The All Nighter

Delores from The Feathered Nest has issued a new Wednesday's Words challenge.
This week's words are Donut, Flannel, Frayed, Inching, Virtuous, Cartoons.
How fortunate that they fit right into an experience from my college days . . .

Debbie sat back and stretched. “I need some donuts!” she said.

I rubbed a hand over my tired eyes and stared at her.

Debbie was known for her unusual cravings. A terrible need to find ‘the good lollipops’ when both of us were supposed to be sitting in Biology class.  A craving that only ‘the chili dogs that they sell at College Mall’ could fill during Sunday services. Some of ‘Mom’s pickles’ when half a continent stood between us and them.

I was used to following her when she hatched these schemes.

They were nothing, if not entertaining . . .

“Where do you propose to find donuts at 4 AM on a Friday morning?” I asked in my most practical voice. I flipped a page of my textbook and tried to return to my former level of concentration.

“Tom's!” Debbie chirped cheerfully. She snapped her book shut and stood up.

“The pizza place?” I frowned. “They have donuts?”

“Good ones,” Debbie said knowledgeably.

“Deb, I’ve got exactly four more hours before my exam,” I said, trying to sound virtuous. “I’m not going for donuts!”

“Oh come on. You’ll be able to concentrate better!”

Sighing, I dropped a ruler on my page to hold my place. Then looked at her. “Are you going to change?”

Debbie rolled up one sagging flannel pant leg. “Nope,” she said. “I’ll just put on a coat.”

I sighed again and pulled on my floor length dressing gown, frowning at the frayed hem. Then I looked at my roommate. She was busily rolling up the other wrinkled pant leg. I shrugged. No one was going to be looking at me.

I moved toward the door. “Ready?”

She nodded and brushed quickly past, reaching for her car keys. “Let’s roll!” she said.

A couple of minutes later, we were parked in front of Tom’s.
There was only one other car in the lot.

A police cruiser.

I walked up to the door and paused. The TV inside was tuned to the all night cartoon channel. Through the glass, I saw Yogi Bear make off with someone’s picnic basket.

I pushed open the door. Two policemen, obviously enjoying a late night meal looked up at me. I smiled at them and turned to Debbie. “So what do you want?” I asked.

But Debbie stood frozen at the door, staring at the two men. One flannel pant leg had come untucked. It hung halfway between the hem of her coat and her ankle.

One of the policemen smiled encouragingly and beckoned to her.

She shook her head and started inching back toward the door.

“Debbie, what are you doing?” I asked, following her.

“I’ve just decided that I really don’t need a snack,” she said. She looked at me. “And neither do you. C'mon, we've got studying to do!"
Have you ever heard that 'insanity rules after midnight'?
It's true.

Musical Memories

1965.

The year boys were discovered in Milk River.

Okay, yes, they had always been there.

And yes, I had seen them.

But up until that time, they had been covered with cooties.

True story.

Also true was the fact that, in 1965, I got my first, ever, boyfriend.

A real. Living. Breathing. Boy.

Who liked me.

1965 was also the year for miracles.

Moving on . . .

I was finding out about the wondrous world of sitting in a movie, holding hands with a boy.

Hanging out at recess with a boy.

Talking on the phone with a boy.

Sitting in assemblies with a  . . .

You get the idea.

It was new.

It was unusual.

It was amazing.

Okay, it didn’t last long. Let’s face it, both of us were ten. Attention spans are notoriously short when you’re ten.

But for a while . . .

My boyfriend and I and another friend were sitting in the travel trailer behind his parents’ house.

I should mention here that 1965 was also the year that we realized the radio played . . . music.

Rock and roll music.

I don’t know about you, but my parents’ radio was always tuned to the news.

Yep. The news.

Twenty-four hours a day.

Yuck.

Back to my story . . .

My boyfriend had fallen hard for a newly discovered group, The Beatles.

He had bought one of their records and we were listening to it.

They were SO COOL!

It was the fifth or sixth time we had restarted the LP and by this point, all three of us were getting quite proficient with the words to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand!”

“I wanna hold your ha-a-and!” I was singing at the top of my lungs, really not caring who else might be listening. “I wanna hold your hand!”

My boyfriend took the hint. Sat beside me, took my hand and sang along.

It was the best moment of my life.

Then, suddenly, his mother appeared in the open door. “Diane, your Mom is here. Time to go.”

I looked at my boyfriend and grimaced. (Yes. Grimaced.)

Our moment was over.

But that was all right. There would be other times.

Lots of them.

I was wrong.

Not long afterwards, my boyfriend’s attention . . . wandered.

As did mine.

That’s the good thing about being 10.

But whenever I hear The Beatles sing, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, I’m back in the trailer behind his house and he and I are singing along at the top of our voices.

And holding hands.

Memories don’t get much better than that.

Join the Army. The Letters Home

Staying with my Daddy for a few days. We have lots of visiting to do. So, a repost from a couple of years ago . . .

A guest post by Erik Tolley

Erik, right and a colleague, Larry.

 On the back of the picture, it says: 'I'm the one in green'.

My second son served for eight years as an engineer/mine specialist in the Canadian army.

Including a peace-keeping mission in Bosnia. (When he returned home, he walked over to the lawn and just stood there. When asked why, he said, "I haven't been able to simply walk over and stand on grass for 10 months. This feels wonderful!)

These are excerpts from some of his letters home.

Be warned, he was a soldier and has a wicked sense of humor . . .

14 June

Greeting, Earth Dwellers,

The average temperature is currently hovering around +34C, which it has been all week. My secretary, Aida, was translating the radio for me and told me that these temperatures are the hottest in 68 years. Boy, are we lucky. The humidity is about 10000000% on top of that, so as you towel off from your freezing shower, the water droplets are replaced by sweat droplets as fast as you can wipe them off. I'm drinking 10 liters of water a day. 4 of them during my workout alone. Just crazy.

*  *  *

I forget what the date is, July something.

Hi, everybody!

I hope you all had fun at camp this last week, You'd better have. I had a lot of fun diving on the island of Vis. Even without the diving, the scenery was unbelievable. Except for the old ladies on the beach without tops on. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! That sort of thing could scar me for life. It should be illegal. Fortunately, I spent lots of time under water. I even held an octopus. He wasn't impressed. His suction cups felt really neat, though. The laser vision burns, though. Who knew octopus could cook their own food? National Geographic had taught me nothing!

NOTHING!

Calm now.

*  *  *

I'm doing well, since you asked. I just drove here for the first time yesterday, and I had a lot of fun. The road signs are just a vague suggestion to the motorists here, so I had to adjust my driving doctrine to suit the conditions. Basically, we speed everywhere, and pass when we want to. Even driving like a maniac, my boss, Major Thelwell, says that I'm the safest driver she's seen here. I can't wait to drive around with her at the helm. Apparently I'm in for an exciting trip.

Later this week, I get to drive to Banja Luka on Tuesday, Zgon on Wednesday (it's right beside Kluc on the map, if you're looking for it), and then we go to Sarajevo by way of Tuzla on Thursday, returning on Friday by going through Kakanj. Basically, I get to see the whole country in a week. Sarajevo will be fun, I think.

Please send pictures of the dogs. I told my assistant, Aida about them and she wants to see them. There are a lot of dogs around here, but most are the end result of decades of hasty, unplanned dog sex. There was a cute little puppy who lives in the entrance bunker at the camp in Zgon, though. He was there with all the guards who were dressed in their fighting gear, and he was inspecting our vehicle while we talked to the guards. What a little cutie. I think he was a little Doberman without a docked tail, and no doubt he gets away with murder at the guard bunker. Fortunately, everyone seems to like Canadians.

*  *  *

The Book of Bosnia

Chapter One

1. And it came to pass that the soldiers of the Queen did go forth into the land of Bosnia, to bring a lasting peace unto the land.

2. And the soldiers did look about them and did see many peoples throughout the land, and behold, the land was bountiful, and beautiful to be seen.

3. And it came to pass that there was a spirit of contention throughout the land, causing much death and destruction.

4. And the soldiers dwelt in a tent.

5. Now the soldiers went forth unto the people, saying:

6. What is wrong with you people?

7. Lo, these words were heard by many, and the people did listen. But the people did not speak English, so they did continue to fight, and ignored the Queen's soldiers.

8. And there was no air-conditioning to be had.

9. Now the soldiers were angry, because the people were fighting among themselves, and many people had died. Plus one leg had fallen off their foosball table, which did enrage them.

10. Therefore, the soldiers did cry out to their Lord:

11. "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken this land?"

12. And the Lord did hear the cry of the soldiers, and did pity them, and did say unto them:

13. "Quit whining! For crying out loud. You sound like a bunch of little girls!"

14. And many great and glorious things did the Lord speak unto the disgruntled soldiers in this manner, until the soldier's hearts were softened and they did fall to the earth in amazement.

15. Lo, their parachutes had not opened.

16. Now the soldiers were of the mind that the Lord had played a rotten trick on them, what with the parachutes and all, so therefore the soldiers did decide to bring peace unto the land of Bosnia by circumventing Him.

12. And it came to pass that the soldiers did cry unto a false god.

18. And this false god was called Chrétien, the father of lies, the ancient enemy of all men.

19. And Chrétien did speak words unto the soldiers, but the soldiers were deceived, and did misunderstand his words, since Chrétien cannot speak any mortal language.

20. And it came to pass that the soldiers began to wander aimlessly throughout the land, and their faith did diminish, and they forsook the false god Chrétien, and did end their days as wanderers, eating berries and kittens and other nasty stuff.

21. And peace was brought by Superman, and there was much rejoicing.

Join the Army. Get and Education. Third and Final

Staying with my Daddy for a few days. We have lots of visiting to do. So, a repost from a couple of years ago . . .A guest post by Erik Tolley

There are also some other trades that you could join, like the Military Police, Intelligence (I still can't get any answers as to why they call it that . . .), Logistics (nobody will tell me what they do, either . . .), Medics, Marching Band, Cook, etc.
Unfortunately, I've never seen anybody from these trades, so I can't elaborate on what they do.
Not that anyone in the Combat Arms does much, either.
After selecting your preferred trade, you will be given several pounds of forms to fill out, a medical examination (thank goodness the doctor didn't need a rubber glove), and an aptitude test.
This all finds out if you are in good health, or if  you need to come back when you look less like an overstuffed sofa.
Now, when that's all over and done with, you will be told whether you qualify for your preferred trade or not.
If you do, you will be given another annoying pamphlet with an attractive picture and a catchy slogan, which will describe in detail what you will learn to do in Basic Training.
Here is a list of some of the things that it will tell you:
Marksmanship
Fieldcraft
Discipline
Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence
Rifle Drill
Navigation
First Aid
Rank Structure
Battlecraft
Communications
Everything Else

Strangely, this annoying pamphlet doesn't list many of the other things that you will learn while on your Basic Training course.
These other things are just as important to military life as the things listed above.
To correct this, I have added a few of my own ideas of what should be placed on future annoying pamphlets:
Swearing
Dirty Jokes
More Swearing
Female Anatomy
Male Anatomy
Alcohol Abuse
Vomiting
Washing Vomit Out of Your Clothing
Dragging Drunken Comrades Back to Base
Standing At Attention When You Blood Alcohol Content is 0.25
Scaring Civilians

Who says the Army isn't educational?

Join the Army. Get an Education. Part Two

Staying with my Daddy for a few days.We have lots of visiting to do.So, a repost from a couple of years ago . . .

A guest Post by Erik Tolley

InfantryIn the infantry, you will be subject to many different forms of violent death, such as getting shot, stabbed, burned, shredded and eating field rations more than twice a day.
The sad thing is, these will all be inflicted by your own troops.
I won't even mention what the enemy will do to you.
Basically, you will be a moving target, which is a lot more fun than a paper target, but a lot harder to patch up afterwards.
You will also get to freeze, starve, sweat, stink, roast, and stay up long enough that you will begin to hallucinate about giant pink bunnies running circles around you singing songs from 'Lion King'.

EngineersIn the Engineers, you will get to do almost all the same things as in the Infantry, but you will also get to play with explosives.
EXPLOSIVES.
Powerful explosives.
At least your targets are made out of something stronger than paper.
Unfortunately, the pink bunnies now hum the tune to 'Star Wars'.

ArmouredIn the Armoured trade, you will be able to drive and service large, cool-looking vehicles, often fitted with big guns that make loud noises and wake up the Infantry and the Engineers, if they happen to be asleep, which seems unlikely.
You will also be able to go places that no other vehicle can go, and get stuck in places that no other vehicle could even reach.
Then you send for the Infantry and the Engineers, who are conveniently awake, to come and dig you out, while you sit and play cards.

ArtilleryIn the Artillery, you will get to shoot big guns.
If anyone in the Artillery is reading this, please call me and let me know what else you guys do, because there are a lot of people who really want to know.

These are the trades known as the Combat Arms trades. I don't know why they are called this, because practically everyone's arms can be used as weapons.
Oh, well.
I guess that's why I'm in the Army.
If I knew, I'd probably be smart enough to still be a civilian.

Join the Army. Get an Education. Part One.

Visiting with my Daddy for a few days.
We have lots of visiting to do.
So, a repost from a couple of years ago . . .

SupErik to the rescue
Drawn by Erik in Grade Nine
During Math class.
Don't ask.

Guest Post by Erik Tolley

Upon first sight, the army looks real cool.
The recruiting posters depict big, brawny, attractive soldiers (and strong, beautiful women soldiers, too) all dressed up in their warpaint and carrying automatic weapons and squelching about in the mud as if they're doing something constructive and enjoying it, too.
The posters usually include some sort of catch phrase like "Join the Army  - See the World" and "Be a Part of the Armed Forces, and You Could Look Like One of These Attractive Young Soldiers, Instead of the Lumpy, Greasy, Smelly, Disgusting Couch Potato You Are", which usually makes you want to improve your lifestyle by joining the army and squelching about in the mud, wearing warpaint and carrying an automatic weapon.
Unfortunately, the thought that mud, grease, and gunpowder don't necessarily improve you lifestyle all that much usually doesn't occur to people until after they're actually in the army.
This is why most civilians think that soldiers are idiots.
They are.
I can speak from experience on this one.
I'm an idiot and I'm in the army.
Enough said.
I first decided to join when I saw an ad in the newspaper. If I hadn't seen it, I might have gone on to lead a normal productive life. I might even have been a manager at an A & W restaurant by now. (A management position at McDonald's being too ambitious for me).
But such was not my destiny.
Oh, well.
When you first go into the recruiting center, they ask you what trade you were thinking of.
At this point, you blurt out whatever first comes into your head, because the only part of the army that you've ever heard of is the Infantry, and you don't want to stand there looking like an indecisive idiot while the paperwork-person stares at you.
So, you say Infantry.
Fortunately, the paperwork-person has seen dozens of morons like you every day since he or she joined the army, and he or she will give you a cute little pamphlet with another attractive picture and catchy slogan on the front, which outlines the basics of all the different trades in the army.
This will help you to decide better what you want to be, otherwise the army would be made up thousands of Infantry soldiers.
And one clerk named Homer.
Strangely, this little pamphlet doesn't point out the actual tasks that you would be forced to carry out in an actual war zone, such as getting shot and tortured.
For clarity, I have provided you with a little more information that will be invaluable in determining which trade to choose, or rather, which trades to avoid.
To be Continued . . .

Let Them Have Cake

I love hearing about people.

Where they came from.

Who their families were.

Their stories . . .

I have a good friend who was raised in a bakery.

Really.

Her family lived on the third floor of the building. The bakery was on the second, and the ‘workings’ (ovens and things) on the first.

I think it sounds like a small slice of heaven.

Or maybe a large slice. Pun intended.

This is a part of her story . . .

Her father immigrated to their small Alberta town as a young man, intent on finding his way.

He took a job at the local bakery and, using skills brought with him from the old country, quickly made himself useful.

There was a girl at that bakery.

A pretty girl.

Daughter of the owner.

Much to the owner’s dismay, the two quickly became an item. I expect it was all right for him to be a baker, but he wanted more for his daughter.

But she had other plans.

The two made arrangements to be married.

And the father/boss gave grudging permission, both for the ceremony, and for the time away from the shop. But he only gave them enough of said time to perform the actual ceremony. Then both of them were to be back at the store to work.

Yes, it sounds odd to me as well.

Moving on . . .

The two slipped away to be married.

An hour later, they were back, aprons donned and ready to work.

Now the young new husband was very handy at decorating cakes.

Very handy.

In fact, he had been doing most of the decorating in the shop almost since his arrival.

As a gift for his young bride, he had created something really special. A many-tiered cake, astoundingly decorated. With angels and trumpets and flowers painstakingly fashioned out of icing.

It had taken him some time.

Upon their return to the shop, he presented his gift.

It was . . . well received.

It was at that moment that another young groom came into the shop, intent on picking up the cake he had ordered for his celebration.

The cake, another decorated by our young husband, was duly handed over and paid for. Then, as the second groom carried his precious cargo out of the shop, he slipped.

And he and a mound of perfectly-arranged, meticulously-bedecked cake and frosting both hit the floor with a resounding splat.

He emerged unscathed.

The cake . . . didn’t.

The young man scrambled to his feet and stared down at the ruin of what had been a work of art.

And his gift to his new bride.

Dismay writ large, he looked over at the young baker.

Who, in turn, looked at his bride.

Who nodded silently.

Our young groom went into the back of the shop and emerged with his own gift. The one he had spent hours decorating for his beloved. The one she had enjoyed so briefly.

The two of them handed it silently over to the unhappy groom.

The story ends there.

I have to imagine the joy on the young man’s face.

The pain in the heart of the creator.

And that of his darling . . .

The two of them celebrated many, many years together. Took over the bakery and raised several children there.

There were other cakes.

Just as meticulously decorated.

Just as beautiful.

But none more appreciated than the first.

To a Man's Heart . . .

This week's Wednesday words from Our Feathered Nest: 

Incline, recline, divine, bovine, ravine, machine 

or 

valentine, engine, pine, enshrine, leonine, clandestine

Delores, your so devious . . .

Which to choose. Which to choose. Ah, scrap it, I'll take 'em all!

How can one not see poetry in these words?

Oh, Valentine, my Valentine,

Toward your kitchen, I incline.

What ecstasy again is mine,

Your bread is great, your cakes, divine.

At night upon my bed, recline,

For gastronomic Heaven pine

And toss my head, all leonine,

And think of trips so clandestine.

I’m lost in hunger’s great ravine,

Until I hear the bread machine.

And know perfection will be mine,

My engine fueled by food sublime.

Though my figure trends toward ‘bovine’.

Your name upon the stove enshrine.

And write in letters nine-by-nine,

My heart is yours, my Valentine.

Teach 'Em While They're Young!

My good friend and fellow writer, Christina Dymock has created something remarkable.

Okay, yes, there are other children's cook books out there.

But none of them are like this one . . .

Families! Start your ovens!

Or toasters . . . or can openers . . . or waffle irons . . . or blenders . . . or microwaves . . .

Finally a cook book that clearly explains the how, when, where, and why of cooking and baking to the smallest and most inexperienced of cooks, the children. With little tips, pictures and notes of interest to captivate short attention spans. And even a section on each recipe that explains just what adult supervision may be necessary.

From the first page explaining clearly and simply the techniques and processes used in today’s cooking, through the first recipe for super yummy Pink Smoothies and right up to the final recipe for Little Twinkie Trifle these recipes are fun.

Cute.

Sweet.

Simple.

Astoundingly (real word) detailed.

And so complete that I (even I), would be able to use this book to learn how to cook. Something that has been despaired of since the dawn of time . . .

Am I buying a copy of this book for each of my children for the use of their children?

You bet I am!

Am I keeping a copy for myself?

Ditto!

Oh, the gastronomical (another real word) adventures that await!

Order from the publisher: Cedar Fort Publishing

Order from Amazon: Young Chefs

Or Barnes and Noble: Young Chefs

About the Author:

Christina Dymock was once at a dinner party where her husband was teasing her about the frosting-to-cupcake ratio on her dessert. The woman sitting across from them sniffed her delicate nose and said, "If my husband gave me a hard time about my frosting I'd quit baking. That'd show him." To which Christina's husband replied while pointing at his speechless wife, "Try to stop her!"

Christina divides her time between the kitchen and her computer and books and her family of six. (Naturally, the family gets the biggest share.) Because she reads everything, she also feels compelled to write in several genres.

Zenith

The ranch

Production sale day.

The highlight of the Stringam Ranch year.

The catalogs have been printed, painstakingly addressed (ugh!) and mailed out.

All over the world.

The cattle have been groomed, trimmed, tucked in and kissed good night.

The ranch site has been mowed, scoured, repaired and painted.

Now it sparkles like a new penny in the morning sun as the crew slowly climbs out of bed.

Some (my parents) might not have seen their bed.

Arrivals start

Breakfast is on the table and Mom is a blur of motion as she tries to do three things at once.

A shout from the barnyard. “They’re here!”

A glance out the window. Sure enough, the first of a long line of vehicles is moving slowly up the ranch drive.

From then on, the day is a series of impressions.

Snapshots.

Greeting and handshaking.

Parking cars and the trickier trucks and trailers.

Handing out catalogues.

Tending the coffee and the all-important donuts.

Making sure the auctioneer staff are comfortable and cared for.

Dusting the bleachers, ready for customer bottoms.

Hearing the shouts and movement from the pens behind the sale barn.

The warm up pitter-patter from the auctioneer on the stand as he gathers the chatting, laughing, gesticulating crowd.

An open gate and the first animal, an outstanding heifer, in the ring.

The auctioneer assistant, armed with a cane, moving her about.

Oohs and aahs from the crowd as they thumb their catalogues, looking for this entry.

More chatter from the man with the mike.

Bidding.

The smack of the gavel.

Another open gate and the now-nervous heifer gladly disappearing.

Gates open.

Gates close.

Shouts from the pens as stock is shuffled into catalogue order.

Animals in.

Animals out.

Pounding of the gavel.

Talk and laughter as the auctioneer plays with the crowd.

The final animal, a 2000 pound bull, in the pen.

Final strike of the mallet.

“Mark and Enes Stringam would like to thank all of you for making this day special!” the auctioneer says. “And to invite you to come and enjoy a nice home-grown beef dinner on them!” A grin. “It should be good, it’s out of the neighbour’s bull!”

Much laughter. The crowd is well aware of the almost fanatic fence maintenance required by the ranch owner.

And the unlikely possibility of anything four-legged crawling through with mischief/romance in mind.

Everyone moving down the hill toward the long tables set out in front of the ranch house.

Tables groaning with mountains of Stringam beef

, salads, rolls, and every other good thing.

A buzz of contented ‘people noise’ as food is consumed.

Sounds of vehicles as buyers take turns backing up to the loading chutes.

Visiting. Laughter.

The crowd slowly dwindling.

Finally, peace.

The setting sun on the faces of a family of exhausted people, collapsed in chairs in front of the house.

Twisted Talk

Coy-Bow. Sans guns . . . 

My Dad had a speech impediment.
Sometimes, he said things backwards.
Oh, he could control it.
He just chose not to.
An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.
And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.
For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:
Rock a bay bybee
On the tee trop.
When the blind woes,
The radle will crock.
When the brough bakes,
The fadle will crawl.
And down will bum caby
Adle and crawl.
You're right. That's not even English. But that's how I thought it went.
I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them. It happened something like this:
Me: What are you singing?
Them: Rock a Bye Baby.
Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Them: Let's play somewhere else.

As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.
Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.
And that my favourite ice cream wasn't scutterbotch.
Others had to find out for themselves.
My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother. The imminent arrival scheduled for, at most two weeks, stretched to six.
Leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.
It was a happy six weeks . . .
Michael was playing cowboys. And had dressed accordingly.
He had his gun and holster.
His boots.
His overlarge hat.
And his training pants.
He was ready.
Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.
Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style. "Stick 'em up!"
Oh, he was good.
Dad looked at him. "What are you? A coy-bow?"
Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .
"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"
"Coy-bow."
"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.
Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."
Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"
That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"
"No! No! Gow-boy!"
Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."
Michael had outlasted his grandfather.
A noble feat.
I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time. It was the exception rather than the rule.
And he always correct us afterwards.
But it was fun while it lasted.

Lessons Learned

Mark, right and Erik, with Grampa Tolley in the background

To complete his master's degree, my husband moved our (then) little family to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.
Also know as Winter-peg or Windy-peg.
Either one is apt.
And I found myself, for the first time, living in a large city.
There was the usual adjustment period.
Okay, I'm lying, there was no adjustment 'period'.
I never did adjust.
For eight months, my (then) two sons and I hardly left the apartment, unless accompanied by my husband.
Funny how grocery shopping can start looking like a 'date'.
I was homesick for my prairies and open spaces.
I did get a lot of reading and sewing and cleaning done. And my boys discovered the wonder of 'cable TV'. I soon learned just how much they watched . . .
Grant had taken us for a drive. He had an errand to run and his family was suffering from 'cabin-fever', a common enough ailment in Canada in the winter.
You can look it up . . .
He was making a quick dash into the mall.
Now those of you who know my husband know that a quick dash anywhere . . . isn't.
Quick, I mean.
The boys and I were sitting in the fire lane in front of the Zellers store long enough to celebrate birthdays.
Okay, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture. It was quite a while.
Erik was buckled into his car seat directly behind me, happily blowing bubbles and Mark, his older brother by eighteen months was opposite him, with the clearest view of the storefront.
I was reading.
Again.
Mark was chanting something, just loud enough to be heard.
It took a couple of repetitions before I noticed.
I put down my book.
"Mark, what are you saying?"
He repeated it.
"What?" Sometimes, deciphering almost-three-year-old speech takes a Master's degree. And where was the one person in our family with such a degree???!
"Say it once more."
"Zed-E-Eleven-E-R-S."
What on earth was he talking about?
I looked where he was looking.
The front of the Zellers store.
Suddenly, it hit me.
He was reading the letters over the front doors.
Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S.
Well, almost.
It made perfect sense! If you were two.
What a clever boy!
Genius.
And I had raised him.
Okay, for a very few seconds, I did a bit of back patting.
Very few.
Then reality set in.
The only reason he knew all of those letters was because of his copious amounts of time spent watching Sesame Street. On a good day, he could catch the program twice!
Funny that my son's showing me how advanced he was, showed me, at the same time, what a neglectful parent I had been.
I'd like to say that things changed.
And they did.
Afterwards, when Sesame Street came on, I was watching with him.
Before long, we were nearly on the same reading level.
A few more months in Winnipeg and I might have caught up to him!

Twenty Students Went to School

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fas
tBull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.                               
                                  by George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.
Because it is.
But I didn't learn it until grade twelve . . .
Biology class.
The real one.
Not the one the boys all talk about.
Moving on . . .
We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year. The part that I, the daughter of a veterinarian, found most fascinating.
But that many of the other girls . . . didn't.
We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.
Great! Field trip!
But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned (good word, right?) poem.
We thought it was cute.
And clever.
And easily folded into paper planes. Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.
Philistines!
Then we set out.
The walk down was enjoyable. Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.Cute boys.Okay, I know what I said about biology class.
And boys.
But let's face it. We were all thinking about 'Biology'.
Right?
So . . . walking . . . and boys. 
It didn't take long for us to reach the pond. We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.
Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' (their word) little things. Those of us who were less squeamish filled in.
So to speak.
In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.
One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket. The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.
Then, to work.
We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.
Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.
It was an interesting morning. And far too short.
When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.
Or so I thought.
Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention. Closer attention, even, than I was.
There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."
Payback.
And a fitting tribute.

Entertainment: Family Style

Family games - mischief made legal

On the ranch in the evenings, particularly the long, winter evenings, opportunities for entertainment were few.
If there wasn't anything on the one TV channel, you pretty much had to come up with your own.
Entertainment, I mean.
This meant music (the make-your-own variety), which we practiced with more or less success. Mostly less.
Reading. My own personal favourite.
Having a drink with the hired men in the bunkhouse. Probably the least recommended for us kids.
Or games and/or puzzles.
Usually we went with games and/or puzzles. One didn't get a lecture from one's parents when one played games and/or puzzles . . .
We had several favourites.
Scrabble. A word game which aimed for word construction creativity.
But only good for four of us six players.
Probe. Another word game. This one, disclosure being the goal.
Boggle. (Or if we were feeling daring, Big Boggle.) Another word game . . .
Huh. I just realized that we played a lot of word games. And three of us ended up being writers.
Go figure . . .
Bridge. A card game played by four players. Unless you're from Southern Alberta where it is played by forty tables of four players.
But that is another story . . .
Rook. A card game resembling bridge and also played extensively in Southern Alberta. (Also known as 'Apostate Rook' if you played 'One High' . . . according to my husband.)
Rummoli. Poker and sequence, all rolled into one happy package.
And finally, the apex of games, Monopoly.
The ultimate in Stringam family fun.
And won, inevitably, by Jerry.
Not that he tried. Or even appeared to try.
He hummed, sang, bounced his knee rhythmically, talked, told jokes and CLEANED OUR CLOCKS.
Almost every time.
Why did we keep on playing? Good question.
Inevitably, I would end Monopoly with a tiny little hoard of cash, very tiny, clutched in one hand as I stared with dismay at my little shoe, parked firmly on Park Place or Boardwalk.
Each with their large, expensive hotel. And each with Jerry's smiling face behind them.
I would hand over my little pile, along with the last of my properties, and quietly fade into the sunset.
Sigh.
Moving on . . .
Puzzles posed a bit less competition.
A more relaxing way to spend time together. Visiting was permitted. Even encouraged. But minutes could go by with soft music playing in the background and not one word said.
Yep.
Relaxing.
Our family's evenings now consist of visiting or playing cards.
Or watching movies.
Not too different from those I experienced growing up.
Family time.
It's a good thing.

*  *  *

On a different note:
Delores of The Feathered Nest gave me an award!
The Semper Fidelis award. (It means Always Faithful or Always Loyal.)
I am humbled and thrilled!
Now it's my turn to pass this magnificent award to five other bloggers whom I find especially entertaining or inspirational.
There are of course, rules to follow in accepting this award.
1.  Add the Semper Fidelis Award logo to your blog.
2.  Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.
3.  Nominate five bloggers whose loyalty and friendship you value and who you consider being part of your 'wolf pack'.
4.  Post something special for each one of your nominees and dedicate it to them such as a quote, picture, poem, saying etc....something you think pertains to that person.
5.  Let your nominees know that they are nominated.

So here goes . . .
1. Middle-Aged Mormon Man. Or MMM for short. Enormously entertaining, insightful AND inspirational, all rolled into one fun package. Does it get any better?

2. One Sister's Rant. Bella takes the everyday and makes it extraordinary! With the added bonus of photographic imagery, it's a peaceful, wonderful, restful place.

3. Home on DeRanged. I've only recently discovered this little gem! Melissa takes the everyday of family raising and makes it fun, funny and entertaining. I seldom leave her blog without a smile.

4. Undiagnosed But Okay. Another recent discovery! Kerri takes us on a journey through daily life with two sweet little girls, one of whom has special struggles. Totally inspirational!

5. Coffee Row. My older brother's blog. More stories of growing up on a ranch in Southern Alberta in the 50s and 60s. I just had to mention this because he remembers things WAY better than I do. And makes them so much funnier . . .

The Swearing Art

A repost for a busy day . . .

She of the foul mouth . . .

There are creative ways of making one's anger and frustration known.
Even when one is . . . little.
My friend's two eldest children were having 'one of those days'. When arguments erupted at regular intervals. And no one was happy.
Periodically, one of them would go to their mother and say, “Sister said the 'S' word!”
Now their mother was an adult.
I probably don't need to point that out.
She knew what the 'S' word was. But had no idea how her children had learned it.
Appropriate punishment was carried out.
A few minutes later, the other child was at her side. “Brother said the 'S' word!”
This went on for some time.
Finally, totally exasperated, their mother pulled both of them aside and asked them where they had learned the 'S' word.
“Well you and Dad say it!”
Now my friend lived in a non-cursing home. Expletives were kept strictly within certain bounds. She knew she had never, in her entire life, said the 'S' word.
She shook her head. “When did I say it?”
“Mom, you say it all of the time!”
“Really?”
“All the time!”
Finally, she realized that there was one question she had not asked.
“Kids, what is the 'S' word?”
Together they chorused, “Stupid!”
Ah. Okay. Not a desirable word, but not quite what she was thinking, either . . .

We, too had our forbidden family curse words.
Mom and Dad had a problem with children abusing each other verbally.
Stupid was a no-no.
But we were raised on a ranch.
With hired men.
Whose language was, how shall I say it? . . . colourful. And it was inevitable that we should pick some of it up.
I remember the first time we heard our little sister curse. It shocked my younger brother and I to our toes.
That's a lot of shock.
We stared at our tiny sister in disbelief. Had we heard what we had just heard?
Mom was gonna have something to say about this!
We ran to tell her.
Let's face it, getting each other into trouble was the thing we liked doing the most.
Because.
“Mom! Mom! Anita said something bad!”
Mom stopped what she was doing and followed us to where the guilty party stood.
Feet planted.
Chin out.
Bristling with anger and defiance.
Mom knelt next to her.
“Anita, what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Anita, Diane and Blair told me you said a bad word. What was it?”
“I didn't say anything!”
“Anita!”
Finally she sighed. "Stupid Poop,” she said.
Her three-year-old ears had heard what the hired men had spouted and processed it to this?
There was hope for the world after all.
'Stupid poop' remained our most formidable curse for many, many years.
Until it was replaced by something more worldly, as recounted here.
Ah, the price of living in the world . . .

Wednesday's Words

My good friend, Delores, from The Feathered Nest, gives a six-word challenge every Wednesday.
Use these words in . . . something creative.
It's definitely a challenge.
But so much fun!
This week's words are: blank, trembling, flashlight, shadows, four leaf clover and dashing.
Here is my effort.
P.S. Pop by The Feathered Nest, or Susan at The Contemplative Cat to see what they created!

“Stay in the light,” he said to me.

“When dashing through life’s mystery.

When all’s a blank and lonely sea,

You'll find there's possibility.”

I shine a flashlight from the lee,

The darkness flies, the shadows flee.

And in its lonely beam, I see

The promise of eternity.

For trembling solitarily,

A four-leaf-clover waits for me!

                  * * *

Life's full of possibilities.

You just have to look for them!

Bread Wars

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
Mmmmmm.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
The only time in the history of the world that that would happen.
Moving on . . .
Carefully, the winner would carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the center.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, this 'claim' was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Finally, the sacred placing of the bread on an individual's plate wasn't sufficient as a deterrent because as soon as the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won.
Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but better.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would stick out his (or her) tongue and lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread.
Okay, remember what I said about manners?
Forget it.
Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .

Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .

Bad Cards: A Tutorial

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friends

Mom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with friends.

At the Jones’ ranch . . . fifteen miles away.

Our nearest neighbours.

And yes it was a bit far to pop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but they were still our ‘close’ neighbours to the west.

Moving on . . .

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steady battle to stay at the bottom.

Sigh.

Another hand was dealt.

And Mr. Jones voiced his displeasure. “What rotten cards!” he said loudly, to no one in particular. “This whole evening, I’ve gotten nothing but bad cards!”

He sighed heavily and played the hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel got to her feet. “Well, I think it’s time for some refreshments,” she said, and bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom got up to follow her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.

At all.

“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

“Casey, what are you . . .?” his wife’s voice.

The sound of grating metal as someone opened the stove, then clanged it shut.

Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands. “Umm, I guess our card game is finished,” she said, laughing.

Casey loomed behind her. “I’ve taken care of the problem,” he said, resuming his seat at the table.

“Yeah. By throwing the deck into the stove!” Mabel said.

Ah . . . entertainment in the forties.

Not Me!

Caitlin Age 3

Ten o'clock pm.
Six happy, grubby little bodies scrubbed clean and clothed in freshly-laundered pajamas.
Six sets of shiny, white teeth brushed.
Six heads of hair neatly brushed.
Six stories read.
Six songs sung.
Six sweet, heartfelt prayers.
Six (times six) hugs and kisses.
And six children finally tucked up between fresh, clean sheets.
All are asleep.
Whew!
And now, their parents can relax, knowing that their happy, healthy and very active children have been properly prepared for a much-needed night's rest.
They can put their feet up and rejoice in a few stolen minutes of peace and calm. To visit together and catch up on the day's events.
All is well.
Then . . .
Little footsteps. Crossing the bedroom. Coming up the hall. Going into the kitchen.
The squeak of a refrigerator door.
Talk in the front room ceases. Two semi-alert parents are listening to the clandestine sounds.
Finally, the suspense is too much.
"Who's in the kitchen?"
Silence. A three-year-old intellect is working frantically.
"Who's there?"
"Ummm . . . not me!"