And Now For the News

My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table, after we had finished eating.

Let me rephrase that.

My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table . . . you get the picture.

Oh, he absorbed the important news stories.

And took note of local and international events and even sales.

But after he had digested the headlines, he would continue to read.

And . . . umm . . . put his own twist upon what he found there.

“Huh. Look at that. Jeffrey James died.”

There would be a pause as everyone in the room tried to decide if they had ever heard that name before.

Finally, some curious soul would ask the question, “Oh? Who was Jeffrey James?”

“Haven't got the slightest idea.”

There would be a general groan and much head shaking.

But that's my Dad.

Sometimes he would embroider a story, improving it for our benefit.

And it wasn't until the story got too outlandish that we would realize it.

“Well, it says here that they're planning a new bridge across the Old Man River near Fort Macleod.”

Again, someone would take the bait. “Really?”

“Yeah. Four lane. The works.”

“Well, it is the Alaska Highway. They probably need the improvement.”

“Suspension.”

“Well, that'll be nice.”

“Yep. It's just going to hang there. Suspended. Be hard to get on and off of.”

At which time, he would get a smack on the arm.

Or a platter of scrambled eggs upended over his head.

Sometimes, Dad would cut the story out of whole cloth.

“Our taxes are going up.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yep. They need the money for a new fund.”

“Really?”

“Yep, the Town Council Mexico fund.”

“What sort of fund is that?”

“It's the fund where all of the town council get to go to Mexico.”

“What for?”

“Well, to hold their meetings.”

Or . . .

“Well, look at that. The President of the United States is going up with the next Moon Mission.”

“Well, that sounds dangerous. Why?”

“I guess he wants to see for himself what all of the excitement is about.”

And, for some time we would think that the story was true.

In fact, we were even known to spread the rumour.

With embarrassing, but amusing, results.

You'd think we would learn.

But Dad wouldn't limit himself to making up stories.

Oh, no.

Sometimes, he would improve the staid old news in other ways.

By inserting his favourite poems.

Have I mentioned that he loves to recite?

“Little Johnny took a drink,

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4!”

We would nod and smile.

That part, we had gotten used to.

Anyone new to the family, however, would be understandably confused.

Once, my nearly sister-in-law was seated at the breakfast table with us.

Dad was hidden behind the newspaper, filling us in on the day's happenings.

Suddenly, his tone changed.

The boy stood on the burning deck.

His feet were in the fire.

The Captain said, You're burning up!”

The boy said, “You're a liar!”

She peered timidly around the paper, trying to see where he was reading.

Finally, “Where does it say that?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “No where, dear. It's in his head!”

“Oh.”

And still she joined the family.

Go figure.

But that's part of the Stringam legacy.

To this day, I can't simply read the paper.

I especially have great fun with the classifieds.

I guess I just had too good an example.

Between a Rock and a Cool Place

Quick - pick out the cool kids . . .

At the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the playground, halfway between the elementary and junior/senior high schools was a rock.

A big rock.

Huge.

It didn't belong to anyone.

It was just there.

Doing rock stuff.

It had 'sit' down pretty well.

And 'stay'.

It was the gathering place for the 'cool' kids in grade five.

I was in grade five.

I wasn't cool.

Every recess, the group of boys and girls who were the most popular would scurry down and claim the rock. For the entire 15 minutes, they would clamber (real word) about, or sit and talk.

And look cool.

I wanted to be with them more than anything.

I wanted to be cool.

Sigh.

I, too, had a group of friends.

Like me, my friends were not considered the 'popular' group.

But they were good friends. Loyal. Fun.

Often I would catch them casting longing looks towards the rock.

And the cool kids thereon.

I knew what they were thinking.

Sometimes, our disappointment and frustration would boil over into something more proactive.

Gossip.

One occasion stands out . . .

We 'seconds' as we had begun to think of ourselves, were grouped around the monkey bars.

Talking.

Okay, we called it talking.

We were making great sport of tearing the distant cool kids apart.

Everything was fodder for our nasty little grist mill. Their looks, their clothes, their personalities, their classroom standing, even their pets.

Yep. We were grinding at a pretty feverish pace.

I said, in a loud voice, "Well, I wouldn't go with them, even if they begged me."

The others nodded in agreement.

Than another voice broke in. "Diane?"

We all turned. Two of the popular girls were standing there.

"Um . . . yeah?"

"We wanted to invite you to join us. Paul really likes you."

I'd like to tell you that I simply smiled and refused. Or that I turned a slightly disdainful shoulder and stuck with my friends.

I did neither.

Faster than you can blink, I was one of them. They put their arms around my waist and I did the same and the three of us headed off to the rock.

I didn't even look back.

For many weeks, I lived as a cool kid.

Hung out at Danny's like everyone else but, because I did it, it was cool. Wore the same clothes as everyone else, purchased at Robinson's, but because I did it . . . you get the picture.

And I loved it.

Every minute of it.

No longer did I have to worry about what I said.

Because I was cool, everyone laughed and forgave me.

I didn't have to worry about what I did.

Ditto.

I was in heaven.

Then . . .

Paul decided he liked someone else.

And, just like that, I wasn't cool anymore.

The rest of them dropped me like a hot . . . rock.

It was my very first lesson on relationships.

It wouldn't be the last.

But it was the most painful.

Because when I tried to go back to my old circle of friends, I found that they were afraid of me.

Afraid to trust me.

Now, I was truly alone.

Oh, my solitary state didn't last long.

Only the eternity of about a week.

Fifth graders have short memories.

Fortunately.

But I did a lot of growing in that week.

I realized that I had learned four things:

            1. True friends are important.

            2. Don't burn your bridges.

            3. The rock is really hard and uncomfortable to sit on.

            4. Even if you're a cool kid.

Another Stringam Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

We join the end of a line of cars.

"Huh. Weird," Dad says.

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom asks, spitting on a Kleenex and cleaning the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet," Dad says. "But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along.

We creep along behind it, more cars joining us every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster.

"Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, stands up on the front seat and starts doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here," Mom says, pulling the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear," she says. "We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because we'll be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss. How long till the turn?" she asks Dad.

"At this rate? About three days," Dad says.

We are heading to our relatives for dinner.

I'm beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.

She glances around at her brood.

Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine.

Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses the only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

And Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms cross on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap.

"There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

"There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" Dad says.

"You can have some of mine!" Anita says, offering her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red.

"That's okay," he says. "I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign. Again the potty comes into play.

Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad says, leaning forward and peering through the front windshield.

"Let's play a game!" Mom says. "How about 20 questions?"

"Okay! I've got it," Jerry says.

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Alive or dead?"

"Alive."

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad says. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often," she says.

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he says, with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver says. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" he says.

They wave to each other and we are off.

Just another family car trip.

Spring is in . . . the Air

Milk River. Looking west . . .

My home town of Milk River, Alberta is a small place just north of the Canada/US border.
Tucked into the very heart of farming and ranching country.
Generational farms and ranches surround it on all sides.
The Milk River, itself, meanders quietly through.
A peaceful little oasis, perfect for raising families and finding harmony.
In the sixties, homes built on the edges of the town looked out, quite literally on farm fields.
And, on the west side of town, one feed lot.
Okay, yes, I will admit that said feed lot was across the tracks and behind the seed-cleaning plant.
But, let’s face it. It was very, very close to the town.
And had been for a great number of years.
My dad raised bulls in that feed lot.
It was . . . handy.
I should maybe explain for any of you not familiar with cattle and feed lots, that a feed lot is simply a large series of corrals in which cattle are fattened.
Much like Hansel and Gretel.
To the same purpose.
But with much less candy.
Moving on . . .
Beef cattle are twice daily fed a mixture of grains and yummy nutritious stuff. (But no candy: see above.)
They happily slurp this up, then wander around the corrals and grow.
When they reach a certain size, they are sold either as breeding stock.
Or as dinner.
In a cow, as in any living being, sustenance goes in one end.
Something else comes out the other.
Let’s be classy and call it ‘effluent’.
A poorly-run feed lot will leave said effluent.
For years.
A well-run operation cleans it away.
Every spring.
Ours was a well-run operation.
And said cleaning was a dirty and vastly smelly proposition.
And now the feed lot’s proximity to the town comes into play . . .
Early one spring, just after thaw, Dad decided it was time to clean the ol’ corrals.
He hired a specialized team, who moved in with loaders and trucks.
In no time, the corrals were tidy and clean.
The evil-smelling  ‘gleanings’ were spread on a nearby field as fertilizer.
Job finished. Money paid. Hands shaken.
Dad went back to his regular day.
Now, the town of Milk River has one distinctive anomaly.
It has beauty.
It has peace and prosperity.
And it also has wind.
Mostly from the west.
That springs up . . . whenever.
Usually at the worst, possible time.
Within minutes of the field being spread, the west wind started to blow.
I don’t have to tell you where the accompanying smell went.
Fortunately, the pain was short-lived.
The hot, dry wind that was caused such agony also dried the effluent quickly.
The smell died. Within 12 hours, the people of Milk River could once more draw a decent breath of sweet, clean air.
But the damage had been done.
One woman, the town secretary, unused to the common smells of ranch life in the spring, decided to take matters into her own hands.
She wrote a letter.
On town stationary.
The letter advised my dad that “under no circumstances would he be allowed to operate a feed lot in close proximity to the town.”
Dad stared at the letter.
Really?
The feed lot had been there since time began.
Certainly since Milk River had been there.
Was he really expected to shut his business, and livelihood, down?
He went to the mayor.
Who went to the council.
Who went to the secretary.
Apparently the letter had been written without the authorization of any of them.
Well, except for the secretary who really had no authority.
Dad didn’t have to stop using the feed lot.
Something about it being an old established business.
But changes were made.
After that, he did try to be a bit more judicious about where he spread things.
To save the poor, urban noses.

Aptly Named

Ready to ride!

The Stringam ranch raised cattle.

Polled Herefords.

At the time, there was only one piece of equipment suited to working with these animals.

A horse.

A wonderful, beautiful, perfect, exquisite, delightful, magnificent, superb, gorgeous, splendid, superlative, bravura, exceptional, dazzling and really, really nice horse.

Did I mention I like horses?

Probably not, but you get the picture.

The men and other grown-ups on the ranch had their own mounts.

Size appropriate.

The smaller residents on the ranch needed something . . . smaller.

Dad purchased a little, black Shetland pony.

A pretty little guy.

With the cute little name of ‘Nipper’.

Everyone came out to see him.

My oldest sister, four, was especially excited.

Here was a horse just her size.

“I want to ride him!” she said.

Mom lifted her small daughter and set her on the small, black back.

Suddenly, she felt a pinch.

A sharp pinch.

Somewhere in her nether regions.

She turned.

Nothing.

Huh. Weird.

She turned back to her daughter. “He’s a nice pony, isn’t he?” she asked.

Chris was voluble in her praise and adoration.

Mom reached out to pull her daughter off.

And suddenly, there was that pinch again.

She turned around.

Nothing. Again.

What on earth?

She helped Chris pet the pony’s head.

He was so perfect.

“I wanna ride again,” Chris said.

Obligingly, Mom reached out to set her small daughter on the pony’s back.

Another pinch.

This time, she turned, just in time to see the small, perfect pony turning his head to face front.

And then it hit her.

Whenever she reached out to help her daughter, the little monkey had been turning his head and biting her!

Suddenly the cute little name he had arrived with made a lot more sense.

Nipper.

Let’s face it, it suited.

Right Girl. Wrong Smile

Dad has been story-telling.

Surely the best of times . . .

Christmas, 1946.

Our newly-minted college boy was back from school in Guelph, Ontario for his first Christmas break.

His home town of Lethbridge, Alberta, was in a justifiably holiday mood.

Parties.

Get-togethers.

Dances.

A gathering had been organized at the new church hall.

College boy decided it would be fun to go.

Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he began to wonder if going had been a mistake.

None of the people he knew were there.

Oh, there were plenty of girls.

Beautiful girls.

Most of them, the younger sisters of his friends who had, surprisingly, sprouted during his absence.

He didn’t recognize any of them.

Standing there, uncertainly, he was approached by the mother of one of said friends.

“Mark!” she said. “Go and dance with my daughter!”

“All right,” he said, smiling. “Happy to!”

She moved off and Dad turned back to the large group in front of him.

Now I should point out here, that this girl was well-known to my dad.

He just hadn’t seen her for a while.

In his absence, she had grown up.

The nerve of her.

He studied the faces of the girls on the dance floor and milling the hall.

They smiled at him encouragingly.

Recognition was no closer.

Hmm.

Finally, not wanting to embarrass himself by approaching the girl’s mother, he wandered over to a group of boys and asked them.

The girl was immediately pointed out.

Dad dutifully walked over to her and asked her to dance.

Whew! Mission accomplished.

She was a pretty girl.

Fun.

Vivacious.

Dad enjoyed dancing with her.

Feeling just a bit proud of his success, he moved with her around the floor.

Then he spotted the girl’s mother in the crowd.

With a large, satisfied smile on her face as she watched the two of them.

A ‘hundred-watt’ smile.

Now, as a mother myself, I can understand that smile.

Her daughter was dancing with a nice, handsome young man from a solid family, who was studying to be a doctor.

A rosy future looked tantalizingly close.

And distinctly possible.

I’ve used it myself.

Most of the time, I’m sad to admit, it’s a relationship killer.

Sigh.

This particular relationship wasn’t meant to be.

Though they enjoyed the evening, the two of them never really hit it off.

Soon Dad was back at school and once more hard at work.

The young girl went back to her life.

Dad doesn’t remember much about her.

She was pretty. Fun. Sweet.

And her mother had a really big smile.

See what I mean?

My First Valentine

My Dad is nearly 88 years old and has been ill for some time.

I’m here making him eat and I think he is feeling a little better.

Thank you to everyone who has expressed concern. Your thoughts and prayers are definitely helping!

Look at that sweet face . . .

I was out yesterday, at Dad’s local grocery, buying foods that would hopefully tempt an invalid.

Yummy things like plump chicken breasts. Crisp, fresh vegetables. Packets of rice and spices.

I so love buying food!

I walked past a display of Valentine goodies.

And stopped.

There were several heart-shaped boxes.

 Beautifully, elegantly - decorated boxes.

Cute, colourful boxes.

Boxes with favourite cartoon characters printed on the lids.

Dozens of kinds to choose from.

Somewhere in the middle was a stack of boxes.

Simple.

Red.

They reminded me of something.

A gift from my Dad on a Valentine’s Day many, many years ago.

Dad always gave my Mom a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Always.

It was the one special day of the year he was confident in his gift-giving abilities.

The year I turned six was even more special for me.

It was the year that Dad first included me in the gift giving.

At breakfast that morning, he handed my mom a beautifully decorated large box of chocolates.

To much oohing and ahhing from us kids.

Then he smiled at me and handed me a box.

A small, heart-shaped box of chocolates all my own.

I stared at him.

Then at the box.

For me?

All for me?

He nodded. “For my littlest Valentine,” he said.

I jumped up and gave him a hug. Then snatched the box and fled.

The chocolates inside were gone faster than you can blink.

But the box remained.

 Because I like boxes.

For years, it held my smallest treasures.

Then, when I moved out, it remained with all the little keepsakes of my childhood . . .

I didn't mention the Valentine's display to my Dad. I’m thought that when the time came, I would just go and buy one of those boxes for him.

Last night, as we were sitting visiting, he asked me to get him his little sewing kit.

I went to fetch it.

And discovered that his sewing kit was my little chocolate box.

I held it in my hands and stared at it.

I was suddenly six years old again.

Receiving my first Valentine’s gift from my first Valentine.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

I’m here to help my Dad.

But really, he is helping me.

A little the worse for the wear,
but it is over 50 years old! Like me . . .

Putting the 'Ghost' in Ghost Town

My Dad is ill. I am going to stay with him for a while . . .

A repost . . .

Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And, more specifically, the Ghost Town of Virginia City in Montana.
It sounded . . . Old Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
Suddenly, I was stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.

Then being carried by said Mom.
We were in an old fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts. There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heart-felt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
(Because my husby is an historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.)
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia. 
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens. 
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended all too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building, a drug store.
It certainly didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
Boring.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again . . . things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Mom stopped beside the cabinet, which had the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door. What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath. What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.

Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of the Ghost Town of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
I had already seen the ghost . . .

Irrigation 101. My Introduction

Irrigation. So simple, a child could do it.

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

I'll give you a hint.

It wasn't me.

After that, George never allowed me to come with him to move pipe.

Something about me being worse than useless.

Go figure.

Dad's Plate

Our youngest daughter and her family are staying with us for a while.

It almost makes up for the long days and weeks when they were living in another part of the world.

Almost.

Last night, during dinner, Tiny Girl (hereinafter known as TG) was having her first taste of life as a grown up. She had spurned her high chair and was sitting like a big girl on a booster seat.

The best of times.

She also discovered, during this exciting experience, how much better everything tastes when it is eaten from someone else’s plate.

Happily, TG let her own food cool while she gobbled whatever her mother was eating.

And it reminded me of something . . .

My Mom made wonderful breakfasts.

Most of the time, they included eggs. In some incarnation.

One of my Dad’s favourites was eggs fried.

Mom would place two perfect little white-jacketed yellow orbs on his plate and he would happily proceed to take fork and knife and slice through them, cutting them neatly into uniform bits.

Then he would scrape them carefully back together, sprinkle the resulting mixture with salt and pepper and voila!

Breakfast.

I had watched this same process since I could remember.

His food always looked soooo good.

“Dad? Can I have a bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have a bite?” Dad was always correcting my grammar.

“May I have a bite?”

Mmmm. It was soooo good.

“Can I have another?”

“May I . . .?”

“May I have another?”

Mmmm. Even better.

Then Mom would set my plate in front of me.

Carefully, I would copy Dad’s technique to the best of my ability.

Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice.

Gather.

Sprinkle.

Eat.

Yum.

Hmmm.

Wait. I’m sure it tasted better off his plate.

“Dad? Can I have another bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have another bite?”

“May I have another bite?”

He gave it to me.

Mmmm. I was right.

It did taste better.

I had made a momentous discovery.

Everything was better off Dad’s plate.

Later, I discovered that this was also true with Mom’s plate.

Or my Husby’s.

I did draw the line there.

Total strangers do regard you oddly when you ask.

Okay, I never really did it.

But I wanted to.

“I’ll have what you're having!”

Literally.

Tree Talk

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

I had to bundle up for my walk this morning.

It was -28C (-19F) with a nasty, evil north-westerly wind blowing. Temperature allowing for wind chill = -40C (-40F)

I walked fast.

The most difficult part of my walk is past the south end of a wide park.

In the summer, it is truly beautiful.

In the winter, with a north-westerly (see above) wind blowing, it is an open space where the elements can really get up a head of steam. So to speak.

As with many things in life, though, once one gets through the worst, the best appears. 

Just past the park is a stand of hundred year-old pines.

Instantly, the force of the wind is lessened to insignificance.

There is only a soft 'hiss' as it threads its way through the green boughs. 

I stopped, as I do every morning, to listen.

Instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood . . .

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Throughout the years, they have continued to speak to me.

As we all grew older . . .

Standing there this morning, surrounded by the massive evergreens, I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees as whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.

Travels with Diane. Warning: Gross

Travel was so easy - Without Diane

Dad loved to travel.

And he was so much fun to travel with.

Dad would drive us to amazing places and show us amazing things, and sing and entertain us on the way.

And he took breaks.

'Breaks' which, for my Dad, meant pulling into a gas station and buying everyone a bottle of pop and a chocolate bar.

Notice, I didn't say 'healthy'. I just said 'fun'.

And sugar highs hadn't been invented yet.

To Dad, holidays were always taken across the border. He drove us all over the western half of the continental United States, with stops in California, Texas, Oregon, Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Washington, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico.

We have pictures taken beside the 'Welcome to . . .' signs for all of them.

Travelling also meant meals on the road.

There were a lot of family-owned restaurants in the United States. And Denny's.

We saw them all.

And they made good food.

I love meals that someone else cooks.

And, let's just admit it . . . breakfast in a diner says 'holiday', doesn't it?

Sooo . . . breakfast. The most important meal of the day.

And the hardest one for Diane to eat.

Oh, I was enthusiastic.

And hungry.

But sometimes, it simply took a while for my stomach to awaken.

At least that's what Mom told me. And Mom was always right.

Plus, I ate too fast.

A character flaw that haunts me to this day.

Our family was travelling through . . . somewhere.

We had stayed the night in a hotel.

It was time for breakfast.

Dad took us to a nice restaurant at the edge of town.

We were handed large, colourful menus. With pictures.

I loved pictures.

And shiny things, but that is another story.

There was one photo, in particular, that caught my attention.

It showed waffles. A golden heap of them. Topped with, wonder of wonders, ice cream.

I think there was fruit atop the ice cream, as a sop to nutritional convention, but all I really had eyes for was the cold, sweet stuff.

Who ever heard of ice cream for breakfast?

And the final miracle? Mom let me order them.

All of my dreams had suddenly come true.

My waffles arrived, in all of their sweet, golden perfection. Ice cream just nicely melting on top.

Ecstasy on a plate.

I dove in.

And I do mean dove.

I shovelled fast and hard.

Before the rest of the family was half through, I was licking my plate.

Ice cream is not something that you can allow to get away.

And then . . . my wonderful waffles and ice cream hit . . . my stomach.

It wasn't awake.

It didn't like it.

It would . . . REACT!

And so, my beautiful breakfast, so briefly enjoyed, ended up back on the plate.

Sigh.

My horrified siblings fled.

My patient parents cleaned.

And lamented losing a breakfast they hadn't even paid for yet.

And a daughter who was suddenly hungry again.

Never again was I offered more than the usual at breakfast.

Good nourishing food.

That stuck to my ribs.

Well . . . stuck, anyways.

Starting Them Early

I was washing the dishes.

A fairly mundane, and totally necessary occupation when the house is filled with small children.

Our two-year-old (herein after known as TYO) came into the kitchen.

“Oh!” she said, hurrying over to me. “Dishes!” She started pulling up the sleeves on her dress.

I was just loading the last of the dishes into the washer. “Sorry, Sweetie,” I said, “ I've just finished.”

There were a couple of lids that still needed to go in, so I handed them to her and directed placement.

Then she turned and trotted out.

Thinking she was finished helping, I started to put water into the sink to clean the bigger things that didn't quite fit into the washer.

Suddenly TYO was back.

She had gone down the hall to the bathroom and retrieved the small stool we keep there to facilitate smaller statures reaching the sink.

This, she set in front of the sink and climbed upon.

“Okay,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Are you ready to wash the dishes?”

She nodded.

“Okay!” I handed her the cloth and she swished happily away over the pots and pans.

She looked so . . . intent and grown up.

The last things in the sink, the egg cups, proved a bit distracting. These were fun to simply play with.

So I let her, while I wiped off table and cupboards.

Soon, we were done and TYO stepped down, picked up her stool and carted it back to the bathroom.

I will admit, here, that she was a trifle damp – both on her rolled-up sleeves and the front of her little dress.

And her cleaning style was lacking somewhat in effectiveness.

But she was enthusiastic.

And determined.

And very, very happy.

Someone is being taught very, very well.

It’s a wonderful thing.