Fifty Things We Learned This Weekend

Two of our granddaughters stayed with us for the weekend.
While their mother, a professional face-painter, was facepaint-er-ing.
It was a wonderful weekend.
We learned:

1. Little sisters shouldn't sit on big sisters when both are trying to go to sleep.
2. Big sisters shouldn't sit on little sisters . . . ever.
3. Play-dough doesn't taste very good, but it's still better than whatever Gramma just fixed for supper.
4. Whatever Sister is playing with is infinitely better than what I have.
5. Clothes are for spreading all over the floor.
6. Especially clean ones.
7. Sigh.
8. One can sit through any boring church meeting if there is food and/or things to colour.
9. One should never, ever colour one's sister.
10. Even if she would look better.
11. Water in a bathtub is only the beginning.
12. Fireplace ashes can make one's hands . . . and clothes . . . remarkably black.
13. Hot dogs and ice cream make anything better.
14. Especially ice cream.
15. As long as Grampa doesn't try to steal it.
16. Stories with Gramma must be followed by stories with Grampa.
17. Because he can do the voices.
18. Rocking mooses can buck you off.
19. Rocking stools can do the same.
20. When Grampa is holding the remote, we watch what he's watching.
21. Even if it is boring.
22. One can hide from Gramma for incredible amounts of time if one is quiet.
23. Or falls asleep.
24. If Grampa says something a two-year-old doesn't want to hear, one can just stare straight ahead.
25. For hours.
26. Almost six-year-olds know e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
27. And are happy to share it.
28. Especially if it means they don't have to eat their supper.
29. Toys are lots of fun to get out.
30. But not so much fun to put away.
31. Climbing is acceptable only if one doesn't fall.
32. See #13.
33. One should always know where one's head is in proximity to anything.
34. Tables. Chairs. Walls. Doors. Sisters. 
35. See #13.
36. Again.
37. One can do all the things in a pretty church dress that one can do in jeans and a T-shirt.
38. Until Gramma catches you.
39. If one kicks her foot just right, one can project one's shoe great distances.
40. And even hit one's sister.
41. In the eye.
42. Gramma doesn't like it when one sneezes and then rubs one's hand across one's face.
43. But do it anyway.
44. Socks are made for hiding, especially when one is getting dressed for Church.
45. Shoes, ditto.
46. Grampas are good for playing ponies
47. Or Troll-Under-The Bridge.
48. Grammas are good for dancing.
49. Both are good for cuddling.
50. But they get tired fast.

Weekend's over. I'm going back to bed.

28th Anniversary of my 29th Birthday

Early in October, I celebrated the 28th anniversary of my 29th birthday.
Go ahead.
Do the math.
We'll wait . . .
It was a wonderful time.
Good friends.
Good food prepared by someone else.
Beautiful beaches.
Fun shopping.
And amazing activities.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I just had to share.

The view from our bedroom window in the day.

Same view at night. 

The local  groundskeeper. Keeping the grounds.

The view from the beach.

Drinks with friends on said beach. 

My Birthday dinner with my good friends.

My Sweetie and me. Snapped as I was eating the blueberries from my lemonade. Mmmm. 

They are very friendly down in Mexico.

Very friendly indeed.

Please, please come home with me. I have a bathtub!

Today, it snowed in Edmonton.
Need I say more?
Sigh.

Harvest for the Chicken(s)

A repost. Because it's Autumn. 

Harvest. 
A mellow time. 
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season. 
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets. 
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
And on the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good. 
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
Because the chicken coop was situated near the garden, to me, the chickens were part and parcel of the fall harvest. Didn't we eat them? Didn't we ‘produce’ chicken at the same time as all of the other food? 
It just made sense.
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water. 
It was every parent’s dream for their small child. 
Not. 
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations. Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end. 
Not a good thing for a four-year-old. 
Mischief happens. 
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country. 
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away. 
Hmmm. This was fun! 
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient. 
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial. 
It was genius. \
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . . 
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED! 
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went. 
By the time it and it’s contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!” 
Not very inventive, true, but effective. 
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details? 
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly. 
My family still laughs.

There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo. 
Fun! 
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them. 
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain. It moved closer. I moved closer. It looked over the fence. I looked at it. It’s beak opened. 
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . . 
You get the picture.

Photographic Evolution

I received my first camera the Christmas I was nine.

Together with one film.

A twelve exposure.

I hoarded those pictures judiciously. Carefully.

Only taking pictures of very, very special occasions.

And then, only when conditions were especially perfect.

Not.

I used up that first film in 32 seconds flat.

We had pictures of wrapping paper.

Kids admiring just-opened gifts nestled in a pile of wrapping paper.

And Mom stuffing more of said wrapping paper into the trash.

Okay, I admit it. Wrapping paper was the most exciting thing I could come up with.

Which says something about my life.

I should also mention, here, that my camera also came with a packet of little bulbs that you could press, one-by-one, into the flash. After they had been used, you pressed a little button and they would be forcibly ejected. This was an especially handy feature when brothers were hanging about. It’s amazing just how fast a brother can move when he has been shot with a little bulb of flaming-hot, molten glass.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

For the next few years, I snapped pictures of friends.

Doing . . . stuff.

Of pets.

Mine and other peoples.

And vacations.

Most of them blurry and unrecognisable.

“Okay, this is a shot of Great Aunt Maud. Or of Old Faithful. Take your pick.”

In college, I was handed a ‘real’ camera.

With dials and buttons and switches.

And sent forth into the hinterland to ‘take some shots’.

Yikes.

I will admit that my picture-taking had improved.

Vastly.

Now, people were easily differentiated from, say, cakes.

And my basketball players looked like basketball players.

Not the LCC square-dancing team they were usually mistaken for.

On or off the court.

In fact, my picture-taking skills had improved so much that I was given the position of official photographer in our Journalism class.

A promotion that came with its own dark room.

Yessiree. On any given Tuesday evening, I could be found in my darkroom.

Developing.

Now why does everyone smile when I say that?

It’s true.

I was developing.

Okay, yes, I usually had a young man in there with me.

But, inevitably, their idea of what goes on in a darkroom and mine were vastly different.

Hmmm. I think I know now why they looked so surprised when I told them to, and I quote, “Sit over there and stay out of my way!”

Back to my story . . .

Following college, I was given a ‘point-and-shoot’. A camera that guaranteed perfect pictures. Without any input from me.

Perfect.

For several years, it faithfully recorded early years of marriage. Baby arrivals. And family life.

With one ore two side trips into ‘someplace green’.

Until that momentous occasion when it died.

Never to go again.

After a normal grieving period, I got another point and shoot.

Digital.

No more films.

No more trips to the store, picking up or dropping off.

That little camera and I were inseparable.

Until recently.

When I got my new phone.

This is why.

Edmonton, Alberta at sunset.

I will admit that I sometimes think back to my little flashbulbs.

And the ejector that was so effective.

But only fleetingly.

Time Enough at Grandma's

Some of our treasures . . .

Many of our children have settled near us.

I can have grandchildren over whenever I want.

I'm bragging here.

Yesterday, several of my little 'monkey tribe' were over for a visit.

We laughed and giggled.

Ate bananas.

Created works of art with stickers.

And had sword fights.

It was here that we came to grief.

But not in the way you may imagine.

Let me explain . . .

Their mother dropped them off to play at Grandma's while she ran some errands.

All was well.

We played upstairs.

We moved our play downstairs.

Swords came out of the toy box.

Okay, yes. They play with swords.

Would it help if I said that they were constructed of foam?

Moving on . . .

The two oldest had just squared off against each other.

And Mom came around the corner.

Four-Year-Old's mouth dropped open.

“Mom!” he said indignantly. “We just got started playing!”

Apparently, there's an acceptable length of time when one is playing at Grandma's house.

Brief is definitely not enough.

It's a very good thing.

Lock Up Your Sons

Stringams. And one addition. The boy, second from the right is Graham, the son of one of Dad's college buddies.
He was staying with us for the summer.
Poor kid.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the town of Milk River.

And nine from the nearest neighbor.

Admittedly, it took many, many people to keep the homestead wheels turning.

People we associated with on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis.

Many people employed there had families who lived with them on the ranch.

And these families had kids.

That we Stringam kids played with.

So none of us really lacked for company.

But when Dad received notice that someone, maybe one of his old classmates or a friend from his bachelor days, was stopping by with his family for a visit, it was a cause for some excitement.

My first question was, inevitably, “Are there any girls my age?” Because we lived so far from civilization, visits usually lasted for days rather than hours. Thus, if there happened to be peers in the anticipated company, I was set for a very good time indeed.

Usually I was answered with a non-committal, “ I'm not sure. I think they have a couple of kids. They might be around your age.”

I would scoff quietly. How could my parents not know the most important fact, like whether there were any possible playmates in the crowd of eagerly awaited arrivals?

Pfff. I've said it before. Parents are weird.

Inevitably the guests would arrive.

Most of the time, their kids were pretty close in age to at least some of us.

And after five minutes, it didn't matter. We all played together anyway.

Time moved forward and things . . . changed.

Oh, we still had guests stopping by the ranch and said guests still stayed for a few days with us.

And brought their kids with them.

But now that I was twelve, my interest in their children was slightly different.

Now, when a visit was announced, my question was, “Is there anyone my age?”

Notice the slight difference?

I’ll say it again. “Is there anyone my age?”

This is significant.

Because I was no longer looking for girls to play with. Now I was looking for boys to flirt with.

And I thought I was being subtle about it.

Mmmm. Boys.

But looking back, I remember Dad’s grin whenever he told me, “I think they have a couple of sons. Probably a little older than you.”

He could read me like a book.

Probably a good thing I was never a gambler.

Or that there were boys in the poker pot.

Ladies, Don Your Jammies

Studying for final exams is hard work.

Time consuming.
Often lasting into the wee hours of the morning.
And even, at times, throughout the night.
It was exam time.
Debbie and I were cramming, comfortably dressed in warm pyjamas.
The clock struck three AM and there was no end in sight.
Time for a pick-me-up.
Food was indicated.
Preferably hot food prepared by someone else.
Someplace else.
Now, I should mention, here, that I always wore a long nightgown. High at the neck, full sleeved. Lovingly made by my mother of dark red flannel.
Disclosing nothing.
Debbie was also dressed in flannel. But there all similarity ended. Her flannel was in the form of ‘jammies’.
Pyjamas that had once consisted of a button-front jacket and long pants.
The jacket was now held shut by one last, tenacious button.
The pants had long since ceased to even approximate reaching the ankle and were now permanently formed to the bend of Debbie’s knee.
She loved them.
But fashionable, they weren’t.
Back to my story . . .
Our minds were too fuzzy from studying to even consider changing our clothes.
Okay, yes, there could be a valid argument made for said fuzzy minds operating machinery, ie. the car, but it was 3 am. Who would listen?
I threw on the long dressing gown that my Mom had made to go over my long nightgown.
And a coat.
I was ready.
Debbie had her short car coat which reached just above her knee. Said coat left an obvious several inches of ‘jammies’ hanging below.
Hmmm . . .
She frowned slightly, then leaned over and rolled up the tell-tale flannel.
All was well.
We set out.
Now there weren’t many places open to the public in Lethbridge, Alberta at 3 AM in 1974.
But, happily, the pizza place was.
I pushed the door open.
Every head in the joint turned to look in my direction.
All two of them.
Both cops.
I smiled and waved cheerfully and they smiled back.
Then their attention turned to the girl behind me.
The one frozen in place with one hand on the door.
And a pyjama leg dangling obviously below the hem of her coat.
They stared at each other.
One of the policemen beckoned.
Debbie shook her head, backing slowly towards the car.
I frowned at her.
What was the matter?
A moment before, she had been cheerfully ready go out in public, unconventionally dressed as she was.
What made the difference?
Policemen?
I could guarantee that they had probably seen much worse than a couple of girls collecting a pizza while dressed in pyjamas.
But Debbie retreated to the car and left me to pick up the pizza by myself.
Sigh.
Jammies. Good for everything. Lounging. Studying. Sleeping.
But used for dining out only under certain circumstances.
‘Cop-less’ circumstances.
So if you’re planning a late night run to the restaurant?
Wear your nightie.

What Started Out Bad . . .

Yesterday's post about pepper/bear spray reminded me of a story.

Didn't read yesterday's post?

It's here. Go ahead. We'll wait . . .

Our second son, he of the six foot eight inches in height, has been a pillar (pun totally intended) of the local city police force for most of a decade.

But, the experiences he has gathered over all of those years, serving as one of Edmonton's finest, still haven't been able to erase the experiences of his early days of training.

Case in point:

Each new officer must demonstrate his ability to continue to work under the most trying and difficult of circumstances.

Scenarios are crafted especially to create such a premise.

One of these is designed to demonstrate how well the new officer can function after being sprayed in the face with pepper spray.

The recruit stands to one side of the exercise yard and receives, directly in the face, a full dose of pepper spray.

That would be where a lessor man, ie. me, would just lay down and die.

But this is only the beginning.

Once sprayed, the officer, nearly blind and almost incapable of breathing, must call for backup and subdue and handcuff not one, but two suspects. Then finally, he may find his way to the sink at the far side of the yard to receive the blessed spray of water to clear eyes and air passages.

It is a gruelling, trying five minutes.

And ends with said recruits silent and contemplative as they sit blinking brilliantly reddened eyes, and breathing blessed pure air.

Fortunately for them, with the completion of this test, that particular day of training is over.

Family members are allowed to come and pick them up.

My son performed well.

He thinks.

Certainly he received a passing grade.

One can only assume what must happen if a recruit receives a failing grade . . .

Moving on . . .

As he sat there, blinking and sniffing, his new wife (of less than a month) arrived to take him home.

With much sympathetic cooing, she tucked him into a corner of the couch.

With a cool compress for his poor eyes.

And a warm, snuggly blanket.

Then she made him a batch of her famous cookies.

Remember where I said that his more recent experiences haven't erased those of his early training?

Well, I didn't say they were all bad.

Just Spray Your Bears Away!

Hold your breath and shake!

It was a hot summer afternoon.

And my Husby kept a small can of bear/pepper spray in his night table.

These two statements are connected.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In Edmonton, Alberta, we have beautiful summers.

We wait all year for them.

And they are worth it.

For about three weeks of said summers, the thermometer actually reaches 'uncomfortable'.

Edmontonians head for the pools or hide in their cool, dim basements.

The latter is where our family was.

Happily watching a movie. Minding our own business.

Okay, most of us.

Our middle son, sixteen-year-old Duff, was upstairs.

Raiding the kitchen.

Our second son, Erik was also upstairs.

In the front room.

Working on a model.

Duff finished eating and started wandering around. We heard his footsteps go into our bedroom.

Then we heard the front door close as he headed outside.

Shortly afterwards, Erik, still hard at work on his model, started sneezing.

Finally, he came downstairs. “I' don't know what kind of aftershave Duffy uses,” he gasped, “but I think I'm allergic!”

And then our youngest son started to sneeze.

I turned and stared at him.

Suddenly, my Husby gasped, “My bear spray!” He looked at the rest of us. “Everybody out!” he bellowed.

Yes. Bellowed.

We held our breath and charged in a disorganized scramble for the stairs.

Once outside, we huddled in a group on the lawn and stared at the house.

“So what do we do now? I asked.

Husby shrugged. “Open all of the doors and windows and let the place air out.”

“How long will that take?”

He shrugged again. Then bravely went back inside to open what doors and windows he could.

“There – achoo! – I think – achoo! - that's got them – achoo! - for now,” he said, rejoining us.

We looked at each other.

“Who wants to go up to the store for a doughnut?” Husby asked.

A chorus of positive responses.

Ten minutes later, we were wandering around in the grocery, munching fresh doughnuts.

Yumm.

I will state here that nothing can make bad experiences go away faster than fresh doughnuts.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Moving on . . .

After about an hour, Husby suggested that we head home.

“Is it safe?” I asked.

“We'll see.”

Once more, we were huddled on our front lawn.

Once more, he bravely approached the front door.

Nothing.

He moved inside.

More nothing.

“I think it's all right,” he said.

The rest of us cautiously joined him.

I could still smell pepper.

But it was no longer overpowering.

A thorough vacuuming and dusting soon eliminated it completely.

Later that evening, Duff told us what had happened. “I was looking through Dad's night table for some tweezers,” he said. “And I saw the can of bear spray. I picked it up and, out of curiosity, pressed the button.”

He grinned. “That's all I remember. I was blind, deaf and dumb for about five minutes. All I could think of was getting outside as quickly as possible.”

“You could have hollered or something!” Husby said.

“I couldn't do anything!” Duff said.

Please note: Bear/pepper spray is effective.

Really, really effective.

There is a codicil.

Several years later, we installed hardwood in the entire upper floor of our house.

As Husby was removing the carpet in our bedroom, I could suddenly smell of pepper.

“I smell pepper!” I observed brilliantly.

Husby stopped and sniffed. “I do, too,” he said. He looked at me. “Huh. Must still be left from Duff's pepper attack.”

“But that was six years ago.”

He shrugged. “Pepper obviously lasts.”

The final lesson here?

Bear/pepper spray is effective and lasts a long time.

One application and bears and/or family members will stay away for years!

Now you know.

Making Do

Even on holidays . . .

A friend told me a story.

A true one.

About his grandfather during the food rationing days of the Second World War.

The friend's grandmother had been to the grocery store and purchased, among other things, a new tin of pepper.

Which she set on the table.

Her husband picked it up and studied it for a moment. He looked at her and said, “This pepper is half peas!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” she said. “I thought I looked at it!”

I should explain, here, that, during the war, creative ways of extending food were discovered and explored. They called it ersatz. I'm not sure where the name came from, but it was expressive. Many different readily available foodstuffs were dried and powdered and added to other foods not so easily come by. Corn meal, for example, was widely used.

The use of dried peas, though not as usual, was not unheard of.

Another can of pepper was procured the next day.

Again, the grandfather picked up the little tin.

“Huh,” he said. “This one is half peas, too.”

His wife snorted in disgust. “Well, there's only one kind left,” she said. “I'll try that one tomorrow.”

She did.

She proudly set the third little tin on the table in front of her husband and proceeded to get his dinner.

He picked up the tin and peered at it closely. “Yep,” he said. “Half peas.”

“What?! I looked at it! Where does it say . . .” her voice trailed off.

Her husband was pointing at the 'Pepper' part of the label. “Here,” he said. “See? P-E-P-P-E-R. Half of the letters are p's.”

Oh. P's. Not peas.

She didn't upend the tin over him or anything drastic like that.

But I'm sure they had pepper to last until the turn of the century.

This story reminded me of my Mom.

She was raised during the Depression years and knew very well the days of rationing and going without.

She learned very early to 'make do”.

And to purchase things quickly, when they became available.

Her parents bought a large, twenty-five pound tin of peanut butter, for example. Oil on peanut butter rises. The first two-thirds of the container were edible. The last third had to be run through a meat grinder to make it spreadable.

But they ate it.

Several large cans of cherry jam appeared at the local grocery.

Her Dad quickly snapped one up.

At first, cherry jam was a treat.

Served at every meal, it became a bit tiresome.

Still, it disappeared.

In her own home, Mom tried to practise what she had been taught throughout her life.

Waste not want not, she often told us.

Some of her attempts were successful.

Others . . . not so much.

When there was no milk cow on the place, she tried to extend the life of the milk container in the fridge by added powdered milk to it.

Fooling no one.

She tried purchasing the cheapest brand of peanut butter.

Unfortunately, her children hadn't been raised during the Depression and were finer-mouthed than their parents.

The cheaper peanut butter languished on the shelf.

Finally, in desperation, she bought the favourite kind. Which disappeared in a flash.

Coining the phrase, “I'm going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

She made her own roast beef sandwich spread by running cold roast beef through the meat grinder, along with some pickles. Then mixing in some mayonnaise.

That one was a hit. We kids loved sandwiches spread with beef and pickle hash.

I'm sure that, through the years, Mom saved our family a boatload of money with her careful ways.

Unfortunately, my children were even finer-mouthed than we had been.

One day, one of my kids saw her adding water to the ketchup.

I had seen her do that before. It made the ketchup a bit runnier, but still tasted okay.

The child was horrified and told all of his siblings.

And she became, forever, the grandma who put water in the ketchup.

The lesson in frugality and making do was completely lost.

Pity.

Taking Time

I have a thing about time.

I am a clock-watcher.

I have to know the time at any given moment.

Day or night.

I didn't realize just how bad I was until I was in hospital after the birth of our third son.

He was born at 9:30 in the evening and I was so keyed up that I couldn't sleep.

All night long.

I'm sure you've heard people say, “It was the longest night of my life.”

Well, that night was.

I kept listening for stirrings that would indicate the coming of day.

But in a hospital, in a maternity ward, there are constant stirrings.

Sigh.

From that day to this, I have made sure that I have some sort of time-keeper handy.

Always.

Moving on . . .

For all of his life, Dad was a rancher.

He was good at it.

Now 87, he pours his energy and meticulous nature into the making of clocks.

Beautiful, inlaid, hand-crafted, gently-chiming clocks.

Which he then sells.

Usually to me.

I now have five of them.

With one more on the way.

They, together with my tall grandfather's clock, adorn various parts of my living room.

Even their ticking is noticeable.

When they collectively chime the quarter hours and then the hours, it's pretty nearly deafening.

I love it.

And have gotten so accustomed to it that I often don't even notice.

Sort of like living next to a set of very busy train tracks.

Sort of.

Oh, I have comments.

“It sounds like a clock shop in here!”

“I feel like I'm in some sort of creepy movie!”

Okay, I'm not sure that the person who made that last statement was totally talking about the clocks.

Ahem . . .

And my favourite, “Could someone please tell me the correct time. I think it just chimed forty-two in here!”

Hey. Love me, love my clocks.

Get over it.

Details

My first purchase in walnut and purple heart

One of the newest in walnut and maple

More details in Rocky Mountain Juniper

Sharing a Treasure

A guest post at the behest of my Husby.  :)

Please excuse my intrusion into your life today — I do it only because I wanted to share a great treasure with you, a treasure with which you are already familiar.  Allow me to explain.  Diane is too modest to do this herself.

About a year ago, I was not feeling very well.  Things got progressively worse until, on New Year’s Day 2012, I checked into the hospital via a zoo-like emergency room. Over the next several days I discovered what it was like to be a blood recipient rather than a 100+donor — and I had many long hours, betwixt and between several dozen poking-and-prodding-and-traipsing-around-inside-of-me medical tests, to contemplate where I was heading.

Some time before this I had begun writing a quirky little book that had been based on a birthday gift some years previous that I had written for my beloved Diane — yes, she whose wonderful and mostly-true blog posts you come here to read every day.  I realized that, given my new physical circumstances, I needed to finish my tribute to her, as quickly as possible.  So I spent many hours, among the poking and prodding and the sleepless nights, putting some of my thoughts down.

I would like to share those thoughts with you, only so that you too may come to know my Beloved Diane a little better.  She is worth getting to know.

Thanks to Diane’s great writing and editorial and journalistic skills, she has just put my scribblings up online as an e-book.  Please go to Smashwords at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237594, and check out the title How to Live With A Woman of the Opposite Sex — or, All the Secrets of the Universe Unveiled in One Little Book.  I regret that it will cost you five bucks to have a peek at it, but I guarantee that you will find a greater treasure therein: the love story that is my Diane.

Thank you for your indulgence of my intrusion today. May each of you continue to enjoy my Diane, wherever and however you may find her.  She is a Treasure that I want to share with the world, whether I am in it or not.

Sincerely,

Grant Tolley

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.