My Best Holiday

Vacationing in style.

It was the trip to end all trips.
Disneyland.
That magical place that only existed in my dreams.
And I was going there.
My Dad had come up with the plan, mostly because we had been everywhere else on the western half of the continent.
We kids were . . . ummm . . . a bit enthusiastic.
And we were going over Christmas, so none of that pesky waiting for Christmas morning. Instead, we took care of all of that days earlier.
We handed over the reins of ranch management to a young couple, packed up the truck and camper (nothing but first class here!) and headed out.
At first, singing and talking about the wonderful and exciting experiences that were before us, sufficed to keep us entertained. Then book reading, desultory (real word) conversation and looking out the window.
By the way, looking out the window was my Mom's favorite pastime on our car trips.
Mom was decidedly predictable.
Kind of like my car sickness.
But that is another story . . .
Christmas day was . . . different.
We couldn't find a Denny's anywhere.
And no other restaurants were open.
None.
Dad finally found what could only be deemed a 'Greasy Spoon' or 'Dive' and we ate surprisingly good burgers and fries.
For Christmas dinner.
Memorable.
Then we were again on the road.
As we drove further and further south, the weather grew noticeably warmer. Slowly, layers of clothing were shed. By the time we reached Los Angeles, we were down to just one layer. (Unless you count our underwear. Which I do.)
How freeing.
We stopped at Marineland.
And Knotts Berry Farm
And Hurst Castle. Which I loved and where I would gladly have taken up residence.
Except that the guards found me.
Guards definitely don't have a sense of humor.
Or paternal instincts.
Moving on . . .
Then, finally, Disneyland.
Dad managed to find a parking spot at the outer rim of the lot, quite near Canada, actually, and we trudged with purpose towards . . . the Great Gates.
The doorway to magic land.
The entrance to dream world.
Access to . . .
You get the picture.
At that point in time, one did not buy a 'pass'. That would have been . . . convenient.
Instead, we all got coupon books.
There was a section of 'first run' attractions. A section with 'lesser', but almost as popular. And several sections after that.
The 'Haunted Mansion' had just opened.
Need I say more?
The only problem was that this was the first sunny day in Los Angeles for several weeks.
And the entire population of the planet had suddenly decided that Disneyland was the place to be.
We had to share our magical world with 70,000 other people.
Sigh.
The line-ups were so long that choosing which ride to go on was not a matter of which was the most exciting, but which was the most available.
My brother and I stood for 3 hours to see the Haunted Mansion. The entire afternoon.
Oh, it was definitely worth it, even though George refused to go in the same car with me and I had to be frightened out of my wits all by myself.
For some reason, he had a problem with me wrapping my arms around his neck and screaming into his ear.
Brothers are weird.
After that, things are rather a blur.
I remember seeing Lincoln giving an address.
The real Lincoln. Somehow, Disney had convinced him to come out of retirement (re: death) and perform for us.
We went on a few 'ride' rides that didn't have enormous lineups.
And, at sundown, went for a romantic ride on the Mark Twain riverboat.
Yes, I'm sure the sign said 'romantic'.
I was, again, with George.
Who told me to stay on my side of the boat. Okay, so, what did he think I was going to do? Cuddle up to him and coo in his ear like all of the other people were doing?
Ewwww!
I remember eating a lot.
But then, I always remember the food.
And I remember thinking it was the best day of my life.
We only had one day there, but there were no complaints because Dad then took us to San Francisco and we got to ride the trolley car and tramp around Alcatraz Island.
And I got a shirt that said 'Property of Alcatraz - Unlisted Number' which I thought was hilarious.
And then, home. Which was an adventure all by itself.
We hit high winds near Pocatello, Idaho that nearly tipped us over, so Dad and the rest of the family parked in a campground.
With the truck's nose facing into the wind to keep it from performing gymnastics.
And he put George and I on the bus home.
Apparently, the couple looking after the ranch had to leave.
Who listened?
All I knew was that I got to ride on a Greyhound.
Okay, it was with my brother, but why haggle over details?
It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

There is an addendum . . .
This summer, we were camping with our good friends and the topic of Disneyland came up.
They've been several times.
I described my own experience.
They stared at me in disbelief. "You mean you only got to go to one major attraction?!"
I described the circumstances again.
More incredulity (another real word). "You drove all that way and hardly got to do anything?!"
And for the first time, I thought about that.
Huh. We had only gone on one main ride. We had wandered round the place and seen a lot of other people going on other rides. We had eaten treats and watched exciting things.
And it had been a very long drive.
Nope, it was still worth it.
The best holiday, ever!

Happy Birthday, My Canada

First, a little background: Canada Day is the national day of Canada, a federal statutory holiday celebrating the anniversary of the July 1, 1867, enactment of the British North America Act, 1867 (today called the Constitution Act, 1867), which united three colonies into a single country called Canada within the British Empire. Originally called Dominion Day , the holiday was renamed in 1982, the year the Canada Act was passed. Canada Day observances take place throughout Canada as well as among Canadians internationally.

Now, on with my story . . .

Saturday, July 1, 1967.

My Grade seven teacher had been harping on endlessly about this important date.

Something about it being Canada’s Centennial.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Canada.

And had celebrated her July 1 birthday with great enthusiasm for each of my 12 years.

I just didn’t see what made this particular birthday so important. Centennial? What did that mean?

Okay, maybe I was just a bit stuck inside my own world . . .

But I was more than willing to go to choir practice to perfect our renditions of ‘Oh Canada!’ and ‘God Save the Queen’.

And excitedly discuss the day’s planned activities with my friends.

And anticipate a holiday, even though it didn’t include missing school.

The day dawned, clear and bright.

And my family wandered over to the newly-erected ‘cairn’ down by the Milk River.

Flags were flying.

And grinning, happy people were beginning to gather.

Lots of people.

I excitedly greeted my friends as they arrived.

Finally came the time for us to assemble on some risers set up near the cairn.

There was clapping and excitement.

We sang. 

To further applause.

And not a few tears.

And then, the speeches.

And, suddenly, I realized what it was that everyone was emotional about.

My country, this country that I loved, was 100 years old.

100.

Wow.

That was significant.

And I was a part of it.

It was 46 years ago.

Today, my country is 146 years old.

Happy Birthday, my beloved Canada.

All Too Human

Fellow Cookie Lovers

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

Dixie Cup Summer

Summer. Say ahhhh!

It’s summer time in Northern Alberta.

The snow is finally gone. (It’s nearly July. No self-respecting snow bank would dare stay past the middle of June.)

And the people have emerged into the glorious, life-giving sunshine.

That’s exactly what we were doing yesterday.

Emerging.

It was the final day of school for three of my grandkids and celebrations were in order.

A school picnic with friends and family on the school grounds.

We talked and laughed and reminisced about the past year.

Ate hot dogs and bags of chips and drank small containers of chocolate milk.

And then they brought out the Dixie ice cream cups.

My daughter handed me one to feed my granddaughter, seated on my lap.

I pulled off the cardboard lid and, just for a moment, I was remembering all of the times in my childhood that celebrations ended with those little servings of creamy deliciousness.

In a paper cup.

With a small, wooden spoon.

Special school events when I had finished eating whatever Mom had packed in my lunch kit.

And the teacher brought out the large box of little cups with the long strip of paper-packaged wooden spoons.

Church socials when my tummy was groaning with all of the good things I had just stuffed into it and I was sure I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.

Until the Dixie cups showed up.

Family reunions.

Track Meets.

Cattle tours.

All of them ended with those little paper cups of cool, creamy, delicious ice cream.

I looked down at the cup in my hand. White. Vanilla. Just starting to melt around the sides.

Perfect.

I took the little wooden paddle and dug in, then handed it to my granddaughter.

I know what you’re thinking and no, I didn’t take the first bite myself.

Though I wanted to . . .

The slightly rough feel of the wooden spoon on your tongue.

The sweet cream melting and filling your entire being with joy.

The bottom being just slightly too near the top.

Sigh.

That occasional ecstatic moment when a second round appears.

Perfection.

Oh, there were differences.

The cup I held was plastic, as opposed to the light cardboard that used to be.

And the little wooden spoon was mostly a paddle with no distinct ‘business’ end.

And the product inside didn’t have quite the ‘cream’ that I remember from my childhood.

But still, it was delicious. (Yes, I did finally sneak a taste.)

And satisfying.

And memory-dredging.

And when the man came around and offered us two more?

Heaven.

I Love My Life

It's time, once again, to use Wednesday's Words, graciously supplied by my good friend, Delores from The Feathered Nest.
This week's words?

graduate, fancy, ruler, swinging, penchant, flag

Today, I feel like poetry . . .

My Life

Sometimes I like to speculate

My penchant to be all things great . . .

A Ruler sitting there in state,

My food served on expensive plate.

To nod as people remonstrate,

And wave as children graduate.

Have fancy clothes to duplicate,

And flags that wave as people wait . . .

But such is not to be my fate.

I have no life to complicate,

No strangers to accommodate.

Instead, I can collaborate

With those whom I proliferate.

And so, if I hallucinate,

While swinging on a rusty gate,

With kids in age from one to eight,

Please know, I LOVE MY LIFE. IT'S GREAT!

Feeding Mark

Mark and some of his family. Feeding the next generation . . .

It only ever happened once.

But I’ll remember it forever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I raised six children.

Four of them, sons.

They are, all of them, tall people.

Ranging in height from just under six feet to six foot, eight inches.

They were, all of them, big eaters.

And that’s where my story starts.

My oldest boy, Mark, ate like a bird. And by that, I mean he consumed his weight in food every. Single. Day.

His next brother, Erik, wasn’t far behind.

We used to joke that we simply gave each of them a trough and a shovel.

And watched the food magically disappear.

The two of them easily ate as much as the rest of the family combined.

It’s true.

In fact, when Mark moved out, our food bill was cut in half.

When Erik moved out, ditto.

But back to that day . . .

It was a coupon day at the local McD’s. Two-for-one.

My Husby (a coupon collector extraordinaire) had managed to hoard a mittful of the colourful, valuable bits of paper.

We loaded the kids into the car for a rare, but fun, family treat.

And we were off.

Feeling distinctly magnanimous, we told the kids to order what they liked.

And Mark did.

His order? Four Big Macs. Two large orders of fries. Two large drinks. And four apple pies.

Did he eat them?

He did.

And, swallowing the last bite of apple pie, he turned to me and said something I’d never heard.

Before or since.

“I’m full.”

Wow.

I stared at him. Had I heard correctly?

He nodded and patted his stomach.

Who says miracles no longer happen?!

There is a little addendum:

As we were leaving the restaurant, I had linked arms with each of my tall eldest sons. We were laughing about something that one of them said. Full and happy.

A woman seated near the doors looked up and smiled. “I just love seeing brothers and sisters such good friends!” she said. “It’s inspiring!”

We smiled back and thanked her, not bothering to explain that one of those ‘siblings’ was, in fact, the mom.

A good day on so many levels.

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 . . .