Sharp and Pointy

He sees a work of art. I see a cutting  . . . thing.

My Husby plays with knives.

Really.

I guess you could call him a genuine aficionado.

When he sees a knife, he has to examine it.

Check out what steel it's made of.

Feel its balance.

Grade the overall quality of its construction.

Yep. Aficionado.

Several years ago, he and our second son, who inherited all of his father's love of knives, took a knife-making course.

This merely served to up the ante, so to speak.

Now the two of them are constantly examining and purchasing bits of steel that could be used in the creation process.

We have a forge in our back yard.

My garage is stacked with pieces of specialized woods and animal horns that would be 'absolutely perfect' for a particular knife handle.

And all the tools used in the cutting, grinding and polishing of fine steel sit where a normal person would park their car.

Sigh.

It keeps him happy.

And did I mention that we have very fine knives in our kitchen?

Well, we do.

Every shape and size imaginable.

They are S.H.A.R.P.

A little background here: Husby's grandmother was fond of saying that she could 'ride to Ovid on that knife' if she picked up a dull blade. Ovid was the next town from where she was born and raised. Husby's father listened. And passed along.

Back to my story . . .

Each knife in my kitchen has a specific purpose.

My Husby would be happy to elucidate.

At great length.

I wouldn't be listening.

Because I use only two.

A small, paring knife that he purchased for me in Corsica . . .

I should point out, here, that most people buy souvenirs when they travel. My Husby is the same. Except that said souvenirs invariably consist of something sharp and pointy.

With excellent steel, good balance and a really, really interesting handle.

He bought the first on our honeymoon. 

And continued.

Moving on . . .

My second knife is an ordinary-looking blade.

Just the right size for me.

Both are wrong.

Oh, they are good knives.

Do an excellent job.

Look nice.

But as my Husby is so fond of pointing out, they are not the right knife for whatever job I am requiring of them.

Invariably, when he comes into the kitchen when I am cooking, the first words out of his mouth are, “You're using the wrong knife.”

To which he is rewarded with a heated glare.

Let's face it, he's a brave man to say such things when his wife has something razor sharp and very pointy in one hand.

I have often told him so.

He just laughs.

But I will have the last laugh.

And I tell him that on his gravestone, it will read, “She used the wrong knife!”

Just FYI. 

☺

Demon Cleaner

First, let me apologize for my seeming inattention this past few days. Husby and I were in Mexico with friends and the Internet was virtually non existant. So to speak. More about that later . . .
Now for today's post:

See? Don't you wish you had one?

Mom’s kitchen and dining room floors were amazing.

Gleaming, shining clean.

Perfect for sliding about in one’s socks.

And the most exciting thing about her clean floors was the little demon that came out to clean them.

Let me tell you about it.

Once a week, Mom would move all of the kitchen and dining room chairs into the living room.

Which was an adventure itself. (See here. Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .)

And while my brother and I were thus engaged, she would get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floors.

And I do mean scrub.

Never, in the history of the world, were there cleaner floors.

I know, because I spent a lot of time down on them.

Ahem . . .

Following the scrubbing, Mom would bring out the wax.

And this was about the time that my brother and I would abandon our chair play and lay at the edge of the floor to watch.

Because after the wax was applied, the ‘demon’ came out.

It was green.

And had a rounded, wide head and a long, stiff tail.

And, if you looked carefully, little white eyes.

That stared at you.

It also had two sets of interchangeable little pads that snapped on and off.

Dark and ‘bristly’ or white, soft and ‘puffy’.

It was the latter that created the longed-for shine.

Mom would turn the demon over, snap on the soft pads and then flip it back and hit the switch.

Instantly the wide, white pads would begin to spin.

This was the best part.

As she polished, Mom would move the demon closer and closer to George and I.

Closer.

Closer.

Bravely, we would hold our ground. Daring each other to be the last to head, shrieking, for the nearest couch.

I should point out, here, that I never won.

George has nerves of steel.

Turkey.

There is a codicil:

Years later, when I was newly married with waxable floors, and my Mom had graduated to kitchen carpeting, I inherited the ‘demon’.

It still had the interchangeable pads.

And still achieved an amazing shine.

And still terrorized small children.

Full circle.

Kris Kringle's Magic: In Stores Now!

Kris Kringle's Magic reviewed by Author Julie N. Ford
Read it now!
http://julienford.com/blog/book-review-kris-kringles-magic-by-diane-stringam-tolley

It's official!
Kris Kringle's Magic will be in Generations LDS Bookstore tomorrow, October 6.
And I'll be there to sign it!
I'm way past excited!

Also available at Amazon.com

The 'Brush' Off

Well, it was fun for me . . .

My friend, Cathy's dad had a wonderful job.

Magical.

He got to sneak into the schools after everyone had left.

Wander at will through the empty hallways and classrooms.

And clean.

Oh, man, it was the coolest!

And sometimes, wonder of wonders, he let Cathy and I and some of his other kids (12 in all ) . . . help.

There were times when we got to race the huge, soft dry-mops up and down the hallways.

And I do mean race.

Empty the garbage cans.

Snoop.

Did you know that the teacher's lounge of the sixties smelled like cigarette smoke?

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

And, best of all, he let us clean the brushes.

In the sixties, whiteboards were black.

And pieces of chalk were used instead of today's dry-erase felts.

These pieces of chalk marked the blackboards very effectively.

There were only a couple of drawbacks.

They had the ability to squeak against the board at decibels that could shatter glass.

And they left a lot of chalk dust.

A lot.

Especially when someone tried to clean said chalk from said blackboard.

The thick, black-felt erasers used to accomplish this quickly became saturated with the fine, white dust.

Then they had to be cleaned.

Now a normal person would simply take the vacuum to them.

A normal person.

Kathy and I were ten.

I should point out here that there is nothing normal about a 10-year-old.

Back to my story . . .

Cathy and I would collect the brushes.

Cart them outside.

And bang them together.

Imagine, if you will, a cloud of fine, white dust.

With two little girls somewhere near the center of it.

Giggling.

You get it, right?!

What on earth could be more fun?

The fact that the dust merely got relocated and that the two little girls then had to, themselves, be cleaned, never even entered our minds.

For a brief, wonderful while, we were the center of our very own little dust storm.

I can still remember how it smelled.

And, as it collected on our tongues, just how it tasted.

Magic.

There is an unexpected codicil: Fifteen years later, I was expecting my third child. Another boy.

I craved something. In fact, I could almost taste it. It took forever to figure out what that taste was.

Then it hit me.

Chalk.

I was craving chalk.

And not the light, cheap stuff that had become common.

No.

I was craving the good stuff.

The stuff that Cathy and I used to clean out of those brushes and catch in our mouths all those years ago.

The doctor told me I was lacking in minerals and gave me some pills to swallow.

Sigh.

I wish he would have simply given me some brushes to clean . . .

Ahhh! Romance!

Grade Twelve English 30.

My favourite class of all time.

What could possibly be better than reading books and stories and then talking about them?

Or of writing your own?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Our teacher was a veteran of many, many years. She had taught each of my three elder siblings and survived.

And now it was my turn.

Most of the time, I was fairly quiet in her class - choosing mostly to listen as the conversations went on around me. Keeping my opinions to myself, except when they could be submitted in a written format.

My grades were good.

We were working our way through a thick volume of short stories. Some exciting. Some bizarre. Some sweet and romantic.

It was during this last that I came to grief.

Let me explain . . .

We were reading a story about a man who saw a beautifully-made doll in the window of a local shop.

The doll affected him greatly.

It seemed to 'speak' to him.

He purchased the doll and tried to find out more about it and the person who had made it.

He discovered that the doll and others like it were made locally and that a woman usually brought them in to the shop a few at a time.

He tracked down the woman.

She was not the artist.

Instead, she kept the real doll-maker a virtual prisoner, and forced her to keep making dolls, which were then sold.

The imprisoned doll-maker was justifiably sad and put all of the love she would have given her unborn children into her dolls. Which was why they were so beautiful.

The man fell in love with the captive doll-maker, stole her away and married her.

And they lived happily ever after.

Okay, I admit it, when I read this story, I discovered that I'm a romantic.

I loved it.

Loved the 'happily ever after' ending.

I was excited for the discussion to start . . .

“How many of you liked this story?” the teacher asked.

My hand shot up.

Then slowly lowered as I realized that I was the only person in the class who had raised one.

“This story was drivel!” the teacher said. “Absolute tripe!” She stomped around the front of the class. “Stupid romantic nonsense! Waste of good print! Waste of time!”

She added several more derisive comments, then stopped and stared at me.

My hand was back on my desk.

“Well, I thought it was romantic,” one of the other girls tried to come to my aid.

The teacher snorted. “Hmph! Don't know why it was included in this book! Maybe as an example of lousy writing!”

The class was silent.

“Asinine garbage! Should be torn out of the book!” She glared around. “Any other thoughts?”

Let me put it this way . . . the discussion following this story didn't take up much time.

The story was given a brief technical reckoning, then dismissed.

And the class moved on to the next story.

I moved with them, reading and responding to my assignments.

Suspense.

Mystery.

Humour.

But I never forgot my first romantic story.

I read and re-read it.

Loving it more each time.

Mmmm.

Romance.

I still think I was right.

Turning the (Times) Tables

Me: Bottom right. My Nemesis: Top Left. Argh! 

I tried.

I really did.

I just wasn't . . . quite . . . good enough.

Maybe I should explain.

Our grade five teacher, Mrs. Herbst, she of the blue hair, was a stickler for math.

And math facts.

Actually, she was a stickler for most school work, but especially for anything to do with numbers.

She devised many and various methods for teaching said facts.

Exercises.

Tests.

Quizzes. (Not to be confused with tests. Quizzes were shorter in length and carried less weight. Just FYI.)

Games . . .

And this is where our story starts . . .

Our class sat in desks in several long rows.

Mrs. Herbst would call the names of the front students in the two outside rows.

“Kathy and Margaret, please pay attention.”

Actually, I must confess that I don't know if those two girls were ever actually pitted against each other in Mrs. Herbst's devious little exercise, but they were two of the smartest girls in the class and I thought this sounded good.

Moving on . . .

The girls would take a deep breath and sit up, ready for what was coming.

“Seven times six!” Mrs. Herbst would bark out crisply.

“Forty-two!” Both girls would shout out together, nearly in unison.

The teacher would nod and smile.

And call out the names of the students seated just behind the first two.

“Five times nine!”

“Forty-Five!”

Slowly, she would work her way around the room.

Getting closer and closer to me.

And Kenny.

“Six times eight!”

“Forty-eight!”

“Four times nine!”

“Thirty-six!”

“Five times six!”

“Thirty!”

Finally, she would be looking at the students seated directly in front of her in the two center rows.

One of whom was almost purple with anticipation.

Okay, I'm sure it's no surprise that it was me.

And that the other was Kenny.

Mrs. Herbst would inhale.

My heart would stop.

“Nine times nine!”

“Eighty one!” Kenny would say, softly, before she had even finished the last word.

And just as I was drawing a breath, ready to shout.

“Rats!” I would say.

I knew the answer! I did!

That rotten Kenny beat me again!

I would sit back in my chair and glare at the tall young man seated just opposite.

Next time, Kenny. Next time.

I don't think I ever did beat him.

Though I never stopped trying.

P.S. My Husby just read this and says he still loves me, even though I could never quite prove that I actually knew my times tables.

Turkey.

Fist Bumps. Not Just for Anyone

Selective Sharing

Our family spends lot of time together.

Visiting.

In fact, if I were to pick a favourite activity, it would be that one.

My eldest daughter, Caitlin, and her family were over.

We were having a comfortable gab-fest after a hearty and satisfying dinner together.

Don't I sound like an advertisement for something?

Moving on . . .

Her Baby Daughter, nearly two, was busy playing at our feet.

She managed to put a toy train together.

All by herself.

“Oh, good job!” Caitlin told her. “Fist bumps!”

Baby Daughter grinned, doubled up her hand into a tiny fist and punched Mom gently on her knuckles.

“Yeah!” Caitlin said. “Now go and give Grampa fist bumps!”

I should mention, here, that our grandkids adore their Grampa. He plays with them.

Constantly.

Ponies. Troll under the bridge. Pirates.

But fist bumps?

The grin disappeared.

Baby Daughter gave her Grampa a sidelong glance, then, simply tipped full-length onto the couch and lay there.

Her attitude said it all.

'I . . . would rather . . . die!'

“Hey!” Grampa said. “I want fist bumps!”

His only response was a giggle.

“Hey!”

More giggles.

He never got his fist bumps.

I guess you have to be selective about what you share . . .

Hearing Problems

Hearing is important.

Judging by the fact that we have two ears and only one mouth, hearing is twice as important as speaking.

Just FYI.

Our four-year-old eldest son was having hearing troubles.

He couldn't hear me when I spoke to him.

I would call and call and get no reaction.

Often, I would have to touch him before he would turn and look at me.

We decided to get his hearing checked.

Because there were obvious problems.

Dutifully, we reported to the hearing centre and took up residence in one of their little booths.

The specialist put the headphones on my son.

Set a large picture book in front of him.

And started a voice recording.

We heard “Touch the cow.”

Mark complied.

“Touch the cat.”

He did so.

“Touch the monkey.”

The specialist put another set of headphones on herself and plugged them in.

For my Husby and I, the sounds ceased.

But our son kept working so the voice must have continued speaking.

There would be a pause.

Then Mark would point.

In all of his four years, I'd never seen him this obedient.

I should mention that my husband offered to buy the machine.

Back to my story . . .

Every few seconds, the specialist turned the volume knob down.

Our son kept pointing.

She turned the knob again.

Still he pointed.

Finally, she took her headphones off and looked at us. “In my opinion, there's absolutely nothing wrong with this boy's hearing,” she said. “In fact I would say that it's better than excellent. He's still pointing and I haven't been able to hear anything for the last two minutes!”

Hmmm.

Okay. So his problem wasn't mechanical.

In fact our son had just introduced us to a new concept in hearing.

Selective.

He had been, to put it simply, ignoring me.

Quite effectively, in fact.

And with this concept he, and later, his siblings, also brought into our life such wonderful sayings as, “Are your ears painted on?!” or “Ears are purely decorative!” or “I'm sure there's a switch on your bottom that will turn those ears on!”

Sigh.

Moving forward thirty years . . .

We've discovered that our grandchildren suffer from the same malady as our children.

Selective hearing.

It's genetic.

Ice Hockey. So To Speak.

The Arena

It's not what you think . . .

Waiting for your food in a restaurant can be excruciating.

Especially if you're hungry.

And let's face it – if you're sitting in a restaurant, ordering food, you're probably hungry.

Moving on . . .

There are many things to keep you occupied while you wait.

Studying the other diners.

Visiting with your dinner companion/s.

Reading the dessert menu.

I should point out, here, that whoever designs the dessert menus is a certified genius. Everything – everything – looks and sounds stickily, creamily, chocolately, divinely delicious. Mouth-watering descriptions merely add to the pictured perfection of chocolate upon chocolate upon chocolate.

With caramel.

And whipped cream.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes . . . waiting for food.

My Husby loves watching the people.

But when he starts to receive a few too many irritated, uncomfortable glances, or when his reputation precedes him and we have been seated in a non-viewing zone, he must come up with some other form of entertainment.

That's how he invented 'ice' hockey.

In this activity, one uses the chunks of ice from one's glass and tries to flick them, using finger and/or thumb at one's dinner companion.

Ie. Me.

Whereupon (good word) said companion retaliates.

Because who wants to sit there and merely become a target?

We try to keep the mess to a minimum.

But don't always succeed.

Let me explain . . .

We were waiting for pizza.

It was taking a long time.

Something about the cows needing to be milked so they could begin the lengthy process of turning the milk into cheese for toppings.

Sigh.

Grant was bored.

He got a chunk of ice out of his glass and flicked it in my direction.

I caught it and flicked it back.

He returned fire.

This went on for some time.

He simply couldn't get it past my ultra deft defence.

Finally, he stopped and sat there, frowning at me.

I grinned back at him.

Ha!

Then he raised his eyebrows in challenge.

Uh-oh.

He picked up his glass, which, by now contained only ice chunks and . . . upended it onto the table.

Then he fired every single piece – using both hands – at me.

It was an onslaught.

A deluge.

“Excuse me, folks, here's your pizza.”

An embarrassment.

We looked up.

The waiter was standing there, holding our pizza and staring at us.

He looked . . . frightened.

“Oh,” I said.

Grant grinned. “Put it here,” he said, swiping a spot clean.

The waiter gingerly set the hot pan down on the wet table, then beat a hasty retreat.

The pizza was great.

There's nothing like pizza after you've worked up an appetite playing a good game of ice hockey.

Nothing.

Teaching Sons

We have four sons.

From the time they were born, my Husby taught them to honour women.

His approximate words?

“In the creation process, Heavenly Father made the earth and everything on it. With each day, the things He made were more and more beautiful. His final, greatest creation? Woman. How are you going to treat God's greatest creation?”

He also told them that their Father would find someone very special for them to marry.

But they had to pray for her now.

All of them took his teachings to heart.

They treat women – all women - with a kindness and respect that is, unfortunately, seldom seen in the modern world.

Even as small boys, they were gentlemen.

And they prayed.

When our third son, Duff, was eight, his teacher asked her class if they prayed.

It was a class of seven boys.

Each of them nodded.

She handed out pieces of paper and pencils.

“I want you to write down the things that you pray for,” she said.

Dutifully, the boys took their pieces of paper and began to make a list.

When they had finished, their teacher gathered them up and glanced through them.

I should probably note here that the first Nintendo play system was just new.

And wonderful.

And greatly sought after.

Certainly by the small boys in this class.

Back to my story . . .

At the head of every list, each of them had carefully recorded, 'Nintendo'.

Except for one.

At the top of one little eight-year-old boy's list was, 'wife'.

Our son's.

His teacher stared at it.

Then she looked at Duff.

“You're praying for a wife?” she asked, somewhat sceptically.

“Dad told us if we started praying now, we would get someone special,” Duff told her. “Like he did.”

With tears in her eyes, the teacher told us the story.

And brought tears to mine.

I had heard my Husby teaching our children.

But it was at that moment that I realized just what he was teaching them.

And that they were learning it.

Right Song - Wrong Words

Okay, yes, I’m on a ‘panty’ kick.

But yesterday’s post reminded me of something . . .

For four years, I had the assignment to lead the music in the children’s organization in our church.

My dream job.

Every Sunday, I got up in front of a group of children, age three to eleven and sang with them.

Have you ever heard a group of three-year-olds singing “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”?

If you can do it without tears, you are super . . . ummm . . . person.

There is nothing cuter in the world.

And I got to do this every Sunday!

For four years!

Sigh.

Inevitably, there were extra perks.

Because what dream job doesn’t come with unexpected bonuses. (Boni?)

Moving on . . .

Each week, we invited the child/children who was/were celebrating a birthday, to come to the front so the rest of the group could wish them well.

Musically.

Everyone enjoyed it.

The singers.

And the sing-ee.

Afterwards, I always asked the birthday child what their favourite song was.

And then all of us would sing it.

Normally, this was fairly routine.

They would pick a current favourite.

The pianist would launch in.

The children would follow.

Occasionally, we would encounter a hitch.

Perhaps a song that was a current favourite.

But some where other than the church . . .

Let’s face it, launching into ‘Stairway to Heaven’, though it sounds appropriate, would be anything but.
Ahem . . .

Sometimes, they merely got the name wrong.

Case in point:

We invited little Emily to the front of the room.

Everyone wished her a happy fourth birthday.

At the top of their voices.

She was smiling broadly by the end.

I leaned down. “Emily, what is your favourite song?”

She looked up at me. “Little Purple Panties!” she said excitedly.

“Oh, I said. “Umm . . . yes.” I looked at the pianist, who was staring back, wide-eyed.

“I think what she means is “Little Purple Pansies,” I said.

The woman’s face cleared. “Ah!” She nodded in relief.

We made it through.

Though I must confess that the temptation to sing the wrong words was very strong indeed.

And who knows, maybe a song, ‘Little Purple Panties’ is just what is needed when things get a bit . . . boring . . . in church.

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.