Grampa's Little Helper

Kids pick up on everything we do.

Whether we like it or not.

And my Husby likes to build things.

These two facts will come together somewhere in this story . . .

As I was saying, my Husby likes to build things. Big things.

He made our dining room table.

Our games table.

Our birdcage and assorted other furniture.

A pirate ship.

Now, his big project is a cedar-log sunroom.

He does this because it’s . . . fun.

Moving on . . .

This project requires spending the days outside.

And making assorted loud noises.

Our kids grew up with Dad’s building projects and the accompanying rackets.

Our almost-two-year-old granddaughter who lives with us is just beginning to.

And she is adapting quickly.

Now, whenever there is a loud noise in the street (ie. Mower, weedwhip, atomic explosion) she gasps excitedly and says, “Grampa! Working!”

Yesterday, she learned something new.

Did I mention that Husby’s project keeps him outside all day?

Strawberry pals.

Oh, right, I did.

Perhaps I should emphasize the words OUTSIDE ALL DAY.

Because one can’t drag him inside, even for meals.

Occasionally, I will poke my head out the back door and ask, “How are you doing, Honey?”

But that’s the sum total of our ‘Husby-has-a-project’ communication.

Yesterday, my granddaughter and I were in the front room. Me, reading. She, plotting to overthrow the world.

Suddenly, she jumped down from the table where she was playing with the Playmobil castle and ran to the back door.

There followed the sounds of effort.

Then the squeak of the door.

Then a little voice, “How you doing, Honey?”

Who says they’re not watching.

And learning . . .

 

Can you see it? (Ignore the mess . . .)

Getting There

My Mom was the only girl in a family of nine children.

She and/or her brothers had many adventures . . .

Getting home from school in the late 1930s usually meant a ride on Shanks Pony. (Walking.)

For three of my mom’s four younger brothers, Roy – 11, Sten - 9 and Eric - 6, it was usually accomplished by following the railroad tracks.

One hot spring afternoon, they decided to mix things up a bit.

They followed the road.

Okay, yes, it was about a mile further to the home farm, but they could at least see a slightly different view of the countryside.

Carrying their syrup pail lunch kits, they started out.

Just as they passed one of the neighbour’s farms, they noticed an animal coming toward them on the road.

A familiar animal.

It was their family’s large, horned Hereford bull.

Obviously, the warm spring day had enticed him out of winter retirement and he was ready to scout the surrounding area for possible matrimonial prospects.

Knowing that the neighbours would be less-than-pleased if some strange bull began making advances on their cow herds, the three small boys decided to turn the huge animal and head him back toward home.

For a few minutes, all was well. The bull was happy walking in whatever direction his humans pushed him and the boys were happy to keep him going.

Then the eldest, Roy grew tired of the slow pace and decided to be a little more proactive.

First, Roy’s idea was to get the bull to carry their lunch pails. This presented a problem because none of them possessed a handy bit of string or cord to tie said pails to the great animal’s horns.

Hmmm . . .

Wait. They had a 6-year-old brother who would be happy to perch up on that broad back.

And he could hold the pails.

No sooner conceived than done.

Eric, whose short legs stuck out like airplane wings, found himself astride the huge animal and holding three clumsy lunch pails.

The gentle bull, accustomed to kids, appeared not to notice.

The little parade continued down the road.

Then Eric shifted, trying to get balanced.

And the pails . . . rattled.

The bull’s ears swiveled backwards and the great head lifted as the bull paused.

Then, one of the older boys slapped him and he gave a tiny spring as he once more started forward.

More rattling as Eric struggled to keep himself and his pails together.

Another hop. And an increase in speed.

More rattling.

More speed. By this time, the bull had reached a lumbering gallop.

I should mention, here, that Bergs don’t give up easily, even when they’re six. Eric unloaded pail after pail in an effort to stay on.

Finally, with only one pail left, the noise had stopped.

But the damage was done.

That bull wanted to get out of this situation. As quickly as possible.

This time, in an effort to keep his balance, Eric accidentally swung the last pail against the bull’s side.

That was it.

The bull erupted, danced along the road for a few paces and finally hit the ditch.

Where the two parted company.

As soon as his burden disappeared, the bull, once more slowed to an amble.

The two older boys collected their lunch pails and their shaken but unhurt younger brother and started walking once more.

Sigh.

Sometimes slow and steady doesn’t win any races.

Sometimes it simply gets everyone home in one piece.

The Birthday Present

Another of Daddy's favourite stories . . .

For years, she worked untiringly

In times of calm, or urgency,

In office work, traditional,

Her business place so integral.

Her husband was so proud of her,

His sweet, but strong entrepreneur,

So, for her birthday, he’d reward

The lovely woman he adored.

And straightway took her to the store

To blow all he did budget for,

For something pretty she could wear,

Unmatched by all who might compare.

And so received from her dear spouse

A lovely suit, with silky blouse.

A gorgeous jacket: shade of blue,

A pleated skirt of matching hue.

Then marched herself to work that day,

Receiving greetings on the way,

Confident in how she looked,

As pretty as a picture . . . book.

Her boss was in when she got there,

She checked her image with due care,

Then to his office, she did trot,

To show the suit her husband bought.

But just as she had stepped inside,

A customer with needs, applied

For entrance to their workplace there,

The boss sprang up from his wing chair.

“So sorry that I made you wait,

(Today my girl’s a fashion plate),

But she was looking oh-so-cute,

When showing me her birthday suit!” 

allfinds.org

Fluttery Fobias

For Pearl: She and Moths have a history...

Admit it. This is terrifying.

Debbie's family lived on a ranch not far from ours.
Her father had worked for my parents as a young man, before he had married.
They had remained good friends.
As had Debbie and I, once we had made our respective appearances (ie. born).In our senior year, I stayed with them for a semester.
They were kind, wonderful people.
Very clever and full of fun.
Debbie and I had a room in the basement.Lovely twin beds and assorted other furniture.
With the lamp hanging over her bed.
This is an important point.
She was also terrified of moths.
Another important point.
And I liked to read at night after climbing into bed.
These all tie together.
Let me explain . . .
It was late.
Debbie had long been trying to sleep.
I was reading.
It never occurred to me that I was being inconsiderate, as the room's only light hung directly over her, attracting any moths that might be in the vicinity.She tossed and turned and finally huffed and, throwing back the covers, got out of bed.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Bathroom,” she mumbled.
Just then, a moth that had been fluttering around in the light for the past half-hour, made the mistake of appearing where Debbie could see him.
“Screech!”
In a blur, she headed towards the door.
For some inexplicable reason, the moth followed her out into the dark hall.You never can tell with moths.
There was another horrendous screech and Debbie darted back into the room, jumped into her bed and pulled the covers over her head.
The moth fluttered in happily behind her and was soon once more dancing in the light.
“STUPID MOTH! SHUT OFF THAT STUPID LIGHT!” Debbie shouted, through the covers.I stared at the quivering lump that was my friend.
“How on earth did you know the moth followed you into the hall?”
“HE TOUCHED MY FACE! SHUT OFF THE LIGHT!”
I complied.
Imagine. Frightened of a silly moth.
Now if it had been a spider . . .

When Rude Begets Rude

Thinking about travelling again.
A repost from a year and a half ago . . .

Our family loves taking holidays.
And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.
We have had wonderful experiences.
Sunsets over the Mediterranean.
Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.
Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.
A wild bus ride through the streets of London.
The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.
The bustle on the streets in Paris.
But, sometimes, when we travel, we have . . . 'adventures'.
Let me explain . . .
We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.
And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.
We wandered into a very popular tourist site.
And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.
These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.
At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.
They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.
And I do mean 'knot'.
Pretty.
Then stand back and loudly demand money.
Great scam.
We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.
“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.
“Don't let them grab you!”
I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.
And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.
The tourist's best friend.
If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.
This didn't work here.
If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.
One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.
There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.
You would be forced to pay.
We managed better than most.
You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.
But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.
An outspoken girl of 21.
She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.
Firmly.
Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.
Politeness and patience were wearing thin.
And not working in the slightest.
The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.
She shifted back and forth, eluding them.
We started towards her, intent on rescue.
We weren't needed.
Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”
Did I mention outspoken?
All heads in the square turned.
Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.
The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.
Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”
They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.
There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.
Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?
I was proud of my daughter.
She had tried to be polite.
She had tried to be firm.
But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.
And won the day.
This was an isolated incident.
Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.
But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .
Good old 'country spunk' will.
Travelling?
Take a farm girl.

"I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

Spiders. And Me.

Daddy, my brother, George, and me.
No spiders were harmed in the taking of this picture.
But the area was scrutinized closely . . .

Spiders and I have always gotten along.
Provided they are on the opposite side of the room and in plain view so escape-age is entirely possible.
Or better yet, in an entirely different country.
Or planet.
Okay. Spiders and I don't get along.
It all started when I became conscious (ie. born) and lasted until . . . well . . . now.
As I grew, my persnickety-ness became more and more pronounced.
And pro-active.
I would carefully shake out each shoe before I put it on. (I had heard that people in scorpion-infested parts of the world do this regularly. I thought it a good idea.)
Check clothes and coat pockets with a flashlight.
All the usual things one could do while getting dressed.
Because you never knew just where those little beggers would be hiding.
Once, when I was sitting, minding my own business in seventh grade English, I saw a spider climbing down the wall next to me.
I kept a wary eye on it.
You never know – with spiders.
They're tricky.
It climbed slowly down.
Down.
And then scurried across the floor towards the person seated in front of me.
All senses were immediately put on alert.
A few minutes later, when something touched my leg, I leaped nearly seven feet into the air.
Truly.
It's a school record.
You can look it up.
And so it continues to this day.
I do put on a brave face for my children and grand children.
Unfortunately, it looks like the one I wear all of the time, just a little more . . . tense.
Teeth firmly clamped around bottom lip.
Knitted brows.
Sheen of sweat. Glowing slightly.
That sort of thing.
Evil world-destruction plotting spider is approached cautiously and swatted firmly with a fly swatter.
Then beaten unrecognizable with whatever is at hand.
Shoe.
Baseball bat.
I admit it.
Humane disposal and me and spiders don't fit into the same sentence.
Oh. Wait . . .
It's probably a good thing I live where I do, spiders here are teensy.
In Greece, they have been know to carry off pets and small animals and the occasional tourist.
True story.
Remind me to tell you about it.

Gravy Wars

Every Wednesday, Delores throws down the gauntlet.

A series of six words.

Which is then picked up by her disciples.

With more - or less - success.

You be the judge!

This week: Mellifluous, endangered, crabby, flaunt, gravy and turpentine

Gravy Wars

It's tougher than it looks...

Mom was an excellent cook.

She could make almost anything taste fantastic.

Almost.

She did have her weaknesses.

Her soggy boiled spinach was consumed only with copious amounts of vinegar or butter.

And we won’t even mention her disastrous attempts at lutefisk.

Though I have to admit I have yet to find anyone who can make that eat-able.

Moving on . . .

Mom taught me how to cook.

Of course I was always a better taste-er than cook-er.

But let’s not go there.

She showed me how to make a pot roast.

And how to use the drippings for delicious, smooth and mellifluous (does that work here?) gravy.

Yum.

Mostly, my forays into the heavenly land of roasted meat and gravy were acceptable.

Sometimes, they weren’t.

But it was one of those ‘less-than-satisfactory’ occasions that gave rise to a new family tradition . . .

On Sundays, before leaving for church, Mom had taught me to put a roast in the oven. Thus, when the family returned from services, the smell of deliciousness would be wafting through the house, making mouths water and giving the impression that food was forthcoming.

Which it was.

Eagerly, the family would perform such tasks as: Changing out of ‘Sunday’ clothes. Setting the table. Drooling.

While Mom (me) whipped up the accompaniments to the main dish.

In short order, everyone was seated and shoveling.

Until Mom (me, again) brought out the gravy.

Now, up until now, my gravy had been a little on the thin side.

On this auspicious day, it was . . . thick.

Really thick.

Eat with a fork thick.

Husby took the bowl, obligingly spooned some of the contents onto his potatoes and beef.

Spread it around with his knife.

And made an unfortunate comment of which the words ‘wallpaper paste’ alone were discernible.

Can I say it? It made me . . . crabby.

Let me get the turpentine to thin it out crabby.

After that, when the smell of roast beef drifted through the air, Husby was the person at the stove, making the gravy.

It has become a family tradition.

And his gravy is legendary.

He doesn’t flaunt his superiority.

Okay, maybe he does.

A little.

But it’s well-deserved.

Isn’t it amazing when traditions are started for the sole purpose of not endangering lives?

His.

Child of the Country

Today, in honour of the 29th anniversary of my 29th birthday, my favourite story:

Me. (Missing from the photo: the Chicken)

Harvest.
A mellow time.
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season.
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets.
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
On the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good.
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water.
It was every parent’s dream for their small child.
Not.
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations.
Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end.
Not a good thing for a four-year-old.
Mischief happens.
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country.
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away.
Hmmm. This was fun!
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient.
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial.
It was genius.
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . .
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED!
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went.
By the time it and its contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!”
Not very inventive, true, but effective.
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details?
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly.
My family still laughs.
There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo.
Fun!
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them.
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain.
It moved closer.
I moved closer.
It looked over the fence.
I looked at it.
Its beak opened.
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . .
You get the picture.

Tradition. Tradition.

Made ya look . . .

She was home alone on a Friday night?

This woman with five kids, one husband, and a very limited budget?

How could this be?!

Therein hangs a tale/tradition . . .

I’m sure most of you have heard of the giant Costco store chain.

Well, perhaps you didn’t know that Costco is famous, not only for quality merchandise, but for handing out said merchandise.

One bite at a time.

It’s true.

You can wander through the acres and acres of store, perusing the shelves - piled, quite literally, to the rafters - and on nearly every ‘street’ corner, encounter someone in a red uniform, cutie hairnet and gloves, handing out sweet little tastes of deliciousness.

In a white, paper cup.

Okay, so I admit that not everything is deliciousness.

The person handing out the pickled asparagus usually only has one person in line.

Me.

Moving on . . .

You can shop - and graze - to your heart’s content.

And in under an hour, your tummy and shopping basket are comfortably full.

So back to my friend, blissfully home alone in a quiet house on a Friday night . . .

How did she do it?

Her husband, may his name be praised, loaded their five children into the car every Friday night and carted them all off to Costco.

Their budget didn’t allow for much shopping.

But the kids had the time of their lives sampling the wares.

One each.

Everyone had a blast and the whole outing was, in a word, economical.

And he’d been doing this nearly every Friday since the first was born!

Genius.

Trust me, it isn’t easy to find outings for large families that don’t break the bank.

(Our brood and the West Edmonton Mall Waterpark have a history.)

Ingenuity, opportunity and the desperation of a flat pocketbook all combined to create a fun family evening.

That’s how traditions are started.

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!