My Crime Time

My brother and me.
I'm the criminal on the right.

Okay. I confess. I stole something.Once.
I have no defense. I did it. I'm guilty.
I was four. Is that an excuse . . .?
Mom and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping. A very exciting time for both of us. 
Well, for me, at any rate. 
We had driven in from the ranch in the family's late-model Chrysler (Dad always drove a Chrysler), which was an adventure in itself.There were no seatbelts. They hadn't been invented yet. Apparently no one had yet seen the wisdom in fastening small, easily-launched bodies into a safe place while hurtling down sketchy gravel roads at 60 miles per hour in a two ton vehicle.
My mom used to hold out her arm when she applied the brakes.
I was safe.
We pulled up to the curb across the street from the grocery store and proceeded inside.
The check-out desk, usually manned by a woman, stood in the center of the store, surrounded by the magical world of the grocery.
Directly behind the desk was a bank of cubicles, in which one could find the most amazing things of all . . . the penny candies.
It was there that I would park myself, after the cart got too full to hold me.
I admit it was difficult to leave the treasures that my mom had been adding to the cart. Treasures like canned peas. Baked beans. Tinned salmon.
The all-important Spam.
But I found comfort in just looking at the myriad possibilities behind that main desk.
A whole family of chocolate. Straws of sweet, flavoured powder. Licorice and JuJubes formed into the most amazing shapes. Wax figures which could be nipped and sucked dry of their wonderful, sweet juices. Lick-M-Aid. Lollipops. Suckers. Bubble gum in two sizes of colourful balls. The choices were truly endless to a four-year-old.
And my mom's purse offered the gateway to this bounty.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran to her. "Mom? Can I have a bubblegum?"
"Not today, dear."
What? What had she said? Had she really used those three words? The small utterance that shattered my hopes and dreams? That barred me forever from the bliss that all of that candy represented?
It couldn't be.
"But Moooom!"
"Not today, dear. I don't want you to be eating any candy before dinner."
Huh. Dinner was a lifetime away. What a stupid excuse.
"Just one?" I turned. My eye was caught by the bin full of bright orange bubble gums. The big ones with the little, rough bumps on the surface.
And the total deliciousness inside.
I pointed. "Just a bubble gum? I'll eat my dinner. I promise."
A smile from my long-suffering parent. "No, dear. Not today."
Huh. Well, we'll just see about that.
Mom brought her purchases to the desk and she and the woman behind it were distracted.
I would just take one gum. No one would ever know. My hand crept into the bin of orange bubble gums, wrapped itself around one tempting morsel and popped it into my mouth.
Ha. Mission accomplished.
I began the wonderfully arduous task of breaking down the hard, candy shell.
Mom finished paying for her groceries and was following the young boy carrying them to our car.
I fell in happily behind her.
The boy set the bags in the trunk, smiled at my mom and me and left.
Mom opened the door for me and I jumped inside. Still chewing.
She got in. And sniffed.
Then her head whipped around and she skewered me with a gimlet gaze. "Diane! What are you eating?!"
I froze. How did she know? The gum was in my mouth, safely hidden. I decided then. Moms were definitely magic.
Clever prevarication was in order.
"Ummm. Nothing."
"Diane, did you steal a bubblegum?"
I stared at her. Moms could see through cheeks!
"No."
"Diane!"
My head drooped. "Yes."
She sighed. "Diane, you know that stealing is wrong, don't you."
I lifted my head. Tears were already starting to pool. "Yes."
"What should we do about it?"
Tears started to slide down my cheeks. "I don't know."
Mom opened her purse and reached inside. Then she handed me a penny. "You will have to go back inside and pay for it."
I stared at her in horror. Go inside? Face my victim? Confess my guilt?
"I - I don't want to."
"But you have to."
I sat there, my four-year-old brain working frantically to find another solution.
Any other solution.
Finally, I sighed. Mom was right. I would have to go inside and pay for my ill-gotten bubblegum. I opened the door and got out.
For a moment, I stood there in the gutter, wiping my cheeks and staring across the street at the grocery store. Which, incidentally, had assumed gigantic proportions since Mom and I had left.
Suddenly the orange deliciousness in my mouth didn't taste very good.
I spit it out into the gutter and looked down at it.
It still had bits of the hard candy shell imbedded in the softer gum. I hadn't even broken it in.
I sighed and looked at Mom through the window of the car.
She nodded towards the store.
I started across the street, feet dragging.
This was the widest street ever known to man.
Finally, I reached the store and went up the steps.
The door jingled happily. The woman behind the desk turned and looked at me. I approached slowly and tried twice to produce a voice. Finally, "I forgot to pay for a bubblegum," I said, sliding the penny across the counter towards her.
She nodded and looked at me gravely.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "You know it's not right to steal, don't you?"
I nodded. Well I certainly do now!
"Don't do it again."
I shook my head.
"Thank-you for being honest."
Another nod and I was free. I ran back to the car.
Mom didn't lecture. She knew I had learned my lesson.
I still love bubblegum balls. Especially the orange ones with the little rough bumps. But every time I chew one, I remember being four years old.
And learning about being honest.

Counting Noses

Excuse me, Sir . . .

Census.

That process, every few years, when the Government gets to perform ‘roll call’.

So to speak.

In 1981, Mom applied for, and was awarded, the job of Census supervisor.

The job entailed working closely with a team of women who quickly became her friends.

The work was, for the most part, fairly mundane, as each of the women went door-to-door, collecting information on who lived there.

There were a few ‘hold-outs’.

And one or two downright nasties.

But the group managed to get the work done.

Noses counted.

And reports filled out.

It was time to celebrate.

Mom suggested that they all go out for a commemorative Chinese Food dinner.

Reservations were made.

The women gathered.

Eating and hilarity ensued. Mostly at my Mom’s expense as her co-workers proceeded to ‘roast’ their good-natured and long-suffering boss who had become such a good friend.

The end of the meal approached and fortune cookies were duly delivered to their table.

Each person seated there selected one.

Then they made a game of standing and reading their fortune aloud.

Finally, it was Mom’s turn.

She got to her feet.

There was a breathless pause.

(Hey, it’s my story; I’ll tell it how I want . . .)

Mom grinned. “Oh, this is entirely appropriate,” she said. “It’s time to make new friends.”

Who says you can’t find truth in a fortune cookie?

Bathtime Without Benefits

This

plus this

                                                                                                             

equals this.

Bathtime.

For the youngest member of a family of 11 and in the year 1931, this meant much heating of water at the kitchen stove.

Hauling of said water to the washroom.

Filling of the washtub.

Then relaxing in deliciously hot water.

The best part of the week for my dad.

On this particular occasion, though, Dad’s bathtime would include something unexpected.

And definitely unwanted.

A visitor.

As he was sitting back, enjoying his few moments of bliss, something small flew in through the open transom over the door.

It did a couple of circuits around the room as the little boy in the bathtub watched, wide-eyed.

Finally, it lit on the sheer curtains on the small window high up on the outside wall and folded its wings.

Resolving into something small . . . and furry.

A bat.

The two regarded each other for a few breathless moments.

Then, eyes glued to his visitor, dad did the “quickest washing job of my life”, wrapped a towel around his little, naked body and found the nearest far-away place.

One of his older brothers went back in to take care of the unusual – and totally unwanted – bathtime visitor, and all was well.

From then on, however, when Dad took his bath, his preparations included filling the tub.

And closing the transom.

Then keeping his eyes carefully trained upward as he performed a quick wash.

And got out of the room.

Hmmm.

I wonder if the introduction of a bat into bathtime would shorten the length of some of my teenagers’ showers.

Just a thought . . .

Pi is for Pie!

The Tolley's celebrate everything with pie.
Births. Blessings. Baptisms. Marriages.
Any excuse is a good excuse for pie.
And what could be more perfectly suited than a day that is actually called 'Pi'?
Yep. March 14.
Or 3.14.
The one day of the year that actually screams, "PIE!"
And the Tolleys responded.
In the only way they can . . .

47 1/2 pies!

This year was doubly exciting, because Eldest Daughter actually mixed most of the dough and rolled about a third of the pies.
The torch has been well and truly passed.
About seventy people braved the return of winter and joined with us in eating.
And visiting.
A wonderful night.

Pie-eating trainees. (Start 'em young!)

Our next special day is in May.
Mark your calendars now.
You're invited . . .

To Chris on her Birthday

Chris. Birthday girl

From my earliest memories, Chris was there. 
The ideal big sister. Patient, kind, and endlessly watching over us younger brothers and sisters. 

Music played a large part in her life. We always had a radio going wherever we were working. I remember sitting together shelling peas – with some rock and roll blaring in the background and Chris singing along. 

Once, when Mom and Dad were out for the evening, leaving Chris in charge, we thought we heard a noise upstairs. 
The upper floor was in darkness, and it didn’t occur to any of us to turn on the lights. (You remember the horror shows when the heroine never turns on a light, allowing the nasty guy to lurk in the shadows? Reality!) Chris grabbed a long knife and a flashlight and we were off on our little exploration trip to find . . . the noise.We never did find it. Probably a good thing . . . for it.
And us.
But it was a real workout for our imaginations. Who says that there is no educational value in Horror Shows? I can picture it now. The little group all glued to one central figure clutching a long knife. Moving as one.
If anything had popped out of the shadows, trust me, there would have been serious injury.
Just not to it.

Chris had red hair. But most of the time, it was merely her hair colour. The term ‘red-haired temper’ seldom applied. Oddly enough, it is those times when the lid slipped that I remember most clearly . . . and fondly.
She and I were washing her 4-H calf in the milking stanchions in the barn. 
All was well. 
The water was running freely down the gutter and out the door, slowly filling the barnyard. 
One hired man, Ken, kept coming around and offering all sorts of . . . negative comments. At first, it was just a word on his way past. Then two. Then whole paragraphs. 
Finally, tired and disgusted, we decided we’d had enough of his ‘advice’ and closed up shop. We put the calf in his pen and tidied up the area. 
The puddle, we couldn’t do anything about. But the always-thirsty Southern Alberta soil would make short work of that, so we left it and headed for the house. 
Then Ken made the fatal mistake. He tried a parting shot out the front door of the barn when Chris was still within striking distance. 
And then . . . that red hair! 
She sprinted back to the barn, deadly purpose in every stride. I lost sight of her as she reached the doorway. All I heard was a thump, then she was kiting off towards the house. And Ken was . . . umm . . . swearing mad. 
Literally.
I really didn’t know what had happened until later that I got to the house. Chris was in the bathtub. A good place to be after an emotional upheaval. She had been, and was still, crying.
I asked her what happened. She gave little self-satisfied smile through her tears, and said, and I quote, “I kicked him.”
I smiled with her. We all knew Ken. It was a fitting ‘end’ to the story.

She was working with yet another 4-H calf, trying to get it to lead. 
A . . . decidedly ornery 4-H calf. 
Imagine trying to put a rope on the business end of a steam roller and pulling it around the barn yard. You’re not even close. In fact, if we’d had a steam roller, it would have been entertaining to hook calf and machine together and see which came out . . . umm . . . in front. We would have taken bets. But I digress . . .
Chris had been fighting a losing battle for some time. The calf show was growing closer and she was getting a bit desperate. 
Suddenly a bright idea blossomed. She had seen Kung Fu. She knew what to do. She put her hand into the proper, scientifically proven form (as seen on TV), and studied the hide-covered head of her opponent. Exactly where could she inflict the most damage? She chose a likely looking spot and swung. 
Hard. 
And heard the satisfying crunch of bones. 
After a millisecond or two that she realized that something was wrong. If her technique was correct - and she had watched a lot of Kung Fu - then why was the calf still standing? Chewing his cud? 
Something had been damaged. She had heard the unmistakable sound. 
Then she looked down at her hand . . .
Needless to say, the calf was eventually ‘broke’ to lead in the usual ways. 
And Chris discovered that a hand really can inflict damage – when it is completely covered with a hard plaster cast.

Chris and I were riding. 
The end of a long day. 
Having successfully penned the last of a large herd, we were closing the gate, the anticipation of a quick ride back and a warm meal uppermost in our minds. 
Chris was doing the honours. As she put one foot in Gypsy’s stirrup, I turned my horse and headed out. Chris wasn’t quite on. 
And didn’t manage to get on.
Gypsy, seeing her pen mate heading for home and supper, gave a wild leap, spilling her would-be rider to the hard ground. From there, she proceeded to drag and then trample my sister. 
I stopped and waited for Chris to get up. 
She didn’t. 
Then something penetrated my pea-sized intellect. Maybe she’s hurt?! Maybe I’d better go for help.
We did manage to get Chris back to the ranch buildings. Mostly in one piece. 
And again, she spent months in a cast. This one to support a badly-broken knee. 
But in true ‘Chris’ style, she never pinned the blame where it belonged. Never offered one word of reproach. Merely suffered silently. 
But that is my sister.

Have I mentioned that I love her?
Happy Birthday, Chris.
P.S. The nail polish spilled on your carpet . . . ummm . . . not me!

Chris and Nipper

Misnomer

Little Mark. And a friend.

Big Mark

Dr. Mark Reed Stringam.

My Dad.

Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Adviser. Confidante. Friend.

Veterinarian.

Rancher extraordinaire. Breeder of purebred polled Herefords, single-handedly working to improve the beef industry in Alberta.

And succeeding.

With so great a man as his example, our eldest son could only profit from sharing his name.

And so we decided to name him, Mark.

Enough background.

My parents had taken my husband, myself, and our two small sons to dinner to celebrate my birthday. It had been a lovely time. Wonderful roast beef for which the restaurant was famous. Wonderfully sparkling, satisfying conversation. Two well-behaved little boys. (Hey! This is my story. I can remember it the way I want!)

We were replete. On every level.

It was time to go.

Sigh.

I packed the baby into his carrier and my dad picked up Mark, his fourth grandson. The first named for him.
And we headed towards the door.
In the entry, we paused for a few moments, waiting for my Mom.
Mark Jr., safely ensconced in his grandfather's arms, began to look around. He discovered a pin in the lapel of his grandfather's suit jacket.
A shiny gold pin in the shape of a polled Hereford.
Oooh. Shiny.
The small hand reached out, caressing the fascinating bit of gold.
Pretty.
"Do you like that, Mark?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you know what it is?" A note of pride crept into the grandfatherly voice.
Small head nodding.
"What is it?"
Our son, the namesake of the great Hereford breeder who was holding him, the small child who had been around cattle since he was born, could not help but get this right.
We waited breathlessly for the answer.
Mark screwed up his face thoughtfully. Then smiled. "Pig!" he said.
Oh, how have the mighty fallen . . .

Gifts

My parents were a social sort.

And often entertained.

With friends and food and games galore

And fun for hours, sustained.

And in those days of party fun,

When er’ food came in sight,

There were no paper plates to eat

With gusto and delight.

No, only the best that could be found

Would aid my parents’ guests,

And so they served on china, fine

And silver for the rest.

And when the meal was done, the guests

Rose quickly to their feet.

And, as a group, cleared table, and

Would in the kitchen meet.

The duties there were quickly giv’n,

Who’d man the towels and sink.

And in an instant, all was done,

E’en faster than you’d blink.

When I was ten, above the rest

Stood out one woman there.

I watched in awe as she took towel

And dried the silverware.

Her movements were that quick, I found,

My eyes could barely follow.

And soon a gleaming pile she had

All ready for tomorrow.

“I’d love to be that fast,” I said.

“My goal is clear to see.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, dear,

You won’t be fast as me.”

I took it as a challenge then

And practiced faithfully.

And finally knew just what she meant,

“You won’t be fast as me.”

For some of us receive one gift,

And some another. True.

Her gift was drying silverware

And mine was telling you.

Gaze Into Heaven

Marlene Bateman Sullivan

I love stories from people who have 'died' and come back to tell about their experiences.
Okay, I'm just quirky that way.
I just finished reading Gaze Into Heaven.
It is the best of this genre.
Never has a book been so interesting and yet filled me with such hope and quiet reassurance.
Each of the stories have been extensively researched and most come from actual diaries and journals of the people who experienced them, with other footnotes from family members who witnessed the retelling and thus shared in the experiences.
Categorized according to theme, 'buildings', 'music', 'activities' and many, many more, and with scriptural references to add weight and plausibility to the stories, it is compelling, riveting reading and I enjoyed every. Single. Word.

###

“I arose, leaving my body behind.” 
Delve deep into over fifty documented near-death experiences from early Church history. Filled with engrossing personal experiences and perceptive commentary, scripture, and quotes from latter-day prophets, this book will help you find purpose in life as you come to more fully understand the Father’s plan for you in the eternities.

Gaze Into Heaven is a compilation of fifty documented near-death experiences of life beyond the veil, drawn from the early history of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Filled with insight and inspiration, this book melds engrossing personal experiences with perceptive commentary, scripture, and quotes from latter-day Prophets. After reading this book, you won't ever think of life---or death---the same way.

Purchasing information:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Gaze-Into-Heaven-Near-Death-Experiences/dp/1462111270/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360955844&sr=8-1&keywords=gaze+into+heaven

Deseret Book: http://deseretbook.com/Gaze-Into-Heaven-Marlene-Bateman-Sullivan/i/5105020

Seagull Book: http://www.seagullbook.com/lds-products-770255.html

Please Remain Seated

Who needs seatbelts?

For many, many years, I have taught in the Children’s organization within our church.

I love it.

It’s where the action is.

One never quite knows what the kids (ages three to 12) will come up with.

Or come out with.

Truly, it is an adventure every week.

We were attending church in one of the older buildings in Edmonton, Alberta.

Sharing it with three other congregations.

We had the ‘three to six’ time slot. The last one of the day.

A fortunate thing, considering what comes next . . .

Our senior boys’ class in the organization was filled with twelve of the most energetic young men imaginable. And I have a good imagination.

Their teacher, Rob, worked well with them. Good-natured, calm and resilient, he was able to level off their higher hi-jinks, and boost their learn-ability.

And they loved him.

Weekly, they all met in one of the small classrooms just off the main meeting room.

In this room were twelve older chairs.

One of them had once had a fold-able book tray attached.

For whatever reason, the tray had been removed, leaving the bolt holes by which it had been attached.

Two on either side of the chair, just below the seat.

The young man sitting in that chair discovered those holes.

And that one could stick four of his fingers simultaneously into them.

Which he did.

It was fun.

He pushed them in further.

And suddenly realized that he couldn’t. Pull. Them. Out.

Panic ensued.

His frantic teacher called for help and various solutions were tried and discarded.

Finally, desperately, the fire department was called in and, with their metal-snipping tools, was able to free the increasingly sad young man.

Injuries were, fortunately, minor. Scraped fingers. Some blood.

But nothing requiring professional attention.

By the time the emergency personnel had packed up and left, class time was a memory.

And that particular class probably went down in history as the most exciting and quickly-passing ever.

In thinking about it, Rob realized that for the first time, ever, his class (and particularly one young man), had stayed in their seats.

For the entire time.

Hmmm . . .

He asked if there were any more of those chairs.

Just . . . you know . . . wondering.

Four-Legged Friend

I'm ill.
Really ill.
My head is stuffed so full I think it's in danger of exploding.
Not a good feeling.
Tell me why, when one's nose is choked off to the point where it cannot allow the passage of the least bit of air, that it can still . . . drip?
Constantly.
I think it's a design flaw.
Today's story is a repost.
I'll be better tomorrow.
At least I still have my hope.
Back to bed . . .

Four-Legged Friend

The Hill. Picture taken before the erection of 'The Tower'.

The Stringam ranch buildings were ringed on three sides by high cliffs, and dominated on the fourth by a high hill. 

As a result, there were only two entrances to the ranch, on either side of said hill.
As a fortress, it would have been ideal. Easily defended and defensible.
As a playground, it was perfect.
From the top of the hill, one could see, quite literally, for miles. The lack of any trees or large vegetation allowed for a completely unbroken view to any horizon.
And if one climbed up the tower perched firmly, but terrifyingly on top of the hill . . . well the possibilities were endless.
As I well knew.
From much experience.
On many occasions, my heroic mother did the sprint to the top of the hill, scampered up the tower, and plucked her small, but adventurous, daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Death being the sudden stop at the foot of the tower.
I just thought I'd point that out . . .
There was much of the Olympiad in my mother. I think of the numerous air and land speed records she broke, all without the witness of a single stop-watch or measuring stick.
But I digress . . .
The hill was also the resting place for the moldering bodies of many, many derelict machines, both agricultural and civil.
Parked neatly in rows were such identifiable things as threshers, mowers, combines, tractors, rakes, cars and trucks, all having outlived their ‘best before’ date.
They had all been replaced by something new and improved, but had not been sent to that great ‘tribute to rust’ that is the local parts yard because of the possibility, however slim, of still being useful.
It was this collection of . . . old and intriguing, that drew my brothers and myself day after day.
They, to explore and dismantle.
I to . . . get in the way and fall on something sharp.
Or climb into derelict vehicles and create worlds.
Or finally get bored as they tinkered and start climbing . . . but we’ve been over that.
Our responsibilities were clearly laid out, and we did them with a will.
From my brothers’ point of view, imagine the potential.
Armed with nothing more than a screwdriver, wrench and pliers, you could attack and dismember any of the inmates of this glorious, magical place.
You could tap into engines and other secret places and uncover intricate systems hidden to the incurious and unaware.
You could emerge, covered in grease, but triumphantly holding aloft the flywheel of . . . the . . . the behemoth parked between the car and the truck.
I could really only identify the cars and trucks.
Four years old.
Remember?
Moving on . . .
The three of us spent many happy hours there.
They in their grease and machinery parts.
I in my exploring and imaginary worlds.
For three ranch kids growing up on the prairies, it was perfection. Truly the place where dreams come true.
And then, into our peaceful little world came . . . the rabbit.
It wasn’t anything unusual, as rabbits go. A large jack. Cream and dark brown fur. Long ears and . . . really jumpy legs.
I should mention here that I was - and am - crazy for animals. Any animals. This rabbit would be the perfect pet for me.
At least from my point of view.
It had other ideas.
At first I approached it slowly, hand out, friendly smile firmly affixed. 

Coaxing.
It sat up and eyed me, nose twitching.
Then when I was still several steps away, it hopped. 

In the wrong direction.
Stupid rabbit.
I moved closer once more. It waited until I was, again, several steps away, then it . . . you get the picture.
This went on for some time.
Finally, running short of patience, I increased my pace.
It caught on to the change in strategy with astonishing speed, and also moved faster.
I ran.
It ran.
This was getting us nowhere. I finally flopped down on the ground and scowled at it.
It stopped and looked at me again.
I stood up hopefully.
It ducked into an irrigation pipe.
Ha! My . . . erm . . . strategy had worked! It was mine!
I carefully blocked both ends of the pipe and ran to get Mike’s cage.
A little background here.
Mike was our Saint Bernard.
He was huge.
But he hadn’t always been so.
When he had first come to live with us, he had been a puppy. For about two weeks.
Then he had outgrown his little wire mesh kennel and moved right into the only other place big enough to house him.
The garage.
That had left the kennel vacant.
And totally right for a pet rabbit.
I lugged it to the top of the hill.
Now the tricky part. How to coax the rabbit into his palatial new home.
I opened the door of the kennel and pulled one end of the pipe inside.
Then I went around to the other end of the pipe and began to lift.
Fortunately for my four-year-old muscles, aluminum irrigation pipes are fairly light. I lifted the pipe higher and higher, until I was stretched nearly to the limit of my height.
It wasn’t far.
But it worked!
I could hear the rabbit scrabble for purchase inside the pipe and finally give up and slide downwards.
I smiled broadly as his furry rump emerged from the end of the pipe.
He landed in the cage.
I was filled with triumph.
And elation.
And dismay.
The moment his feet touched the mesh of the kennel, he was off like a shot.
Through the bars of the cage.
Who knew that a four-inch wide rabbit could fit through a two inch wide space?
I watched, disappointed, as my pet headed for somewhere far away.
I kicked at the cage.
Stupid cage. 
Then I noticed that some of the rabbit’s fur had caught in the mesh. I plucked it off and examined it. I rubbed it on my cheek.
Soft.
I stuck it in my pocket and patted it tenderly.
My rabbit.
A few days later, when Mom was doing the laundry, she discovered the little patch of rabbit fur in my pocket. But, being my mother, she just shook her head and smiled.
And later, when Dad was loading pipe to start irrigating and found one with an end stuck inside Mike’s old cage, he did the same thing.
After all, they were my parents.
They knew me.

To All the Cookies I've Loved Before

Cookie Monsters

Cookies. 
The ultimate in snack foods. 
That perfect balance of sugars, grains, fats, and deliciousness.
And the most unique and perfect forum for getting small, semi-disguised chunks of chocolate into your mouth.
Chocolate that you can savor, but dismiss as insignificant when tallying your calorie count at day's end.
Or at least I can.
I love cookies.
And I make the mistake of baking them on a regular basis.
Call me a glutton for punishment.
Or just a glutton.
My six children have been raised on my cookies. Mostly with some form of chocolate as a noteworthy ingredient. 
They love those small handfuls of pure perfection as much as I do.Bliss.
But life, and reality, tend to sneak up on you and smack you soundly, just when you aren't paying attention. And so it was with my cookie consumption.
I was going merrily along, enjoying my cookie-filled life until, one day, I drug my favorite and freshly-washed jeans out of the drawer . . . and couldn't do them up.
Now I know this has happened to many of us, and certainly is nothing new, but it was a first time for me.
And it made me . . . unhappy.
To make matters worse, which we all try to do far too often, I decided to step on the scale.
I should note here, that the person who invented the scale, and non-stretchy clothes, was a nasty, evil individual. But I digress . . .
I had to make some changes.
Or buy a new wardrobe.
Finances won. Losing weight was in order. And the first thing to go was my mostly-cookie diet.
I baked one last batch . . . and started eating them as though they constituted my last meal on earth.
Finally, heroically, I put the lid on the still-half-full cookie jar and left the room.
But they . . . called to me.
Cookies do that.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I answered that call.
I went back into the kitchen and discovered that my beloved cookie jar . . . was empty.
At first, dismay.
Then, relief.
"Who ate all the cookies?"
From somewhere in the house, my daughter, Tiana's voice, "Tristan!"
Then my son Tristan's voice, "Sorry!"
Me. "Thank you Tristan! I just couldn't leave the silly things alone!"
A pause, then my daughter's voice again, "Tiana!"
The cookie doesn't fall far from the tree.

Pig Rodeo

Admit it . . . this looks like fun!

Okay, we weren't supposed to do it.

In fact we had been strictly forbidden.

But we were kids.

Is that an excuse?

On the Stringam Ranch, two things were understood.

Horses were for riding.

That's what they were there for.

Pigs were food.

They were to be fed and left alone so they could grow and . . . produce.

Stirring them up was something that kept them from achieving their purpose.

And riding them definitely . . . stirred them up.

But it was so much fun! One could walk into the pig pen and socialize.

Pigs are very social animals and they love to play. And after you have played 'pull the string' or 'follow the humans around the pen' or 'scratch me', the next logical step is 'ride the pig'.

Don't you agree?

Okay, Dad didn't see it, either.

He said that it might slow their growth.

Or injure their backs.

Pffff. What did he know?

I weighed all of 40 pounds and the pigs probably maxed out at 300.

No way I was going to hurt anyone's back.

And the pigs ran around all of the time. Riding them as they did so was a no-brainer.

And I had proven on countless occasions that the one thing I was naturally blessed with was the ability to function with no brain.

Moving forward many years . . .

My second son and I had just finished building our new corrals.

We had turned the cow and pig in together to mow down some of the weeds.

Nog, the pig, was huge.

And fat.

And slow moving.

What better time to introduce my youngest son to the wonderful world of 'pig riding'?

I suggested it.

"No, Mom," he said. "I'll fall off in the poop."

"It's a new pen and there haven't been any animals in there before." I pointed out logically. "There is no poop."

It took a bit of coaxing, but I finally convinced him.

I helped him straddle the broad, red back, then stood back.

"Isn't that fun?"

The pig stood for a moment, chewing. Then decided, in usual pig fashion, that where he really wanted to be was over . . . there!

He made a sharp left-hand turn.

Right out from under my son.

It was then that we discovered one of us had been right.

About the poop, I mean.

And it wasn't me.

Huh. Dad had been telling the truth all of those years ago.

Riding pigs is hazardous.

Just not to them. 

Firsts

My Dad is staying with us for a while.

It is a great comfort to have him here.

I’m not quite as worried about him when I can see him.

Not quite.

While he’s here, we’ve been going through an old box that my Mom left me when she passed away eleven years ago. I had given it a cursory glance at that time, and then put it away till ‘later’.

‘Later’ finally arrived.

Amongst her notes and papers, we found a large, brown envelope with the word, ‘Diane’ scrawled across it. I peeked inside. Then started pulling out pictures, old report cards, even the program for a play I was in over thirty years ago. It was a treasure trove from my life. Beginning - as was obvious by a picture of me taken soon after I was born - on the very first day.

Oh, the memories.

Near the bottom of the pile, I found three letters that I had sent to my family during the excruciatingly painful semester I attended college far from home.

In one of those letters was the very first article I ever had published. Written by a very homesick seventeen-year-old country girl, far from home and missing her family. And simply titled:

Homesickness

I feel as if, somehow, I’ve been wronged. Don’t ask how or why, because I’m not even sure I know. I can guess, and maybe to put it down and get it out will help.

Have you ever stood at the edge of some huge canyon and, despite peril to yourself, looked out over the sheer drop? Do you get a feeling of weighing a ton, then a pound? That’s me now; weighed down, then buoyed up. Draggy, then light and carefree.

It’s rough.

I can make a guess at what’s wrong with me, ‘cause I miss Mommy, Daddy, family, friends, horse, cats, dog; any home attachments. I wish for a picture, letter, anything.

If I were to see a doctor, he could take one look at me and say, “Homesickness!”

There. It’s out. I’ve said it and it wasn’t so bad. The feeling hasn’t diminished at all however. My roommates claim it will, because it’s caused by my first absence from home, but I wonder if they get (or got) the same great touch of emptiness, not belonging, sadness, even the border of melancholy.

I doubt we all react in the same way to situations. In fact I know we don’t, so no one really knows exactly how I feel.

It’s like being a great, empty bulk, like a ballroom (or a canyon); or as if I was growing to meet the new on the outside, but with my inner part still at home, where things are at a normal and easy size to allow me to cope.

Maybe a visit would help ease the loneliness. It stands to reason that a gradual cut-off would be a lot easier than a sudden break.

Wouldn’t it?

As time slips by on its well-greased wheel, perhaps the sense of solitary confinement in a crowd will also go. I don’t know. Maybe having said what I did and getting it all out will have helped. Perhaps half of conquering a problem is just facing up to it.

Diane Stringam

September, 1973

###

It didn’t work. Getting it written down, I mean.

At the end of my first semester, I high-tailed it back to my familiar places.

Back to my family where I was happy.

It is still home and family, and memories of the same, that keep me happy.

Back to the box.

I’ll let you know what else I find . . .

Ah-ha!

My brother, George. And see? That person behind him? That's me. Ol' Eagle Eyes.

Okay, I admit it, I’m not very good at it.

Finding things, I mean.

I can be looking right at them, too.

Case in point . . .

Just last week, when unpacking groceries, I had handed an apple to my Dad for him to put in his fridge.

Later:

Me: “Did you put my apple in the fridge?”

Dad: “I always do what I’m told.”

Me: “So that’s a ‘yes’?”

Dad: “Yes.”

Me: “Well, I can’t find it!”

Dad: “Why am I not surprised?”

Me, opening drawers and generally making searching noises: “Are you sure? It’s not here anywhere!”

Dad: “It’s right there, dear. I put it right where you would be sure to see it.”

Me, closing a drawer for the third time: “Well, I can’t.”

Dad, sighing as he puts down his newspaper and gets out of his chair: “I know I put it there.”

Me: “Well, I can’t see it!”

Dad, standing beside me at the fridge and pointing: “Ah-ha!”

And there it was. Right in front of me. Sitting in lonely glory on a container of sour cream like it was on display.

Literally front and center.

Sigh.

I don’t know why I can’t see things.

I’d like to say it’s genetic.

And it is.

Except that it only follows from me down to my kids.

For example, at a recent family get-together, my oldest son and father of four, had gone to the garage to get a can of soda from the case of soft drinks placed on the cool, cement floor to chill them.

Literally at the base of the garage stairs.

Literally.

One had to step over them to actually enter said garage.

Son, shouting: “Where did you say the pop was?”

Me: “At the bottom of the stairs!”

Son: “The garage stairs?”

Me: “Yes!”

Son: “Well, I’m standing right here and someone must have moved them because I can’t see them!”

Me: “I just put them there!”

Son: “They’re not here!”

Me, getting out of my chair and going to the garage door: “What are those?”

Son, spinning around and looking at the case of pop he just stepped over. “Oh.”

Me: “Ah-ha!”

See? Genetic.

And this brings up another point.

Did you notice the ‘ah-ha’?

Well that started several years ago when I was looking for something.

Because I was always looking for something.

Dad had cheerfully gotten out of his easy chair and joined the search.

Peering at the floor near his chair, he had uttered the fateful words, “Ah-ha!”

Me, hope flaring, as I spun around: “Did you find the (magazine/book/sandwich/necklace/shirt/boots/shoes/toy/blanket/sister/horse/cow/calf)?!”

Dad: “Nope. Not here, either.”

And thus began a distinctly unhelpful family tradition.

When something is found/not found, the finder/non-finder always utters the fateful words: “Ah-ha!”

I have to go now.

I can’t find my glasses.

“Ah-ha!”

Crutches

Gramma and Grampa Berg

It was a magical time. 

Gramma Berg was staying over. 

For days and days. 

And she could always be counted on for a snuggle, or a story, or a song, or a treat.
In that order.
Gramma moved slowly. The result of having a shattered kneecap. I only knew that she couldn't get away from me.
Oh, and that she had crutches.
I loved those crutches. It didn't occur to my four-year-old intellect that they were a necessary part of Gramma’s mobility. I saw only that they were just right for me. 

I would put the little bar (intended as a hand hold) under my arms and, with the top half of each crutch weaving far over my head, hop from one end of the house to the other. Then back. Then back again.
All day.
Sometimes I would mix it up a little and hold up the left leg instead of the right. Either was exciting. 

And daring.

Okay, I was four. My life to date hadn't been filled with momentous events. 

But I digress . . .
There was one problem with my fascination for Gramma’s crutches. She needed them. And I usually had them. Somewhere else.
Something had to be done.
My Dad, always excited at the prospect of a new engineering task, saw an opportunity. He would make new crutches. My size.
Happily, he spent many hours in the blacksmith shop, designing, measuring, cutting. Crafting. Finally, voila! Crutches. Perfect four-year-old size. 

Excited, he brought them to the house. 

Unfortunately, it was nap time and I was blotto on the couch, having passed out during Friendly Giant.
Again.
Not one to let such a minor thing as a sleeping child thwart him, Dad stood me up and thrust the crutches under my arms.
I can picture it now. Small, skinny white-haired child – literally - asleep on her feet. Head lolling to one side. A tiny snore. (Okay, my imagination’s good. I admit it.) Dad holds her up with one hand while trying to brace the crutches under her arms with the other. For this story, a Dad with three hands would probably be advisable. She folds like cooked spaghetti. He tries again. Same result. Finally, defeated, he lays her back on the couch and braces the crutches against it for her to find when she is a bit more . . . conscious.
Which she does.
From then on, my crutches and me were inseparable. They were even tied behind when I went riding. I almost forgot how to walk. Strangers to the ranch would shake their heads sadly at the little crippled child making her way across the barnyard. Then nod and acknowledge that she sure had learned how to move quickly, poor little mite. I feel guilty for the deception. 

Well, a little. 

A real little.
Okay, not at all.
I certainly learned to manoeuvre those little crutches. The only thing I never mastered was walking while lifting both feet at the same time. And, believe me, I tried.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Gramma was delighted to have her crutches back. She could get around once more. She could be portable, helpful, useful. All the qualities she found so satisfying. 

Me. Age four. With some friends.

She could even challenge me to a race.
I won.

The Depths of Winter

Based on a joke my Dad likes to tell . . .

He went out as the morning sun,

Made new snow glisten bright.

The world was still, the air was cold

The storm passed with the night.

He carefully prepared his mount

With blankets and with tack,

The snow had stopped, the wind had died

He had cattle now to check.

The two of them moved carefully

Into the world of white.

Their breath streamed out behind them

Making clouds in morning light.

But it wasn’t long before he stopped

And looked about him there.

Then pulled his ‘cell phone from his coat

And dialled his wife with care.

“Hi, Hon!” he said with chatt’ring teeth,

Just thought I’d give a call,

To let you know I’m heading back,

Things don’t look good at all.”

“The snow out here’s too deep,” he said.

“It’s cold and wet, I’ve found.

It’s reached the tops of both my boots

It’s hard to get around.”

His puzzled wife said to her man.

“Your boot tops aren’t tall.

“I don’t see how a drift that deep

Could hamper you at all.”

Her husband frowned, “They don’t,” he said.

“Well, they don’t bother me.

But this poor horse I’m sitting on.

He simply cannot see.”

Dad in winter . . .