Language Barriers

Yumm. No matter what it's called . . .

We live in Canada.

French and English are spoken here.

Quite often in the same sentence.

But that doesn’t mean that all of us speak both languages fluently.

Or at all.

Oh, and my second son, Erik, worked at the local Sobey’s grocery store.

I realize that these facts seem to be irrelevant.

Wait for it . . .

It was a normal day at work.

Erik, one of the numerous stock boys, had spent the day uncrating merchandise.

Stocking shelves.

Packing groceries.

And helping customers find things.

Sometimes, this last duty was the most demanding. And amusing.

A woman had been wandering up and down the soft drink aisle for several minutes.

And had enlisted the aid of at least one other stock boy and, finally, the store manager.

She was growing impatient and a trifle red-faced.

Erik set down the box he was carrying and went over to see if he could help.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the manager was saying. “We simply don’t carry that kind.”

“I got it here!” the woman burst out. “The last time I was in this store! Right in this aisle!”

The manager shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” he said quietly. “We’ve never carried that.”

“Young man! I took it right out of this aisle. Right here!” she pointed. “See? There with all of the grape juice.”

The manager followed the pointing finger. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “Grape juice is all we carry. We have no Raisin juice.”

The woman dropped her arm and frowned. “Are you telling me I’m stupid?”

“No, Ma’am, no!” the manager was quick to disagree. “I just think you may be mistaken. Something that happens to all of us. Me, in particular!” He smiled.

Erik stopped beside them. “Anything I can help with?”

The manager looked at him. “This customer is looking for some Raisin juice,” he said. “I’ve told her we don’t carry it.”

The woman glared at him, then turned to Erik. “And I’ve told him that I got it here,” she said stoutly. “Right here! Raisin juice!”

Erik looked at both of them for a moment. Then he reached out and turned around one of the Grape juice boxes.

‘Raisin’ was plainly visible on the label.

‘Raisin’ is French for ‘grape’. Just FYI.

Both of them stared at it.

“Oh,” the manager said.

“That’s it!” the customer said happily, grabbing the box and departing.

The manager looked at Erik and shrugged.

“Who knew?” he said.

Who indeed.

Of Life and Death

Getting ready to lead the parade. With my friend, Janice in the background.

One lives very close to nature on a ranch.

Close enough to get the wind in your eyes.

The dust in your hair.

Or a hoof in the teeth.

The short, sometimes tragic lives of the animals under one’s care are very much the core about which the ranch world revolves.

Case in point . . .

Dad had purchased a tall, rangy, slimly-built black horse to add to the family string.

Who was immediately tagged ‘Slim’ or ‘Ranger’.

Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.

He was beautiful.

Coal black with just a couple of touches of white about the head.

He was also gentle and a good worker, with long legs that could really stretch out and cover the ground.

And important selling point when the average pasture was more than a mile square.

There was only one draw-back to the beautiful new member of our cattle-working team.

Somewhere in his past, he had been abused.

Probably by a man.

Because it was nearly impossible for a man to get close to him.

Oh, once he was properly haltered, he was gentle and compliant.

It was just getting to that point that was the problem.

We kids could walk up to him anywhere and slip a halter over that magnificent head.

But one of the men . . .?

Usually, Dad simply handed me the halter and let me go into the corral to slip it on. Then he would take the lead from me and proceed to tack up.

But if I wasn’t there, only the lariat made catching this horse possible.

This went on for years.

I don’t know what he had against men.

But it went deep.

One Saturday morning, when the horses were brought in, Ranger wasn’t with them. I looked the herd over carefully as they milled about, blowing hard and pretending to be nervous and skittish.

It was my first time in the corral for several days, so I wasn’t sure if he had simply been kept in the barn for some reason.

I shrugged and, slipping a halter over one shoulder, climbed the fence and dropped down inside.

Immediately, the horses turned to look at me.

Now, a neophyte might imagine that it would dangerous to enter a corral with several horses still prancing about, but the truth is, horses are very careful of their feet and legs. And they really, really don’t like stepping on anything squishy.

Like humans.

Oh, they’ll snag the occasional foot with (ouch) star-sparking results.

And sometimes, they’ll let fly with a couple of hooves, especially if startled.

But if they know you’re there, a well-behaved horse will pretty much mind their manners. I slipped my halter over Peanuts’ head and led him toward the gate.

“Where’s Ranger?” I asked Dad as he moved past me with his own halter in hand.

“He’s gone,” Dad said.

I frowned, but let the remark pass as we led our respective horses to the barn.

Then, later as we headed out toward our day’s goal, I turned to him.

I should note, here, that there was usually a lot of land between us and whatever herd we were expecting to work that day.

It left room for a lot of conversation.

“So, what happened to Ranger?” I asked, fully expecting the ‘I sold him’ response.

It’s a funny thing about animals on the ranch. You get attached, but you don’t get sentimental. It’s a fine line, but it protects you somewhat.

Dad sighed. “We had to work cattle a couple of days ago and you were in school,” he began.

Hmmm. Why did the alarm bells begin to ring?

Dad went on, “I had to rope him.” He paused. Then sighed again. “He went down.”

Uh-oh. Not good.

Dad shook his head regretfully. “When he came back up, his leg had obviously been broken.”

I felt a tingle go up my back. A broken leg on a working horse? That’s a death knell for sure.

Horses are heavy. And their lives depend on their legs. Thus their skittishness about endangering them in any way. Immobilizing a horse long enough for those heavy bones to knit properly? Very nearly impossible. The animal is usually only good for breeding afterwards.

And a gelding? (A male with the ‘man’ parts removed.) Really of no practical use whatsoever.

“What did you do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We had to put him down,” Dad said. There was the regret of ‘if only’ in his voice. If only he had done things differently. If only one of the kids had been around. If only . . .

We kept riding while I turned this over in my mind. I knew there was really no other practical solution, but when one is considering one’s friends, it’s not quite that simple.

The horse string on the Stringam ranch changed throughout the years. As horses aged or became unsuitable, they were sold off to perform some other practical use and new horses were brought in to replace them.

But I’ve never forgotten that magnificent, black gelding.

The one that had a history.

The one that was so hard to catch.

He personified the hard, ultimately practical spirit of the ranching life.

Definitely not a life for the faint of heart.

Hard Lessons

Kids and food and . . . the Table

In 1979, to facilitate my Husby completing his Master's degree, we moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba.
We brought everything we owned in one of my Dad's cattle trailers.
He cleaned it first.
Sort of.
Moving on . . .
But there were one or two things that we didn't bring.
One of them was a decent kitchen table and chairs.
We had to dip into our savings and buy something.
I should point out here that Kijiji didn't exist in 1979.
Or personal home computers.
At least in our home.
So we were stuck with the local paper and the classifieds.
But the tables we found listed were worse than the one we had left behind.
We finally decided we needed to go to a furniture store . . .
We had done this once before.
Gone to a furniture store, I mean.
It was fun.
And expensive.
But exciting.
We pulled up outside in our little wheezy van and sauntered inside where we were met by a young man with a big grin.
A really big grin.
Looking back, we should have suspected something.
We didn't.
We told him what we were looking for and he led us to the 'kitchen' section of the store.
Wow.
Okay, we weren't expecting that much of a selection.
We divided our options into two categories. 'Those we could afford'. And 'those which were really nice'.
The choices suddenly became easy.
We were down to two.
The one we finally decided on was a faux-wood topped, tubular-chrome-legged marvel.
With four chairs of genuine fake-leather.
We had hit the big time.
The only problem was that we were already a family of four.
And family member number five was definitely on the way.
More chairs were indicated.
No problem, the young man said. The company who made the chairs was right here in Winnipeg. They could easily be ordered and at a very special price.
Bingo!
We handed him our savings and he filled out the paperwork, promising to send in the order for our four extra chairs as soon as we left the store.
Then he helped us tote our new table and existing chairs out to our little van.
We were kings!
Happily, we set up our new acquisitions (good word) in our little kitchen.
Perfect!
Then we waited for our four extra chairs.
And waited.
Finally, we tried to phone.
Huh. Line out of service. Strange.
We drove over to the store.
And found it closed.
Weird. For a Tuesday.
A large piece of yellow paper, fastened to the front door, fluttered in the slight breeze. We got out of the van and moved closer.
It was a notice from the police.
Something about signing the paper if we were owed anything by the young men who had absconded (Great word, eh?) with all available cash and left the country.
We stared at the paper.
Then at each other.
Did this mean what we thought it meant?
Had we just been ripped off?
I suddenly wanted my chairs!
We had paid for them!
Jerks!
Grant signed the paper and we were duly contacted by the police and able to place our claim.
The problem was that we were owed a mere $200.00 and that put us far down the list of claimants. The likelihood of recouping (I'm just full of neat words today) our losses was slim to nil.
I should mention here that the people at the top of the list were a newlywed couple, furnishing a new apartment. They had paid for their furniture, but were having it delivered.
I guess $10,000.00 (a boatload of money in 1979) was just too much for the store owners to resist. They had taken the money and anything else not fastened down and left the city.
The young couple's furniture had not left the store.
They were furniture-less and out their $10,000.00.
Suddenly our little $200.00 seemed very paltry.
But I still needed my chairs.
We went to the furniture manufacturer and explained the situation. They were very nice and gave us our chairs at their cost.
So, when we worked it out, taking into account the money we had paid Crooked Smiler Guy and what the manufacturer charged, we had actually gotten the chairs for the normal retail price.
We really hadn't lost anything.
And we finally had our chairs.
Oh, they were a slightly different colour from the first four, but why quibble over details?

That table and chairs lasted us through six children and twenty five years.
As it was nearing the end of its life, my husband decided to realize a dream and build a new one.
He did it.
A large, round, solid oak table, capable of seating 12 comfortably and 14 if you want to be really friendly.
He finished it just in time.
I tried to set a casserole on our old table and the poor thing collapsed, casserole and all.
And no, that isn't a statement on my cooking . . .
It was given an undignified farewell at the city dump.
And Grant moved in his great oak wonder.With twelve chairs that matched.
And that we didn't have to chase down and beg for.
Lessons learned.

More people. More food. And . . . the replacement.

Perilous Pasttimes

Or something similar . . .

I had just turned four and had recently discovered a new and wondrous activity.

Which I had to keep very, very secret.

Because for some reason, my Mom didn’t approve.

Weird . . .

I was a fresh graduate of the crib and had definitely moved on.

My new bed was a big, old, iron monstrosity with heavy bars forming the head and foot boards.

Did I mention big?

And old?

Well, both were appropriate.

It was about six thousand times the size of my old bed.

And a million times taller.

True story.

When my mom introduced us, we eyed each other distrustfully.

Okay, well, I eyed.

It just . . . sat there.

Looking huge.

Mom lifted me and set me on it.

I went very still. Then looked around.

The chenille bedspread was soft and neat.

I lay back. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

I stood up.

Wait a second. This bed was really . . . bouncy.

Really.

Bouncy.

Heyyyyy!

I started to jump.

Mom came back into the room and saw me. “Diane, don’t jump on the bed. You might hurt yourself.”

I stopped and sat down.

Mom bustled out again.

I looked at the bed. The big, soft bed. How on earth was it going to hurt me?

I stood up. Waited a moment to make sure she was gone.

Then started to jump again.

She stuck her head back inside. “Diane!”

I stopped. Man, she was good!

She picked up my laundry basket and headed for the kitchen.

I started to jump.

“Diane!” Warningly from the dining room.

Geeze. That woman was everywhere!

This time, I waited until I heard her doing things to the wringer-washer in the kitchen.

On the second bounce . . . “Diane!”

Okay, that was freaky.

I heard the washer go on. Ha! No way could she hear me now!

I bounced a really, really big bounce.

The biggest bounce of my very short career.

And bounced my nose right into the metal headboard.

Crunch.

You know that pause between the thump and the wail?

It takes that long to discover that one has been injured.

That said injuries hurt.

And to draw a great, big breath.

“Waaaahhhhh!”

Mom was there in a heartbeat.

Holding a cloth to a nose that was streaming blood.

Both from the business end.

And from the bridge, where it had been broken.

I have the scar, still.

There is a moral . . .

When Mom tells you not to do such-and-such because you might get hurt?

Believe her.

Just FYI.

My Playground

My good friend Delores from The Feathered Nest issues a challenge every Wednesday.

In the form of six words.

It is a challenge.

But so much fun.

This weeks words? Feet, mud, diamonds, expensive, sharp and sliding

They brought back a memory . . .

Okay, at times, the river crept a little too near to the buildings . . .

The Stringam ranch was built on a flood plain. The south fork of the Milk River curled around the home place, promising life . . . and the occasional adventure.

The summers of my childhood were spent on that river.

Perfect memories . . .

Sun baking down from a hot, blue sky.

Puffs of cloud.

My siblings and I with our feet deep in the cool mud.

Squishing it between our toes.

Hunting frogs and snakes among the reeds.

Trapping unwary minnows in the shallows.

Sliding down the river bank and into the murky, brown water.

Racing home at sunset because Mom was sure to have something special just coming out of the oven.

Idyllic days.

Oh, we had the occasional mishap.

Little sister nearly drowning.

Our friend Joanne stepping on something sharp and cutting her foot open six ways to Sunday.

But the good times far outweighed the bad.

I see ads now, offering expensive cars.

Electronics.

Cosmetics.

Diamonds and jewelry.

All promising the ultimate in happiness.

And I would trade any of them for just one more day on the river.

With my feet in the mud.

Randy and Art Class. And Me.

Artistic: fourth from the right, top row.
Un-artistic: fourth from the right, second row.

Grade three art class.

So much fun with so many things artistic.

None of them me.

I’m not sure, but I think when artistic ability was handed out in Heaven, I was outside.

Doing something else.

Or if I was there, my ability was poured in with a teaspoon and someone jiggled Heavenly Father’s elbow.

Moving on . . .

Others in my class were gifted with a bit more.

Quite a bit more.

One boy in particular was amazing.

And it was to Randy that I looked whenever a new assignment was handed out.

He never let me down.

We were in grade three, and had been given large pieces of paper and paints and instructed to paint a tree, I immediately turned to see what he did.

And how he did it.

He started with a graceful, fluid line of brown from the bottom of the page to the top.

I dipped my brush in my brown paint.

And made a streak.

That’s all. A streak. Heavy. Clumsy.

And distinctly un-graceful.

Sigh.

I tried to fix it.

It became an ungraceful streak that . . . thickened.

My teacher asked me, kindly, if I’d like to start again. I received my new piece of paper with relief bordering on giddiness.

And proceeded to do the same thing.

Oh, I did produce a tree.

But I had to label it so others would know.

Another time, we were given pictures to colour with our new pressed-wax crayons, and I fared better.

Again, I craned my neck to see what Randy would do.

His Santa picture was coloured heavily, completely filling in the spaces.

No white specks showing at all.

I tried to copy his technique.

But without his results.

Oh, I managed to stay within the lines. And it even turned out . . . acceptable.

But it just didn’t have the flare – the snap – that Randy’s did.

But I was nothing, if not persistent.

Every picture from then on was coloured with great intent. A lot of crayon.

And Randy’s technique.

But with equally disappointing results.

Then, a few months later, Randy changed things up.

For this newest colouring project, he outlined each space heavily, then proceeded to fill in lightly.

I could almost feel my mother’s relief as requests for new boxes of crayons . . . diminished. In fact, I think my current box and Randy’s new method actually lasted me through the end of the year.

Progress!

I kept on trying. And sometimes, was actually satisfied with my efforts.

But, by the end of grade three, I had realized something.

When it comes to things artistic:

Some do.

Others appreciate.

I’m definitely in the second category.

And I’m happy there.

Raising Little Heroes

A re-post. Because I'm in a puppy mood . . .

A 'Cute' of puppies

For over 35 years, we have raised Old English Sheepdogs.

I love them.

To me, they are the perfect breed.

Happy, loyal, smart, easily trained, friendly, protective, gentle.

All of the best qualities of DOG writ large.

And hairy.

We have had many, many experiences with our puppies and dogs over the years, but one stands out . . .

A family came to look at our newest batch of puppies.

Now, I should explain here that a litter of OES puppies is called a 'cute' of puppies.

True story.

Moving on . . .

This family had a six-year-old boy and a fifteen-month-old girl.

The dog was for the boy, who was suffering from a severe illness.

A puppy was chosen.

By the very scientific method of sitting in the 'cute' and seeing which puppy climbed up into his lap.

Everyone was happy.

They left.

I thought of them from time to time, as I did all of my puppy families.

Then I got a phone call.

From the tearful, almost incoherent mother.

My heart stopped.

Until I realized that what she was crying were tears of joy.

Here is how she told it to me, with a little background added . . .

The family lived on the shore of one of the small lakes that are so plentiful here in northern Alberta. Their house was nestled in the thick trees surrounding the water.

Their yard opened directly out onto the beach.

A beautiful, picturesque spot.

But also dangerous to small children who might wander out into the cold (Canada has no other kind) water or become lost in the thick forest.

They were very careful.

Gates were kept locked at all times.

Back to the mother's story . . .

Originally purchased for their son, the little pup bonded, quickly and completely, with the little girl.

The two of them became inseparable.

Four months passed.

One summer day (we do get them in Canada, occasionally), the mother was in the front yard, filling the wading pool for her daughter who was playing in the back yard with the puppy, now six months old.

And already huge.

The puppy, that is.

Suddenly, the mother was startled by a loud scream.

She dropped the hose and broke records running to the back yard.

As she turned the corner, she skidded to a stop.

Someone had left the back gate, the entrance to all things dangerous, open.

And her baby was standing in that opening.

Or more accurately, struggling-to-move-forward, in that opening.

And screaming at the top of her lungs.

Directly behind her, teeth locked into her diaper and backside planted firmly on the ground, was the puppy.

Those teeth and that diaper were all that was stopping her from heading where she wanted.

Into the great unknown.

She wasn't happy.

The mother quickly ran to her daughter and picked her up, relieving the puppy of his self-appointed task.

The dog wiggled happily (normal OES behaviour) and, when the mother set her baby down once more, the two of them trotted off to another corner of the yard to play.

Crisis over.

Everything forgotten.

By the two most active participants, anyways.

It took the mother a bit longer.

For some seconds, she stood there in the open gate, thinking about what she had just witnessed.

For one thing, how had the gate, so assiduously (real word) kept locked, been left open?

And, more importantly, how had that six-month-old puppy known that his friend should not, ever, leave the yard alone?

And how had he figured out what to do, just in time?

That's when the tears started.

Later, when she had calmed some and her baby was napping, she called me.

It was a wonderful story.

After we had stopped crying.

Needless to say, that puppy became the pride and joy of his family.

And ours.

My Vice

I‘m a gum chewer.

I admit it.

I’ve been like this since always.

Gum and I even have a history. If you want to go and read it now, we’ll wait . . .

I once chewed a piece of gum till it disintegrated.

I’m not making this up.

It takes a while, weeks even; one has to be determined.

But it can be done.

So I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to you that, through the years in Alberta’s non-chewing houses of learning, gum has gotten me into trouble.

Often.

Sigh.

It started right in the first grade.

“Diane!”

Picture my head snapping up as everything I have ever known disappears instantly and completely from my brain.
Something that happened every time a teacher called my name, for whatever reason.

All the way through college.

Moving on . . .

“What have you got in your mouth? Are you chewing gum?”

Frozen ‘deer in the headlights’ stare.

“You are, aren’t you?! You’re chewing gum!”

Slow, tentative nod.

“Get rid of it!”

At this point, the teacher would usually produce a trash can and hold it up suggestively, indicating that I should make the long, embarrassing trek from my desk to hers to spit out the offending bit of deliciousness.

Which I did.

As I got older, to save myself that final indignity, I would simply swallow the evidence as soon as I was discovered.

“Diane! Are you chewing gum?!”

Gulp.

“Did you swallow it? You did, didn’t you?!” Then, warningly, “It’ll stick your stomach together!”

Did any of this discourage me?

Yes.

Did it stop me?

No.

Then high school and Mrs. Wollersheim, that teacher of teachers.

That paragon of wisdom.

The smartest woman I ever knew.

“Diane! Are you chewing gum?”

Rats.

Mrs. W turned to the class. “Class, do you know the difference between the gum-chewing girl and the cud-chewing cow?”

Huh. Something different. Maybe I’d finally found a teacher who didn’t mind . . .

“It’s the thoughtful look on the face of the cow!”

I guess not.

“Diane! Get rid of it!”

I had already done so, but I nodded anyway.

After that, all she had to do was look at me and I would do a quick and frantic check to see if any gum was loitering somewhere in the vicinity.

But it didn’t stop me.

Nothing stopped me.

As I type this, I‘m working on yet another piece.

When I’m onto something good. I stick with it.

Pun intended.

Sisters. Sigh.

The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.

Our youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) is a tiny little thing.

Not walking yet, she scurries using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.

Hands and knees.

At eleven months old, she can sure get around.

Her favourite toy/workout apparatus is a rocking moose.

One of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.

(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)

If BG isn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she can be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.

And she’s more than a little possessive.

Something only recently discovered.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.

Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)

I should mention here that said older sister has waist-length hair.

This will be important later.

Moving on . . .

BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.

Hey!

She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.

Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.

Then she pulled.

“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.

BG pulled again.

“Mom! She’s got me!”

BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.

Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.

Then she turned and grinned at her sister.

A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.

Did I mention that she’s eleven months old?!

I predict she’ll be CEO of a major company by the time she’s two.

Stay tuned . . .

To the Fathers in My Life

To the wonderful fathers in my life. First my Dad, then my Husby.
And now my brothers and sons.
I love you all!
As a tribute, two of my favourite stories . . .
You know me. What else would I do? :)

Bunnies To Church

What do you wear to Church?

As a rancher, during the work week, Dad was usually seen in work shirts and pants.
Heavy boots.
Leather gloves.
But on Sundays, all of that changed.
He would appear, dignified and tidy, in 'church' attire.
Suit.
White shirt.
Polished boots.
And a tie.
Usually, Dad chose his own ties.
He had good taste.
Well . . . conservative taste.
No garish patterns.
No fluorescent colours.
Yep. Conservative.
But one of his ties stands out in my memory.
One that . . . wasn't conservative.
It was a quiet, dark tie.
With tiny, white polka-dots.
His favourite.
He wore it for three years.
And that is hilarious.
Maybe I should explain . . .
One day, just after church, I was giving my dad a hug.
Something I did often.
But now I was getting tall enough that his tie and my eyes were pretty much on the same level.
I buried my face in his clean, white shirt.
Then I opened my eyes.
And saw . . . dots.
No . . . wait . . . they weren't dots.
They were . . . something else.
I grabbed his tie and examined it closely.
Huh.
“Dad, do you know what's on this tie?”
“Polka-dots,” came the ready answer.
I lifted the end of the tie up to his face and held it there.
He looked. Then took the tie from me and looked again a bit more carefully. “Oh,” he said.
That tie he had been wearing for the past three years, teaching and/or officiating in church before lots and lots of people.
That tie.
Well, the tiny, regular pattern?
Wasn't polka-dots.
No.
It was playboy bunny heads.
Tiny little white playboy bunny heads.
My dad had been a leader in our local church congregation for three years . . .
Wearing a tie with playboy bunny heads on it.
See? Hilarious.
I think he thought it was funny, too.
But the tie disappeared.
Never to be seen again. (I recently discovered that my brother, George, latched onto it and has it safely stashed.)

Dad still has quite a collection of ties.
Long.
Cork.
Bow.
Feather.
Bolo.
But not one of them has polka dots.
Real or imagined.

Eyes, Ears, Mouth and Nose

My Sweetie and . . . Me

Newly married.What a wonderful time.
A time of love. Friendship. Companionship.
A time of discovering for the first time that one has a true and forever friend. Someone to be with.
Always.
It's magical.
Then, too, it is the time to discover those oh-so-human frailties that we have tried so very hard to keep from our sweethearts.
And finally have to admit to owning.
Everyone has bodily functions. Get over it.
My husband and I had been married for a couple of weeks.
On this particular morning, he had risen early and disappeared into the bathroom.
I had stayed where I was. Warm and comfy and still deliciously drowsy.
Soon the door opened and my new husband emerged, but not looking as he had when he went in.
He had blown his nose, while attending to other necessities, and given himself a nosebleed.
Easily fixed. Just stuff a Kleenex into his left nostril.
Oh. He had discovered a pimple in his right ear. Quickly disposed of. And another Kleenex inserted to blot up any discharge.
Now, back to bed to snuggle with his new wife.
I stared at this apparition who was approaching my bed. It looked like my husband. But it had white tissues issuing from nose and ear. Could it possibly be . . .? I braced myself up on one arm. "Is that one Kleenex?" (Hand gestures to suggest pulling something which had been run into the head through the ear and now protruded from the nostril.)
"Harrumph!"
"Was that a 'harrumph'?"
With a glare, he spun around, headed back into the bathroom and firmly closed door.
He never answered my question . . .

Hay Seed Holidays

Getting ready for the LONG trip . . .

It was the late 1950’s and Dad was in Toronto.

With 15 friends.

Twelve hairy chaps with four feet each.

And three not-so-hairy fellows who were . . . more like Dad.

Intrigued? Stay with me . . .

During the 50s, the government had programs encouraging people to raise bigger and better cattle. They even sponsored ranchers who were interested in hauling a few of their best cattle to agricultural shows around the country. They reasoned that said ranchers, eager for some first-place ribbons, would selectively breed bigger and better animals.

It worked.

Ranchers arrived at shows with trailer loads of their very best animals, hoping for a trophy or two and some recognition.

And that was what had brought Dad to Toronto. He and young friends Mike, Leroy and Patrick had driven from Alberta, carting a ‘carload’ (twelve steers) halfway across the country to the agricultural show there.

They learned a few things.

Some of which were unexpected.

Maybe I should explain . . .

The four friends arrived with several days to spare.

After unloading and settling their stock, they found they had time for some sight-seeing.

And the great Niagara was where they wanted to do it.

Renting a car, the four of them set out, touring, first the Canadian side of the falls, then crossing over the border to the American.

After several hours of ‘tourist-ing’, they decided that the next item on the agenda should probably include some sort of sustenance.

They began to scout around for a likely place.

And discovered that the restaurants nestled close around the falls were of the ‘posh’ variety.

Uh-oh.

Now these boys were all from the ranches of Southern Alberta. They were good boys. Polite. Respectful.

They just hadn’t been out and about much.

And never had any of them eaten at such high-class establishments.

They wandered around a bit, looking for a place where four young men – clean, but with calloused hands and traces of real manure on their boots - wouldn’t feel quite so out of place.

Finally, they picked a likely-looking prospect and walked in.

And discovered that the quiet exterior was slightly misleading.

This restaurant was definitely of the five-star variety.

Taking a collective deep breath, they hailed the Maitre’D and secured a table. Then further hiding their discomfort, proceeded to order, trying to sound as blasé about their surroundings at the other patrons appeared to be.

They did well.

Until Patrick was asked how he’d like his potatoes prepared.

“Smashed,” he said clearly.

The waiter stared at him. Finally, “Smashed?” he said.

“Smashed,” Patrick repeated.

The waiter nodded and, making a careful note on his pad, collected the menus and disappeared into the kitchen.

Leroy punched Patrick in the arm. “Smashed?” he said.

Patrick started to giggle.

Leroy joined him.

Then Mike.

All of their pent-up nervousness and discomfort burst out of the three of them in a joyous bubble of sound.

That they vainly tried to suppress.

This went on for some time. One of them would nearly gain control. Then look at the others and start again.

Ever try not to laugh? Seriously. In church or school or somewhere people aren’t supposed to laugh?

Yeah. It’s impossible.

Certainly it was for them.

Before long, the four friends were the cynosure (real word) of all eyes. And that just made them more nervous.

And less able to control their laughter.

They managed to make it through their painful meal.

Paid and finally escaped.

Oddly enough, none of them can remember what they ate. Apart from the smashed potatoes, of course.

But each of them learned a few things.

1.       When in ‘Rome’, act as the Romans do.

2.       When in ‘Rome’, speak as the Romans do.

3.       Avoid potatoes in public.

4.       Don’t laugh.

Yeah. It seems so simple.

My Medical 'Break'through

Some of our blessings.
Caution: Lift with care.

I’ve been fairly active all my life.

And I have the scars to prove it.

I had all the usual bumps and bruises learning to walk as a baby.

Climbed and fell off of numerous fences, buildings, and assorted furniture.

Got trampled by an angry mama cow in the barnyard and got a flattened right boot.

Tried to fly using mom’s circular clothesline and almost bit my tongue right through.

Took a high-flier off my brother’s horse and landed on my face, resulting in impressive scratches and bruises.

Got a faceful of hoof from the same horse moments later.

Had an altercation with the arm of the armchair in my parents’ front room which resulted in one remarkable eyebrow.

Tore a twenty-two-inch groove in my leg from ankle to thigh, when I fell headfirst over the barbed-wire fence I was trying to cross.

Nearly lost my right hand in a cattle headgate.

Put all of my lower teeth through my lip when I got head-butted by an angry mama cow whose calf I was sitting on at the time.

And these were just injuries incurred in the course of growing up on a ranch.

I also sprained each ankle numerous times playing basketball, volleyball or baseball.

Sprained every single finger at least once – ditto.

Broke a wrist doing a celebratory leap.

Wrecked a knee running marathons.

Wrenched shoulders.

Sprained backs.

Twisted necks.

My purpose in telling you all of this is not so you will think I’m tough.

Or superwoman.

But because I don’t want you to think I give up easily.

That I can take pain and carry on.

But recently, I’ve developed a new injury.

Something I’ve never had before.

And I’m really struggling with it.

I went to the doctor complaining of pain in my elbow.

You heard me correctly.

My elbow.

She examined the offending joint. Worked it around. Hemmed and hawed. “You have tennis elbow,” she said decisively, moments later.

“Tennis elbow? How on earth did I get that?!” Since the knee injury, my sports participation has been strictly limited to laps of the pool.

And the occasional bike ride.

I’ve never even picked up a tennis racket.

“Well . . . golf elbow, then.”

Golf?! “Umm, that’s a game, right?”

She stared at me. “Well, what activities do you do?” she asked.

I frowned. “Swim. Bike. Play with my grandkids.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Grandkids?”

I nodded.

She smiled. “Do you lift said grandkids?”

I scratched my head. “Ye-es,” I said slowly.

“A lot?”

“Well, two of them live with me and one I babysit every day.”

She nodded, once more crisply confident. “That’s it, then.”

“What?” I was confused.

“I’m sure that the pain in your elbow can be directly attributed to the constant lifting of small bodies.” (Doctors talk like that . . .)

“I have . . . toddler elbow?”

She smiled. “In a word.”

Huh.

It’ll never be discussed in ‘Sports Illustrated’.

Never be the topic of concern for professional athletes.

But it’s real.

Toddler elbow.

To be found at a many grandparents’ houses near you.

You heard it here first.

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.