Newly-Weds

Another of my Dad's favourite stories.
And, who knows . . . maybe it happened . . .?

Newly-Weds

They’d been married one week, plus a day,

Sylvester and his good wife, May.

And May thought she should mark the date,

With something special for her mate.

A chicken dinner was her plan

She dug out pot and frying pan,

Consulted her mom’s recipes,

For gastronomic ecstasies.

All afternoon, she cooked and stirred,

By her love for her Sylvester, spurred,

At last she had the table set,

With goodies from her kitchenette.

She heard his step upon the stair,

And quickly pulled him to his chair,

He saw the things that she had done

And gently hugged his Honey-bun.

They ate enthusiastically,

Of fluffy spuds and buttered peas,

And other dishes by the score,

Each one, another to adore.

But when the crowning dish arrived,

So very prettily contrived,

He carved, and laid the pieces down,

And poured out fine, rich gravy; brown.

Then the anticipated taste,

And, suddenly, his smile displaced.

“My dear,” he said, with quite a sniff,

“What did you stuff the chicken with?”

She smiled upon him brilliantly,

Then sighed and answered blissfully,

“That part, I didn’t have to follow,

For the chicken wasn’t hollow!”

Big Brother

Yesterday was my brother, George's, 60th birthday.
This needs commemorating!

Then

My big brother, George, and I are two years and four days apart.
When I was born, he wasn't quite ready to have a younger sibling. But, eventually, he accepted me.
It only took fourteen years for us to become best friends.
In our early days, George and I mostly avoided one another. Whenever we tried to play together, we inevitably ended up fighting. Usually the fights were over who started the fights, but why quibble over details?
Fortunately, living on the ranch, there were numerous other opportunities for mischief than playing with siblings.
George had his things mechanical, I had horses.
It was a perfect world.

* * *

When I turned twelve, the magical world of 4-H opened up before me. Finally, I, too, could belong to that tantalizingly exclusive club that my older sister and brothers all enjoyed. I, too could choose a calf and raise it for a year. And go on tours. And calf-club meetings.
Life just didn't get any better.
Dad brought in a group of weanling calves for us to choose from. I instantly decided on the little red-and white-one. No, that little red-and-white one. There. The one next to the other little red-and-white one.
Okay, so they were all red-and-white.
I finally made my choice and my calf, along with my siblings' calves, was shut into a special pen.
For the first day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't stop looking at my calf. He was perfect! He was going to be a champion.
He was mine!
I watched as George hauled feed into the pen, both morning and evening.
This was exciting! This was fun!
He offered to let me carry the pail.
This was . . . work!
And I think that was the last time, ever, that I fed my own calf.
If it weren't for steady, reliable George, all of my 4-H calves would have starved to death.
And, oddly enough, he never complained.

* * *

Fourteen! I was finally able to attend my first dance!
George drove us there.
I think I danced twice. (One was 'Hey Jude', the customary and interminable last song, which one would inevitably end up dancing with someone who smelled funny.)
After the dance, George and I stayed in the kitchen and talked until four am.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
After that, we spent hours every day, just talking. Movies, books, friends, dates, music. The topics were endless and interesting.
And fun.
We never seemed to run out of things to discuss.
Which of my girlfriends had a crush on him this week.
School. (Miss Mueller, my English teacher loved my brother, but hated me. Go figure . . .)
Dating. When I turned 16, this was a new and wondrous world for me. George guided me through some of the pitfalls and heartbreaks. Once, when my date abandoned me for another girl at a dance, George provided a ride home. And a shoulder.
He got me through.

* * *

In his twenties, George decided to travel down another road. In black leather, long hair and a beard. And on a Harley.

Still then

He was still my beloved brother. Just a bit . . . scarier to look at.
Once when he was coming for a promised visit, my second son Erik, then six, waited up to greet him. When this long-haired man appeared, Erik took one look and fled down the stairs to his bed.
It was very shortly afterwards that George asked me to give him a haircut.
And not long after that when he decided that he needed to settle down.
For many years, he had struggled with relationships and church attendance/standards. Then, just before he turned 50, he made some needed changes.
And then he met Mikenzie.
She, too had experienced hardships in her life. But, like George, she was ready for something . . . eternal.
I was a witness as the two of them, dressed in white, knelt at the altar and gave their vows to each other. And to God.
I couldn't help but think of my former long-haired, black-leather-clad brother as he took his new wife into his arms and kissed her.
And accepted her daughter as his own.
Forever.
Today, as always, George is busy, organized, and frightfully clean.
But perhaps for the first time in his life, he is buoyantly happy.
And that makes me happy.
Happy 60th, big brother.

Now, with Mikenzie

My 1984

Us. In 1984. Without the parkas.

Why do I remember the winter of 1984 so vividly?

It was, in a word, COLD.

But that isn’t the only reason.

It was also the one time in my life I was able to do something simple (but extraordinary) for someone else.

Let me explain . . .

Winter hit with a vengeance on the 12 of September.

You heard me right. The 12 of September.

Thermometers everywhere hit the bottom of the glass.

And stayed there.

When everyone should have been waffling between long pants for the cool mornings and evenings, and shorts and T’s for the hot midday, we were frantically scrambling through the storage to find heavy coats, toques, boots and mittens.

Turning up the thermostat.

And piling on more quilts.

I sent my little eskimos off to school each morning, muffled to the eyebrows.

If one happened to be standing on the sidewalk outside the school at the appropriate time, one could witness the advance of hundreds of little, round, heavily-padded, slow-moving creatures, intent on one destination.

It was like a scene out of a futuristic, post-apocalyptic movie.

When Halloween time rolled around, we had already endured six weeks of the cold snap.

I use the word ‘snap’ judiciously.

Because we were ready to . . .

Then, Halloween day.

Intent on getting to school for the exciting afternoon party, one little boy ran out from between two parked cars.

And was hit by a passing motorist.

His leg was badly broken.

After we had seen him safely carted off in the ambulance, we parents milled about uncertainly.

And hugged our own children a little tighter.

Trick-or-treating that evening was a little more subdued.

A tragedy had been narrowly averted.

And the shadow of it still hung over all of us.

Hitting the streets with the old treat bag was also sadly curtailed because of the weather.

It was just so blessed cold!

My Husby took our kids around the townhouse complex where we lived.

And stopped at that.

It was as much as our little trick-or-treaters could handle.

But we had remembered to do one thing.

And this is where the extraordinary part comes in . . .

In a highly unusual move for our family, we remembered to take an extra bag around for our little friend.

People, thinking of the sad little guy, were happy to pile in the treats.

The next day, we went to the hospital for a visit.

Toting along that extra bag.

I’ll never forget the scene.

Little man in a hospital bed, his leg in a cast and suspended above him.

His mother and little brother seated on chairs beside him.

Sleepless night written in all three faces.

And how those same three faces lit up when we presented the bag of treats.

The cold continued until Boxing Day.

And when it finally broke, it stayed that way through until spring.

That little spot of warmth the day after Halloween kept us going.

The winter of ’84.

Memorable in so many ways.

Muffy, Too

Muffy the First. With our eldest son, Mark

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.
We love them.
They come as little, furry puppies.
And turn into big, furry dogs.
Gentle. Affectionate. Protective.
Have I mentioned that we love them?
Several of our dogs stand out in my memory.
One is Muffy the Second.
Not to be confused with Muffy the First.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Muffy lived to eat.
And receive affection.
But mostly to eat.
Our youngest son, Tristan had an ice cream cone.
And an audience.
Muffy was sitting nearby, keeping what she hoped was anunobtrusive eye on his actions.
I should point out that in our house, the dogs weren't allowed anywhere near the dining room.
Tristan was in the living room.
The rules were a bit more blurry there . . .
He had taken a couple of licks.
With the third lick, his little scoop of ice cream vacated the cone and headed for the floor.
It never landed.
In a blur of motion, Muffy was across the room. She had that ice cream downed before Tristan had even realized he had lost it.
Tears ensued.
Tristan, not Muffy.
Another scoop, and all was well.
After Muffy had also been banned from the living room.
Sigh. People, make up your minds . . .
Another time, rawhide bones had been issued to all three dogs currently residing in the house.
They retreated to favourite corners to chew.
Or so it seemed.
Muffy was again keeping an unobtrusive (she was getting good at it) eye on the other two.
Biding her time.
When one of them got distracted, she would sneak in and snatch their bone.
Whereupon (good word) the offended party would look around in confusion, sigh and close their eyes for a nap.
Have I mentioned that they weren't always the brightest bulb in the chandelier?
Finally, Muffy had cornered all of the bones. Happily, she cradled them between her front legs and proceeded to chew, first one, then another.
But that is where her bliss ended.
Oh, not because the other two figured it out.
That would be stretching things.
No. Because the kids came home from school.
Now it was the usual scenario in the Tolley household, that the kids be met at the door by All. Three. Dogs.
They would jump around and make general nuisances of themselves in their excitement and enthusiasm.
The dogs, that is.
Ahem . . .
We heard the bus.
Panda and Chief headed for the door, wiggling happily.
I should also mention that an Old English Sheepdog has no tail. Thus, when excited, they wag their entire rear end.
Just FYI . . .
There was much wiggling and snuffling and vying for attention as eight kids came through the door.
And Muffy was missing it.
She whined and cried and fidgeted as she stood over her ill gotten gains, not wanting to leave them for fear of losing them, but sad to be missing all of the excitement.
Finally, it was too much for her.
In a flurry of movement, she joined the others.
Whereupon (that word again) the other two left the melee and dashed over to the bones, each snatching one and heading to their respective corners to resume their interrupted afternoon chew.
Maybe that was their plot all along.
Muffy finished greeting the kids and ran back to her spot.
To find just one bone.
She sighed and laid down.
But kept one eye on the other two.
And their bones.
Down, but definitely not defeated.

Weather Prophets

Ha! I KNEW it was going to snow!

“Look to the cows,” said Dad, the wise,
“And you will come to realize,
That by their actions, you can tell,
The weather patterns, fair or fell.”

And so I watched, and so I saw
That he was right, my smart ol' Pa.
And he knew what he talked about,
If you're predicting rain. Or drought.

The cows, they crowd together tight
And you know cold will be the night.
They seek the shed and shelter warm
If rain or snow will be the norm.

Then turn their tail and duck their head,
When wind is shrieking round the shed.
But stand out grazing peacefully,
If sun and warmth are meant to be.

But just today, I got a scare,
From cows around me everywhere,
For when I stepped outside my door
And glanced towards the purple moor . . .

(Oops, Alberta's where I live, you see,
And so I meant the wide prairie.)
My cows weren't where they're s'posed to be,
They sat on branches. In the trees.

So now I have to figure out,
Just what they're telling me about.

Our First Indictable Offence

The Victim

The question was innocent enough. “Daddy? How old were you when you started driving?”

The answer was anything but.

Innocent, that is.

Let’s leave Dad there for a moment while I explain something . . .

Okay, I know that, for most people, learning to drive begins at the ripe old age of 14.

In the farming and ranching community, however, it’s a tad different.

Farm and ranch kids start driving as soon as they can see over the dashboard.

Oh, never on real roads.

But in the fields, especially during seeding and harvest, they are needed.

Back to my question . . .

“Daddy?”

“I was ten,” he told me. “I learned how to drive when I was ten. And then I stole a car.”

Now there’s something you don’t hear every day. I stared at him. “Ummm . . . okay . . . details, please?”

He sighed and smiled. “My buddies, Bernard and DeVere, and I were walking home from school. Grade five.”

“I’m with you so far.” He had my total attention.

“And we were walking past DeVere’s house. And there, parked in the driveway, was DeVere’s dad’s car. A Model A Ford."

"With the keys inside.”

I should explain that people did that back in the thirties. Crime hadn’t been invented yet. Moving on . . .

“Bernard said, ‘Let’s take your dad’s car for a ride!’” Dad said. “At first, there was a bit of discussion.” He smiled. “DeVere didn’t think it was such a good idea.”

“Understandable.” I shook my head.

“But we talked him into it with: ‘we’ll only be a few minutes’ and ‘just around the block’. Things like that. Then we all piled in and I started the engine.”

“So you were the actual thief.”

“That’s what I said.” Dad grinned at me.

“Okay.”

“ ‘Let’s take turns!’ Bernard said. When he took over, DeVere suddenly sat up and said he’d forgotten something. We looked at him. Bernard said, ‘What did you forget?’ And DeVere said, ‘I forgot to stay home!’”

“We drove past my house and into the country and things went well for a few minutes. Then suddenly, DeVere pointed at a car coming toward us and shouted, ‘THAT’S UNCLE ALVIN!’ Sure enough, it was. His uncle stared at us as we drove past. ‘STOP!’ he bellowed. I guess this family always talks in exclamations. ‘WE HAVE TO GET HOME!’ DeVere hollered. “WE HAVE TO GET THERE BEFORE HE DOES!’ We did a quick turn and headed back to town, certain that Uncle Alvin was hot on our heels. But he wasn’t. We pulled into the drive, parked and got out. And never saw any sign of Uncle Alvin. Then or later.”

I stared at my Dad. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

He nodded.

“Oh.” I hate to say I was disappointed, but I was. Somehow, I was picturing sirens and heart-stopping chase-scenes and dust flying as cars made nearly impossible turns on sketchy country roads.

Then I thought of those three ten-year-old boys.

I guess this is better.

Soaking in the Spirituality

We were listening!

Hands on Spiritual training.

Really.

On Sundays our family regularly attended church.

For three hours.

It was divided into three sections.

Sacrament meeting, the most sacred.

Sunday School. The 'classroom' portion. 

And Relief Society.  The Women class.

The men also had their class, but who paid attention?

Moving on . . .

The class portions of our meetings were usually quite lively.

Sleep was impossible.

But the Sacrament portion, the most sacred meeting, featured speakers taken from the congregation.

Some were fantastic.

Some . . . weren't.

On those occasions, sleep was not only possible, but inevitable.

Distraction was needed.

Oh , nothing that would detract from the sacred spirit or nature of the meeting. Just something that would keep the hands busy, while freeing the mind to concentrate on the speaker.

At least that was the theory.

Some kids looked at picture books featuring the Saviour.

Some had picture books featuring other things, like animals.

Some had dry cereal fed to them. One cheerio at a time.

Some played quietly with toys.

The operative word there, was 'quietly'.

My brother and I drew.

Pictures.

We took turns.

I would draw something silly.

He would reciprocate.

We kept our giggles to a minimum. Mom had been known to snatch and stash our drawing equipment without warning.

But as long as we were quiet, she was satisfied that we were soaking in what needed to be soaked.

So to speak.

It got us through many a dry meeting.

And I think we still learned a few things . . .

Forward several years.

To my own children.

Who entertained themselves hugely with pencil and paper.

In Sacrament meeting.

They were a bit more creative than my brother and I had been . . .

Caitlin drew fantasy pictures of dragons and unicorns.

Tiana drew episodes of Intiana Jones, a tiny stick figure with a hat and whip.

And Erik reciprocated with installments of Superik.

Supposedly called sup-ERIK, but which his sister-in-law titled SUPER-ik.

I will admit, here, that the stories they created were not as spiritually uplifting as what was being said at the pulpit.

But often more entertaining.

What did they get from those meetings?

Well . . . they still attend.

With pad and pencil in one hand and their childrens' hand in the other.

But they are attending.

Spiritual training and umm . . . tradition, all in one package.

It's a good thing.

Superik to the rescue!

Dumb and Dumbest

I get nervous whenever I have to deal with anything official.

Or legal.

Like taxes.

Or crossing the border.

Call it a weakness.

Yesterday, my youngest daughter and I decided to go on a Mother/Daughter weekend.

Across the border into the United States.

It was the first time we had ever done anything like it.

We were . . . quite excited.

The weather was good. The roads excellent.

Everything was perfect.

Except that I was acting as navigator.

Ahem . . .

My daughter and I had been driving for a couple of hours.

It had been a pleasant trip so far. Talking. Laughing.

We approached the border crossing slowly.

I should explain, here, that the Canada/US border crossing is massive, with buildings and outbuildings and offices. The business portion  consists of several little booths, each with its own line, and a one border guard capacity.

How many of the little booths are manned depends on the volume of traffic.

We were crossing in the middle of the day.

On a Sunday.

There were only two booths open.

One for cars and smaller vehicles.

One for large trucks.

This fact will become pertinent in a moment . . .

I saw two green arrows.

One had a lineup of cars.

One was empty.

I’m all about getting through the border crossing quickly so I directed my daughter toward the empty line.

It was only after we stopped and looked way, way up at the border guard that I realized that I had guided us into the truck lane.

Oops.

The crossing guard was shaking her head in an 'I can't believe this is happening' sort of way.

She sighed. “Everyone out of the vehicle, passports in hand!” she said.

We quickly complied.

The two of us stood there, looking up at the guard as she started typing.

And typing.

Finally, she looked down at us. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“Edmonton,” my daughter said.

“Are you carrying any fresh fruit?”

“No.”

“Any guns or tobacco?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying anything that you will be leaving in the States?”

“No.”

“Where are you going?”

“Great Falls.”

And this is where she leaned down and fixed both of us with a steely gaze. “Do you think you can find it?” she asked.

Point taken.

Caught in the Act

Delores has done it again! From the far reaches of her vast intellect, she has presented us with this week's challenge.

And, surprisingly enough, one of the words IS a form of 'challenge'.

Apt.

Here we go:

challenges Honesty, carriage, flagrant, specific, mustard, grain

“This is a flagrant miscarriage of justice and I, for one, am not going to submit to it!” Reginald was flying high.

“And just what are you going to do about it, Marshmallow Boy?” the officer demanded. “I’m the one with the gun!” He narrowed his eyes threateningly. “And the badge.”

“You know nothing, my man. Nothing!”

The officer sucked in a deep breath and turned slightly pink.

Perhaps taking umbrage at being so titled? Oooo, I sound so smart.

“I’ll have you know that I know plenty, Tubby!” The officer stubbed a finger into the first button of Reginald’s vest.

“I know that you know,” Reginald said, drawing himself up as much as his girth, and soaking wet three-piece suit would allow. “And I just want you to know that I know that you know. You know.”

Okay, he was beginning to stammer.

The officer stared at him. “And just what do you know that I know?”

And the officer wasn’t much better.

“Oh you know. You know.”

And now Reginald had completely stopped making any sense.

“Ummmm . . . you have anything specific that you’re wanting to tell me?” The officer was obviously as perplexed as the rest of us. And starting to lose his patience.

Probably not a good thing when guns are involved.

“Sir!” Reginald glared down at the man, haughtily, said glare slightly denatured by the water trickling from his eyebrows. “If you had intelligence even the size of a grain of mustard, you wouldn’t be asking me that question!”

The officer looked even more confused. He blinked and scratched his ear with the barrel of his gun.

“I assure you that I am the soul of honesty,” Reginald stated firmly. “And that anything that happened here tonight was c-completely above b-board!”

Reginald was beginning to shiver. Not surprising considering the temperature was only a couple of degrees above freezing.

“Above board but slightly under the water?”

Okay, I had to admit that was a good one.

Reginald tossed the man a heated glare. Probably the only warmth he could muster.

“Look, Tubby,” the officer said. “Either you tell me why you’re swimming here in the lake, fully clothed, in freezing temperatures, disturbing these nice people and their party, or I’m hauling you in on suspicion.”

“S-s-suspicion of w-w-what?” Reginald managed through chattering teeth.

“Idiocy!” the officer barked.

Yup. The patience had worn through.

Drop by Delores' place and see what her other victims followers have produced!

A Good Thing

Family games - mischief made legal

On the ranch in the evenings, particularly the long, winter evenings, opportunities for entertainment were few.
If there wasn't anything on your one TV channel, you pretty much had to come up with your own.
Entertainment, I mean.
This meant music (the make-your-own variety), which we practised with more or less success.
Mostly less.
Reading.
My own personal favourite.
Having a drink with the hired men in the bunkhouse.
Probably the least recommended for us kids.
Or games and/or puzzles.
Usually we went with games and/or puzzles.
One didn't get a lecture from one's parents when one played games and/or puzzles . . .
We had several favourites.
Scrabble.
A word game which aimed for word construction creativity.
But only good for four of us six players.
Probe.
Another word game. This one, disclosure being the goal.
Boggle. (Or if we were feeling daring, Big Boggle.)
Another word game.
Huh. I just realized that we played a lot of word games.
And three of us ended up being writers.
Go figure . . .
Bridge.
A card game played by four players.
Unless you're from Southern Alberta.
Where it is played by forty tables of four players.
But that is another story . . .
Rook.
A card game resembling bridge and also played extensively in Southern Alberta. (Also known as 'Apostate Rook' if you played 'One High'. At least according to my husband.)
Rummoli.
Poker and sequence, all rolled into one happy package.
And finally, Monopoly.
The apex of games.
The ultimate in Stringam family fun.
And won, inevitably, by Jerry.
Not that he tried.
Or even appeared to try.
He hummed, sang, bounced his knee rhythmically, talked, told jokes and CLEANED OUR CLOCKS.
Almost every time.
Why did we keep on playing?
Good question.
Inevitably, I would end Monopoly with a tiny little hoard of cash, very tiny, clutched in one hand as I stared with dismay at my little shoe, parked firmly on Park Place or Boardwalk.
Each with their large, expensive hotel.
And each with Jerry's smiling face behind them.
I would hand over my little pile, along with the last of my properties, and quietly fade into the sunset.
And immediately challenge him to a rematch.
To which he happily complied.
Okay, I get it now.
It's just another example of the 'I'll get him next time!' mentality.
I never did.
Get him, I mean.
Moving on . . .
Puzzles posed a bit less competition.
A more relaxing way to spend time together.
Visiting was permitted. Even encouraged.
But minutes could go by with soft music playing in the background and not one word said.
Yep.
Relaxing.

Our family's evenings now consist of visiting or playing cards.
Or watching movies.
Not too different from those I experienced growing up.
Family time.
It's a good thing.

Writing More Betterly

A guest post by Diane’s chief proof-reader and editor:

Anonymous Husby-Figure

As all of you out there in blog-land know by now, my Beloved Diane likes to write. I for one think that she does it very well.  But – horrors! – sometimes she makes a mistake.

Some time ago, she appointed me to be her proof-reader/editor/fixer-upper by insisting that, although she really does proof-read her columns before she posts them, sometimes typos and grammos just slip in there and hide.

“Grammo” is the pet word I concocted for her very infrequent “grammatical” errors.

 Over the months, the most frequent of her infrequent grammos was the use of the wrong form of “its” or “it’s” as in: “Its simply not acceptable if it’s apostrophe is missing when its really needed  or present when its not.” 

So to speak.

So I do try to catch Diane’s  typos and grammos, because I do believe it makes for a better read not to have them in there, and I believe that it shows respect to you, her readers.

I do not claim to be a perfect writer, but I did learn early while chasing an elusive education the importance of being word-perfect.  So if you will indulge me, I will do as my Beloved does so well and regale you with the story of where my typo-grammo mania came from.

It was the early 1980s and I was in a graduate school senior seminar, learning French Revolution history and cultural anthropology from Dr. de Luna.  (His name of course is of French extraction, and we often heard about his relationship to the moon – “lune” in French.  Some of my classmates preferred to suggest that it was “loon”, others wondered whether there was a vampire connection, but most of us ended by irreverently, although affectionately,  referring to him as Professor De Lunatic.)  Now besides endless etymological meanderings about his name, Dr. De Luna liked to tell us, almost daily, about how any written work, as in papers and articles, that we gave him HAD TO BE WORD AND LETTER PERFECT.  A summary of his reasonings: “It is disrespectful of your reader if said reader stumbles over typos and grammos  WHICH ARE ENTIRELY AVOIDABLE because you MISGUIDED doctoral candidates were TOO LAZY to proof-read it.  Your work is therefore sub-standard because your miserably lame analysis and argument that you think is intelligent discourse is unreadable because your reader is distracted when  having to stop to figure out what it is that you MEANT to say when you made your typo  . . . . . “ 

I think you get the point.  We got the message, many many times over.

Not so lunatic, when you stop to think about it.

So, time came for us to present to the dear Professor our first major research papers; and, a few days later, time to hand the graded papers back and discuss them in seminar.

Dr. De Luna went around the room, handing each paper back to its (notice this is the right one!) author, each with some mostly encouraging commentary and all with some very vociferous praise for being letter-perfect in the typo and grammo department.

All but one paper – the one belonging to a good friend, Ostap.

Now you should know that Ostap had a great sense of humour, was actually a very good scholar, but he had not internalized the message about being word-perfect.  He just didn’t think it was all that important.  At least not yet.

We came to discover, by the Professor’s 10-minute+ recapitulation of the obviously degenerate if not criminal intent and nature of anyone who dared to hand in a paper IN THIS SEMINAR that was anything LESS than word perfect, once again how important this whole typo-grammo business was.

At the end of his lecture (not the one about the French Revolution), Dr. de Luna passed this last paper to Ostap, with a scowl and a stare, and asked: “So, Mr. Ostap, what do you think I should do about this sort of thing?  Hmmmmm!???”

Ostap quipped back without the blink of an eye:  “I think you should stop worrying about it so much!  You’ll enjoy life a lot more and live a lot longer!”

We weren’t sure how long Ostap was going to survive.

But he did, and went on to a bright future. 

But not as a writer.

Dr. De Luna retired shortly after.  We think it was because of a brain aneurysm.  Caused by the lodging of typos and grammos in the blood vessels of the brain . . . .

And so, my friends, I pledge to continue doing my best to save you from typos and grammos in my Beloved’s columns.

Its the least I can do.  (Oops!)

Mrs. Amazing

The important First-Day-Of-School (FDOS) has passed.

With its first-day outfits, hair dos, school supplies, shoes, and angst.

And pictures of the same.

And now we take stock.

To store away for the next FDOS . . .

My good friend, Betty (I do hope she doesn’t mind me calling her Betty!) has three kids of her own.

And she fosters babies.

Tiny ones.

I know. She’s my hero, too.

Her kids attend two different schools.

Neither within walking distance of their home.

Her FDOS takes planning: 

            1. Stay up till midnight, getting FDOS supplies sorted, labelled and stowed.

            2.Up at 6:00 AM.

            3. Shower and makeup.

            4. Babies (she has two) up and bathed and changed and fed.

            5. Kids up and dressed.

            6. Kids kitted out for FDOS.

            7. Kids in the car.

            8. Drop off kid #1.

            9. Drop off kid #2.

           10. Home again by 8:30.

           11. Have baby #2 ready for pick up by care worker at 8:32.

           12. And breathe.

See? Planning.

And she did it. All of it.

She’s supermom. Or the close earthly equivalent.

Feeling happily accomplished, she set her four-year-old to playing, parked baby #1 beside some toys and began to tidy the kitchen.

Then she opened the freezer.

And discovered the breakfast she had been going to feed her school kids.

No wonder she had managed to get everything done.

SHE HAD FORGOTTEN TO FEED HER FAMILY!!!

All sense of triumph drained away in an instant.

She felt horrible. She had sent her children to school with empty stomachs.

Okay, yes, they did have a good-sized morning snack.

And an even bigger lunch.

And throughout the summer, they had never wanted breakfast before 10:00 AM.

But still . . .

When Betty told me this story, we laughed.

Betty tells it well.

And hindsight is often really funny.

But it got me thinking. (I do that sometimes.)

About Betty’s to-do list for her FDOS.

And how she had done it. Almost.

It made me tired.

Yep. One breakfast out of the year forgotten . . .

I still think she’s amazing.

Wind

See?

Picture: www.wallpaperfo.com

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

A lot.

And usually from the west.

Invariably, it’s hot and dry in summer.

But in winter, you get a selection. Either it’s cold and penetrating; or warm and very, very melty (my word).

This second wind, known as a Chinook, comes in from the west without warning, forming a great arch in the overhead cloud cover and raising the temperature forty degrees in an hour.

The people who make Southern Alberta their home have learned to live with the wind.

What else can you do?

The kids adapt at a very early age.

Case in point . . .

I was five and in grade one. That magical time when everything is . . . magical.

It was winter.

A warm Chinook had blown in during morning classes.

And we had been sent outside for recess.

Not an unusual combination of events.

We ran about the playground, moving with the wind, or trying to make headway against it.

Or huddling close to the school when we had had enough.

And that was when it happened.

And it was Kathy who did it.

Now, I will admit that Kathy was a slender little stick of a kid.

Wiry and athletic and just a tad daring.

But still, her action was life-changing.

She stood out in the wind, unzipped her coat, held the sides out and . . . leaned over.

And the wind held her there!

I am not making this up.

It held her there. At an angle.

Like a kite.

Ooooooooh!

The rest of us had to try it.

We had more or less success.

For some of the heavier kids, the wind wasn’t – quite – strong enough.

For the smaller, a little too strong. It could actually lift them off their feet or roll them over backward.

But for those of us somewhere in the middle, it was remarkable.

You almost felt as though you were flying!

After that, no one zipped their coats shut during a Chinook.

Instead, you used said coats – and that wind – to blow yourself wherever you wanted to go.

Extraordinary!

And world-altering!

I could see Kathy’s invention of cloth and wind being used for amazing things.

Like . . . pushing great vehicles.

Oddly enough, when I told my parents, they were less than enthusiastic.

And not at all willing to take me and Kathy’s invention immediately to the patent office.

Parents.

Pfff.

Moving forward . . .

The decades have gone by.

And still, whenever the wind blows, I think of Kathy.

And her coat.

And that clever mind that made such entertaining use of something that could have been so aggravating.

Sometimes, you can still catch me out in it.

The wind, I mean.

Holding my coat open.

And remembering . . . 

Quoting Quirks

We watch movies.
Old movies.
A lot.
Our family was raised on the crazy antics of Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Jack Lemmon in The Great Race.
The hilarity of Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.
The magical song and dance of  Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in Brigadoon.
The comic timing of Red Skelton in The Fuller Brush Man.
And these are only four of the hundreds we sat through together as a family as they were growing up.
Inevitably, these movies had a great influence on our lives.
When the characters made mistakes and paid dearly for them, my family suffered alongside. When a story ended, inevitably, in triumph, we celebrated.
We lived their lives. Learned their lessons. Grieved and cheered with them.
The stories became very real to us.
We discussed them endlessly.
The lessons learned. The principles taught.
And our conversation became peppered with noteworthy lines.
I do mean peppered.
Our youngest son, three-year-old Tristan, was playing with a small, battery-powered railroad with a friend. "Push the button, Max!" (The Great Race)
Friend, "My name's not Max."
People visiting our household would often gape in confusion as quotes cropped up in the conversation.
We knew what was being said.
They didn't.
Oops.
Occasionally, someone would join us who knew that the answer to, "And there was much rejoicing" was a subdued, "Yay!" (with appropriate hand movements) from Search for the Holy Grail.
Or that, when asked to do something specific, would know to quip, "I'm smokin' a salmon!" from Oscar.
And that, with the end of a meal, the appropriate gratitude was voiced by the words, "The meal was good. The wine was excellent. I must send the Cardinal a note." (Again, with appropriate hand gesture, this time, hand kissing.) A noteworthy quote, though we weren't wine-drinkers, from The Three Musketeers.
We were the family who would break, unexpectedly, into song.
And everyone would know the words.
Occasionally, outside of our home, others would take note of our unique (note that I'm using the PC term) customs.
For good or bad . . .
Our daughter, Tiana, was in kindergarten.
Almost five.
Her teacher heard her singing, "Goin' Courtin'. Goin' Courtin'." (From Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)
She pulled her aside and asked her to repeat it.
Tiana obliged.
The teacher frowned and asked her where she had heard that.
Tiana stared at her.
This was probably her first experience with someone who didn't eat, breathe and sleep movies.
So, not like her family at all.
"It's from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." she said finally. "Just before they learn how to dance."
Her teacher was puzzled. "Do you know what it means?"
"What?"
"Courting."
Tiana smiled at her. "Oh, yes, it means 'dating'."
"Ah." Still puzzled, her teacher let her go.
But brought up the subject at our next parent-teacher conference.
I have to point out that it wasn't the only time I had heard from confused elementary school teachers.
Moving on . . .
But as the kids grew into junior and senior high school, our family quirk became more acknowledged.
Even occasionally appreciated.
Especially when a teacher would pose a question or repeat a quote from an old movie or program and our child was the only one in the class who knew the answer.
Or who laughed.
They became the universally-acknowledged 'experts' on old movies.
And, more importantly, quotes from movies.
It was a fun way to raise a family.
It is a fun way to live.
I think its time for another one.
"Push the button, Max!"

Making an Ash of Oneself

Before. 

My Husby built our family a picnic table.
Cedar.
Nice.
It was the scene of many, many family meals and celebrations.
And occasionally the scene of . . . adventures.
Let me explain . . .
First, a little background.
Husby built a little home for us.
Okay. Originally, it was built as a dog kennel.
Then converted to a chicken coop.
Then we cleaned it up, insulated and panelled the interior.
Put down new flooring.
Now it was a house.
We moved our family in.
Snug and cozy.
It was heated with a wood stove.
That is an important point.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
When I was expecting our fourth child, we decided that we needed more than 300 square feet to live in.
Husby built a basement and we moved our little house onto it.
Wow! Double the space!
We could now have such luxuries as . . . bedrooms!
A bathroom!
But still heated with a wood stove.
Now comes the part where the picnic table and the wood stove come together.
It was winter.
Not much call for meals outdoors when the temperature is hovering around minus 20.
The table had been shoved close to the house.
One day, just as we were preparing to head into town, Husby decided to clean out the little well-used stove.
He carefully collected the ashes into a paper sack and carried them outside to put in the ash can.
Yes, we really had an ash can.
Don't ask.
Moving on . . .
One of the kids had a minor emergency just as Husby reached the front door.
He set his bag of 'mostly dead' ashes on the picnic table and scrambled to take care of the problem.
Done.
Then we packed up and left.
The bag of ashes sat, forgotten, in the centre of the picnic table.
I should explain, here, that the wind always blows in Southern Alberta.
This is important . . .
We were gone for some hours.
The wind blew on the little paper sack full of ashes.
And finally, ignited some of them.
They consumed the bag.
Then started on the nearest combustible object.
You guessed it.
Our picnic table.
Pushed up tight against the house.
When we returned from town, my Husby stopped the car and turned it off,
Then hollered something unintelligible and ran for the house.
I was busy unbuckling children and pulling the baby out of her car seat.
I turned around just as Husby appeared with a bucket of water.
Which he threw on the picnic table.
It was then that I noticed the plume of smoke.
And heard the hissing of unhappy flames meeting . . . something extinguishing.
I moved closer.
Husby stood, surveying our picnic table.
Or, through the smoke, what was left of our picnic table.
An expression of relief and chagrin on his face.
“What on earth happened?” Me.
“I think I must have left the bag of ashes on the table.” He.
“Huh.” Me.
I herded the kids into the house while Husby poured more water on the picnic table.
Later, we took stock.
The table, miraculously, was mostly intact.
The bag of ashes had burned a large (12”) hole in the very centre.
The rest of it was still usable.
The miraculous part was the fact that the fire had confined itself to the centre of the table.
With the brisk wind, it could easily have burned the entire thing.
Not to mention our house.
Miracles, indeed.

There is a codicil.
My brother, Jerry, and his family were over to our little house for dinner.
As they were leaving, Jerry spotted the hole in the middle of our picnic table.
He laughed, sat down and said, “This porridge is too hot! said Papa Bear.”
Miracles aside, it was pretty funny.

After.

Vicious Muffy

Muffy. Okay, she got bigger . . .

We lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba for eight months.
It was a beautiful city.
It just wasn't home.
But, in support of the breadwinner/student in our family, we packed up our household and moved.
Now anyone who knows our family, knows that we are completely enamoured (good word) with Old English Sheepdogs.
Hair and all.
So when I say that we moved bag and baggage to Winnipeg, that includes our dogs.
Plural.
Because what's one dog without another dog, right?
And both of them need a dog . . .
Okay, my husband didn't get it, either.
I should point out, here, that OES (see above) are extremely gentle and friendly.
Though they can be protective.
But that is another story . . .
We lived in a townhouse.
Having moved from a mobile home in Alberta, we were overjoyed with all of the extra room.
But that townhouse had a minuscule yard.
Or, in other words, tiny.
I would let my dogs outside, and they would turn to me, doggy faces frozen in shock, as though to say, “What? You expect us to run in here?!”
I would point and tell them to 'go run!'
They would sigh and trot to the far (I use this term lightly) fence.
And back.
In about 3 seconds.
I would shake my head and close the door, leaving them outside for a little while to get some 'exercise'.
Yeah, it didn't make much sense to me, either.
One morning, I had put Muffy outside by herself.
She wanted to go.
And no one else did.
This isn't rocket science.
A few minutes after I put her out, my phone rang.
Cool. Someone wanted to talk to me!
I answered.
It turned out to be my letter carrier, calling from the nearest phone booth. (Cell phones existed only in the minds of Science Fiction writers at this time.)
She couldn't get into my yard because of the vicious dog guarding the gate.
There was a vicious dog in my yard?
How did it get in?
And where was Muffy?
I dropped the phone and hurried to the door.
Swinging it wide, I peered outside cautiously.
Muffy, standing beside the gate, turned and looked at me.
And then I realized that the vicious dog spoken of was my 35 pound stick. With hair.
It's true. An OES, shaved, looks like a toothpick.
On toothpicks.
Yep, the dog world equivalent of a 98 pound weakling.
While I'm in information mode, I should also tell you that OES don't have tails. They are nipped off soon after birth.
Thus, when the dog is happy, or excited, or hungry, or tired, or worried, or . . . you get the picture . . . they wiggle.
Their whole back end.
It's quite a sight.
And that was what Muffy was doing.
So this pile of hair, back end shaking like a hula skirt was what had frightened the letter carrier.
Okay, I guess I can understand.
Someone who isn't used to dogs could certainly be intimidated by the sheer size.
And the motion.
But, to me, it was funny.
That anyone would be frightened of Muffy . . .
I grabbed my dog, apologizing profusely and dragged her away so the carrier could complete her mission.
Then I explained that she was extremely gentle, and even introduced the two of them so Muffy would know that the woman was a friend.
And vice-versa.
All was well.
Until I received a notice from the postal company that no more deliveries would be made to our house if our vicious dog was in the vicinity.
Okay, this had gone a little far.
I looked down at my 'vicious' dog, currently the bottom of a game of 'dog pile' with my boys and sighed.
But we complied.
Yard time was moved to the afternoon.
To avoid any conflict.
And letter carriers.
P.S. I completely understand that not everyone likes dogs, and that some of them even have a terrible fear of dogs brought on by attacks and/or experience that they really can't control, so I apologize to them for this story. I'm the same way with guard-chickens. But that is another story.

Considering Blogging?

Me. Doing what I do.

I blog.
And now you're probably wondering why on earth I'm blogging about blogging.
Wait for it . . .
My blog is a series of short stories about growing up.
Huh. Me. Growing up. Most people think it didn't happen. Couldn't happen. Will never . . . but I digress . . .
Occasionally, I feel guilty about spending such a lot of time with my beloved blog.
Even entertain the thought of abandoning it.
But then, someone tells me to continue.
Usually this is a reader (I do have them . . .). Or a person who has read a particularly amusing tale (true story). But sometimes, it is someone . . . OFFICIAL (dun, dun, duuunnn!).
This has happened to me.
Twice.
The first was my publisher, Cedar Fort.
Imagine my joy . . . "Diane, get your name out there. Blog. Get people reading your blog."
It's like being told, firmly, to "Eat that chocolate! All of it. Don't miss a bite! Oh, and lick the wrapper when you are done!"
Mmmmmm.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Bog.
And officiality. (Is that a word?)
I scurried to obey, frantically typing little stories and posting them. Then telling everyone in Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, Google . . . you get the picture . . .
It was . . . fun. (Fun being 'ten' on the 'fun-ness' scale.)
All was well.
Then, another magical day. I was sitting in Church ( I do that sometimes) and our Stake President was speaking.
And what pithy, uplifting theme did he choose to advocate? 
Blogging.
You heard me right.
It was from the pulpit.
I am not making this up.
His exact words were, "I encourage you to blog. Blog. Blog. Blog. People are reading your stories. They are making a difference."
Okay, I know that there were many, many people in the congregation, but I'm sure he was talking to me.
That made it official. With a capital OH!
And good enough for an elbow in my husband's ribs and a hearty "Ha! Told you so!"
So I blog.
Officially.
It just doesn't get any better.
So, admit it, you're convinced. Blogging is what you want to do.
Now, how to do it?
First, choose an amazing topic.For example, what do you most enjoy reading or hearing about?Surprise! That's what your blog should cover.That was easy.So now you are writing a world-class blog. How do you get to be, for want of a better term, better?Be entertaining. Be unexpected. Be humorous. Be inventive. Be courageous.Okay, yes, also be honest.Then get yourself known.How?Well, you could do something outrageous.But, trust me, that just creates more problems.I know.Really.Moving on . . .The best way is to blog every day. Get your name out there every day.
Post every day. (Have I said 'every day' too much?)And read other blogs.Comment.Their authors will follow you back.In a non-creepy way, of course.And before you know it, your readership has gone from zero to sixty to six hundred to . . . you understand.