

He picked it up.

“This is the devil! Who in hell do you want?”

Whereupon (good word) my mother smacked George.

Figuratively speaking.

Now, normally, when my brother answered the phone, the person on the other end of the line would laugh and say something equally inappropriate and the conversation would continue.

On this particular occasion, all George heard was a mighty ‘click’ as the phone at the other end of the line was forcibly returned to its cradle.

He shrugged and hung up.

The phone rang again.

Again, George picked it up.

“This is the devil! Who in . . .” you get the rest.

There was a short, breathless pause, then, “It that you, George?!!! LLL”

I put in the little frowny faces to convey . . . displeasure.

Because the caller was my paternal Grandmother.

And she didn’t think my brother was funny.

At all.

Oops.

Sheepishly, George admitted it. “Yes,” he said.

“Let me talk to your father! LLL”

Notice the continuing frowny faces.

Ahem . . .

George handed the phone to Dad and headed for the nearest far-away place.

Dad received a lecture from his eighty-five-year-old mother, which he dutifully passed on to the culprit.

I’d like to tell you that the creative answering ended there.

That from then on, all calls were answered with respect and decorum.

I’d be lying.

The Moose-t Terrifying Thing

Admit it. This scares you.

Gramma Berg's house had a sunroom.

A wonderful spot.

All windows.

And one permanent tenant.

The sunroom was wonderful.

The tenant wasn't. At least to a very small girl.

It was large.

Dark brown.

With great, glassy eyes, a huge nose, a wooly beard.

And large ears.

Oh, yes, and an enormous pair of antlers.

A moose.

The quite obvious fact that it wasn't alive made no difference to its terror factor.

I was certain that, if I went into that room, the great creature would blink its eyes and 'get me'.

Okay, obviously I didn't think that through.

The creature possessed no visible limbs, and for all of my life, had resided in the same place on the wall.

Just exactly how it was supposed to 'get me' we'll never know.

But the truth remains, it terrified me.

And knowing this, my cousins made great sport of daring me to go into the sunroom.

Something which inevitably sent me screaming to some moose-less part of the house.

I loved Grammas house.

The moose and I tolerated each other.

So long as he kept his place, and I could see that place from a distance, we got along fine.

Kinda like a large spider.

But that is another story.

After Gramma passed, the moose was donated and hung where it could scare scores of other people.

Moving forward fifty years . . .

Several members of my family were holidaying in Banff, Alberta, this summer.

We spent a week scrambling about the mountains and wandering through the townsite.

We took the kids to see the 'stuffed animal place'.

Or Banff Museum, as it is officially named.

It houses hundreds of perfectly preserved birds and animals native to the Banff area.

Many of which were present when the museum opened.

In 1903.

On the second floor, it is quite possible to get up close and almost personal with the head of Sir Donald.

A bison.

Several of us were standing, looking at the great animal.

My six-year-old granddaughter peeked out from behind me.

“He scares me,” she whispered, shivering.

“But he's dead,” I said. “He can't hurt you.”

“He's scary,” she maintained.

Quite suddenly, I remembered Gramma's moose. And trembling in fear and delight as my cousins dared me to go into his sunroom.

Full circle.

Fuzzy Warm Love

And each of them has/had a name. Please don't test me . . .

My first date with my Husby-to-be was memorable.

On so many levels.

You can read about it here.

Go ahead . . . you won't miss anything . . .

Our second date was even more memorable.

But for more exciting reasons.

It was the occasion of our first kiss.

Yumm.

Let me see if I can describe it . . .

Chore time.

The sun has set.

Darkness drifts slowly over the prairie.

A large, quiet feed lot.

Young bulls in the background, munching on grains.

The smell of fresh manure wafts on the cool, autumn breeze.

A young man and woman snared in the light of the mercury-vapor lamp.

Their eyes lock.

They move closer . . .

You get the picture.

Romantic?

Okay, maybe not to the normal person.

Fortunately for me, Husby-to-be was as un-normal as his wife-to-be.

A perfect match.

But the date was only beginning.

After our kiss, we returned to my parent’s home.

And that’s when I received my second surprise of the evening.

When we stepped into the vestibule (ooh! I like that word), Husby-to-be pulled a little package out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, smiling. “I brought you something.”

Have I mentioned that I love surprises?

Well, I do.

Moving on . . .

I quickly opened the little bag and tipped out two little fuzzy men.

Pom-pom people.

With magnets on the back.

Ooooh! Cute!

“Thank you!” I said. Then I gave him a kiss.

It seemed like an appropriate response.

And I’d just discovered he was a great kisser.

Ahem . . .

And so began a tradition that lasted for years.

And covered a large part of our fridge.

Until a bottle of home-made root beer sprayed all over them.

Sigh.

Then they were relegated to a shadow box.

For safety.

And posterity.

I love traditions.

Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .

Jim

Words are amazing.

Descriptive.

Alliterative.

Explanatory.

Lyrical.

Adventurous.

Romantic.

I love words.

I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.

Let me explain . . .

My Dad loves to recite.

Poems, mostly.

On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.

Or verse.

So to speak.

I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.

Always there was a story involved.

The telling was truly magical.

I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.

When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.

Memorizing a poem.

She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim.

A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.

What better poem for a young girl to start with?

As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.

I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.

My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.

I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.

Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.

I followed her around for days.

“What's the next line, Chris?”

She would tell me.

And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.

Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.

I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.

Moving on . . .

By the end of a week, I had it.

All of it.

Then, the fun began.

For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.

In perfect rhyme.

It could only lead to a career in writing.

Or maybe some 'zombie apocalypse/end of the world scenario.

Hmm. Maybe both . . .

For your pleasure –

Jim 

 By Hillaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

P.S. I can still remember it . . .

Don't forget to enter the draw for a copy of my second novel, Kris Kringle's Magic! Simply go here, become a follower, and comment!

Dad's Boots

Baby brother . . . being entertained

My father (herinafter known as 'Dad') was a rancher.

He had been born that way.

In his twenties, he added the title of 'Veterinarian' to that.

But he was first and foremost, a rancher.

As a rancher, his wardrobe seldom varied.

Heavy work pants.

Work shirts. (Which have a history of their own . . .)

And boots.

Which were much more than mere footwear.

They were, in fact, the signal that opened and closed the work day.

And a source of entertainment.

On many levels.

Dad's boots were - because he had 'special' feet – special.

They were heavy.

And specifically designed to compensate for his long, narrow, profoundly flat extremities.

They laced up the front.

And fit . . . well.

They were the favourite entertainment for my baby brother.

When he was a baby.

A source of laughter for us kids when we'd try them on.

Then try to walk.

Usually covered in mud and manure during the day's labours, then scrupulously cleaned before being brought into the house.

With Dad's pocket knife. (But that is another story.)

In short, they were a part of my Dad.

An important part.

Dad always donned them himself.

Said donning, after breakfast, was always the signal that visiting was over and the workday starting.

But Dad never, ever took his boots off by himself.

In fact, the removal of Dad's boots was quite a process.

Let me describe . . .

Dad would take his seat in his usual comfy recliner.

And his numerous children would scatter, suddenly recalling activities that needed immediate attention.

Somewhere else.

But there was always a laggard.

Someone who was the slowest to react.

Dad would pin them to their chair with a look.

Then silently hold out a foot.

Reluctantly, the child would assume the position.

Facing away from Dad and bent forward, clutching said boot with both hands.

Dad would then put his other foot on his helper's backside and start pushing.

His boot would be quickly and efficiently . . . removed.

And dropped on the floor.

The process was repeated with the second boot.

The footwear was then gathered.

And set aside.

Only then was the slave helper, released.

Mission accomplished.

This procedure signalled the end of the work day.

Odd, isn't it, that a humble pair of boots would assume such proportion in our daily life.

But they did.

Now in his late eighties, Dad still wears boots.

They replace his slippers when he is going outside.

And, like his slippers, they slip on and off easily.

I was watching him the other day as he sat down.

Staring at the boots he now pulls on.

And remembering.

Don't forget to enter the draw for a copy of my second novel, Kris Kringle's Magic! Simply go here, become a follower, and comment!

Reading Clean Give Away Hop

A big thank you to Kathy at I Am a Reader, Not A Writer for hosting this month's giveaway, Reading Clean!

Kris Kringle is the round, jolly, elderly man that everyone knows. The man who spends his life giving.

But have you ever wondered about the boy he was? 

The young man? 

The newlywed?

Magic explores the background of the world's most beloved fictitious character. Illustrates the experiences that forged courage and strength, and made the boy into the man.

It also tells the story of the girl, Rebecca, who will one day become his wife. 

It is accepted that Kris Kringle lives at the North Pole. 

With Elves. 

But have you ever wondered how that happened? It must have taken some world-changing, even traumatic event to force an entire race to take up lodgings at a place so utterly inhospitable and unwelcoming.

Kris Kringle's Magic is a story of prejudice. Of hatred and fear and abuse.

And of true forgiveness and love.

And Magic.

You will never picture old Kris Kringle in the same light again. If you loved him before, you will love him even more now.

Filled with messages of love, forbearance, humanity and courage, Kris Kringle's Magic is the perfect Christmas story for the whole family. Using the dark themes of slavery and abuse, it proves that, with love and spiritual courage, one man can make a difference in the lives of thousands. Even millions. 

Let Kris Kringle's Magic change your world!

I am giving a copy of this, my newest book, to one lucky blog follower.

All you need to do to enter my draw, is to become a follower AND leave a comment on this blog.

It's that easy!

Good luck!

Bread . . . Reformed

Twice a week, and sometimes more, the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through the Stringam home.

Magic.

Often, it was followed, almost immediately, by the sight of children munching thick slices of fresh yumminess, thickly spread with fresh butter.

Mmmmm.

I wasn't one of them.

Oh, I loved Mom's bread.

It was amazing.

And I definitely was munching.

But I chose a unique - ie. weird - way of doing it.

Often to be followed by my Mom saying, “Diane! I work hard to make perfectly good, soft bread! Why do you do that to it?!”

She said this because . . . I squished it.

Squished.

Into a tight little ball.

Which I . . . then . . . ate.

Really.

Mom would watch, in disgust, as I took my slice of freshly-baked awesomeness.

Quickly peeled off and ate the crust.

And pressed and moulded the rest.

Then nibbled.

I have no idea why I did this.

Maybe it was because I had seen the screen cowboys eating little balls of bread out of their saddlebags.

Okay, it looked like little balls of bread.

I didn't realize that what they were eating was, in fact, biscuits.

I wasn't known for my powers of observation and deduction.

Moving on . . .

I no longer eat bread this way.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

The biggest one being that it's rather hard to spread any significant amount of peanut butter or nutella on a tightly pressed ball of dough.

And, let's face it, bread is just the medium by which such things are ingested.

And, in a choice between eating balls of dough or getting nutella to the mouth?

Even the cowboys would agree with me.

Mildred's Nose

A poem.

Because it's Monday . . .

Mildred's Nose

Mildred, my friend has a marvellous nose.

Not bulbous.

Or hook-ed.

Or bellicose.

Not crooked.

Or flattened.

Or shaped like a bean.

The most beautiful nose that you ever have seen.

Can't say it's large.

A potato,

A squash.

A crooked ol' carrot.

An acorn.

A cosh.

(A nickname for what's really a good copper's 'billy'.)

Yes, nothing to ever make Mildred look silly.

It is shapely,

And small.

In reality – fair.

The grandest

Appendage

To ever

Suck air.

Fine-boned.

And slender.

With rose petal skin.

The kind that can always draw everyone in.

But with all of it's beauty, her friends still make fun.

They laugh,

And they tease.

They jeer.

And they shun.

But why with such beauty for them to behold,

Would they scoff,

And deride,

Mock,

And then scold?

Ridicule, ostracize, taunt, and tell jokes?

Snicker

With all

Of the fair

Jungle folks?

Because Mildred, oh, she of the wonderful nose.

The beauty,

Perfection.

The colour

Called 'rose'.

Well there's something about her that I've not disclosed.

Something, about which you need to be told.

Though our Mildred is all she could possibly be,

Good friend,

And clever,

And kind

As can be.

Yes, Mildred,

Has one,

Little secret

to hold.

Our Mildred's an elephant, truth to be told.

P.S. If you think that Mildred's true story's a gaffe,

You should hear about Harold,

The short-necked giraffe.