Mind Music

Pure magic inside that head!

Tracy was sitting there, bobbing to her favourite song.

Or at least her favourite-right-this-moment song.

Finally she turned to her mom.

“Mom, what’s that song?”

Her mom looked at her. “What song?”

Here’s where I should explain that the song four-year-old Tracy was bobbing to was running through her head.

And only in her head.

“That song in my head.”

See?

Her mom smiled at her. “I don’t know what song it is.”

“Yes you do! You know . . . that song!”

“Why don’t you try singing a bit of it and then I can help you.”

Tracy puckered up her little face and made a couple of noises. Then she sighed in frustration and said, “I can’t!”

“Well are there any words? You could tell them to me and I’d know.”

Again that earnest ‘I’m trying’ face. Again the sigh of defeat.

Suddenly the little girl brightened. “I know!” she said excitedly. “Come over here!”

Obligingly, her mom moved closer.

“Now put your ear here against mine!” Tracy commanded. “Then you’ll hear it!”
At last! the solution to the 'I've-got-a-song-stuck-in-my-head-and-I-haven't-a-clue-what-it-is' conundrum.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be four again?

Things were so simple then.

P.S. Her mom never mentioned whether or not she heard anything . . .

Parents' Toys

My first/George's third birthday party.
Notice the bull and matador.
How come I didn't have toys like that?

My favourite toys . . . weren't mine.
Because everyone had better toys than me.
Or at least Mom and Dad did.
Their neat toys were all carefully displayed.
On their fireplace mantle.
Okay, I thought it was weird, too.
Especially since they never, ever played with them.
Not once.
I had watched.
There was a plaster matador and bull set.
One of which, had a cape.
And one, horns.
I'll let you sort that out.
They were immensely fun to play with.
Until Mom caught up with me.
"Diane, put those back!"
Sigh.
Then there were the models of bulls.
Horned and polled Herefords.
They were terrific when one wanted to play farm.
Of course, then the matador's bull would have to join in.
Giving the matador just that much more responsibility.
He was tall and strong and handsome.
He could handle it.
"Diane, what did I tell you?!"
Rats.
But the best of all was the bronze horse.
He was glorious.
Standing looking out across the prairie, ears pricked.
He even had a bronze saddle and bridle.
With bronze reins.
"Diane! How on earth did you lug that thing down there! Put it back at once!"
What?! I was behind the couch! How on earth . . .
Man. That woman could see everywhere.
Mom and Dad's toys entertained me for years.
Until I dropped the matador.
It was an accident!
And twisted those bronze reins off the horse.
Oops. Who knew they would do that?
But I maintain that if they didn't want them played with, they should have put them away.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Ballooning the Cat

One of Gramma Berg’s favourite stories.

And with apologies to my Uncle Leif, who tells it better . . .

Gramma. And 'The Instigator'.

Among the many animals on the Berg farm were always a dozen or so cats. Plentiful food of mice, birds, scraps and fresh milk kept them healthy . . . and prolific.

Now cats were not normally allowed in the ranch house.

But that didn’t stop them from accumulating on the front porch and making feints at the front door.

Whereupon (Oooh, good word!) Gramma Berg would disperse the problem with the skillful handling of her broom.

But one friendly and persistent old mother cat would elude Gramma’s best efforts and re-appear with stunning persistence.

And rapidity.

And that was when Uncle Leif decided to try his hand . . .

He came up with ultimate ‘harassing the cat’ plan.

A balloon.

Balloon?

Simple, yet effective.

He would tie the balloon to the cat’s tail and she would be well and truly harassed.

Genius.

Gramma was sceptical as to the effectiveness of her youngest son’s plan, so she kept watch from a distance.

Leif put the first part of his plan into action with the enticement of said cat with tender morsels from the kitchen.

While she was thus absorbed, he quickly tied the football-sized balloon to her tail with a piece of string.

Perhaps the string was a tad too tight.

Perhaps the cat simply panicked when this ‘thing’ bobbed and swayed almost on top her.

She took off.

Her first strategy was to simply outrun.

When this proved ineffective, she made for the nearest high place.

The telephone pole.

Scratching and clawing her way up, she finally reached the very pinnacle.

Then, pausing to survey the situation, she realized with dismay that the pesky ‘thing’ was still there.

All of her ‘cat’ instincts came out at that moment and, claws out, swiped at the offending balloon.

It popped.

With a loud and very satisfying bang.

This was too much for the poor cat.

With a combination of ninja-cat-moves and free fall, she hit the ground and headed for the barn.

By this time, Gramma was nearly unconscious with laughter.

Leif, satisfied that his genius plan had proved effective, smiled in satisfaction.

But the next day, you guessed it, the cat was back.

Happily curled up in her favourite ‘relaxing on the porch’ position.

But keeping a wary eye on Leif.

Sigh.

There was one outcome from Leif’s genius plan.

Hearing - and watching - Gramma tell the story.

She would start laughing so hard that someone else invariably had to finish for her.

Huh.

Sometimes the result you are going for isn’t the one you get.

And that’s better.

The Gift

“I’m shopping for my wife,” said he.

“For things she needs immediately.

And while I’m here, I thought I’d get

A special something for my Pet.”

 He wandered round the store a while,

And saw things staid. Or infantile.

Then found that he had ambled to

The women’s clothes all starched and new.

His eyes lit up as he assessed

New ways to help his wife get dressed.

In gowns of rough or slinky mein,

In shades from black to tangerine.

He wandered further through the store

Seeking something she’d adore,

High or low or bourgeoisie,

He finally came o’er to me.

“It seemed so simple,” he declared.

“But now I’ve looked, and now I’m scared.

The clothes selection’s vast and mixed,

And I can’t seem to choose betwixt.”

“There’s something that she needed, though,

To wear around her bungalow.

So help me please, I do implore.

There must be something in your store!”

“There’s much to choose from, sir,” I said.

“That’s sure to please your thoroughbred.

But there's one thing I need to know,

Just how big is her bungalow?”

When Vaccums Go Bad

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Okay, it was . . . weird.

Really weird.

But sometimes, weird has a logical explanation . . .

Darn.

We were visiting with our good friends, Shane and Linda.

They had just finished building their dream home.

The last touches were slowly going in.

Shane had recently installed a new central vacuum system.

It really sucked. (But that was a good thing and has nothing to do with this story . . .)

Shortly after the vacuum was installed, and very late at night, Shane was in the front room doing . . . Shane stuff. Deciding it was time for bed, he stood up and started toward the doorway.

When the vacuum suddenly turned on.

I am not making this up.

The middle of the night. Everyone else in the house was asleep. And the vacuum switched itself on.

Let’s just say it was . . . startling . . . and go from there.

Shane immediately quickened his pace, intent on switching the mechanical demon off before it woke the whole house.

But as he crossed the room, it quit.

The vacuum, I mean.

Huh.

See what I mean? Weird.

After that, it happened several times. Always when someone was in the front room. Usually when they were alone.

This went on for some time.

Then we showed up for a visit.

The four of us were sitting in the front room, catching up.

Shane told us the vacuum story.

Complete with hand gestures.

And the dance.

I frowned thoughtfully. (I do that . . .) “Shane,” I asked, “Where were you standing when the vacuum came on?”

He pointed out an area of the floor.

I crossed over and stepped on it.

The vacuum was suddenly roaring beneath us.

I moved off the spot.

The vacuum quit.

I did it again.

Vacuum on.

Vacuum off.

All three of them were staring at me.

Then Grant smiled. “I think I know what happened.”

The two men went into the basement and poked around, finally discovering a screw, just piercing the wiring. When pressure was applied from above, the connection was completed. The vacuum came on.

When pressure was released, the connection was broken. And the machine switched off.

The ‘haunted’ vacuum was explained.

But you know what?

It was heaps more fun before we figured it out.

Public Freaking

Delores of Under the Porch Light has issued the challenge. 

Her followers obey!

This week's offerings: Vociferous, ambivalent, grunge, ink, flipped, dread

Come with me!

Future public speaking . . . champions

I’ve always been a talker.

Always.

The word vociferous could be very aptly applied.

But, during my formative years, if anyone ever wanted to fill me with absolute, bone-numbing, chill-of-death dread, all one would have to do was say, “Diane, why don’t you stand up and say a few words.”

Okay, the ‘saying a few words’, I could handle.

The operative/terrifying aspect here was the part where they said, ‘why don’t you stand up’.

Because that usually means that, in front of people, one has to STAND UP.

Yikes.

Grade seven provided the ultimate test.

Our English teacher whose name was Miss-Mueller-How-Could-You-Do-This-To-Me!, had assigned Every. Single. Person. in our class to do a report.

An oral report.

Okay, here’s where I admit that I had to have the words 'oral report' explained to me.

Miss Mueller HCYDTTM was happy to enlighten me.

A little too happy.

My soul was immediately immersed in dread.

Death was suddenly an imminent thing.

Due to occur on Thursday next.

I spent the following six days in an ambivalent froth.

Finally putting ink to paper the night before I was due to face the firing squad.

To this day, I can’t remember what I reported on.

Or even if I reported.

Because something happened just before my turn that is etched forever in my memory . . .

I‘m sure you’ve all been there.

Nervously Anxiously Apprehensively Terrified-ly awaiting your turn before the critical masses.

Well, the girl who preceded me was my good friend, Gladys.

She of the calm, self-possessed demeanour.

Gladys was also known for her clothes of uber-cuteness. No grunge here.

And I should mention, too, that Gladys’ outfit that day was a matching pants, top and hat that were OH-MY-GOODNESS-SOOOO-CUTE-I WANT-THEM-I-WANT-THEM-I-WANT-THEM!!!

Back to my story . . .

Gladys stood up in front of the class and began her presentation.

Suddenly, her voice . . . faded.

And the teacher leaped to her feet and caught her as she fell.

She survived.

Gladys, I mean.

I just thought I’d mention that in case you were concerned.

I know we were . . .

But her scary experience helped me to realize something.

The other kids in my class were just as scared as I was.

Some even more so.

And every single person in that audience wasn’t sitting there waiting for me to flip out or slip up so they could laugh.

Nope.

They were thinking about/dreading their own ten minutes of infamy.

And if our reaction to our good friend’s mishap was anything to go by, all we wanted was for our classmates to succeed.

Who says you don’t learn anything from public speaking.

In Grade Seven?

Back Then

My home town!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.
Crime hadn't been invented yet.
It was, literally, an entirely different world.
Our doors were never, ever locked.
Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each-others' yards and homes and refrigerators.
Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning.
She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.
Canned soup was something new and wonderful. Always served with yummy sandwiches.
At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.
Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.
The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.
At ten cents each.
Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the centre of the store.
Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar, because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hofer's desk was full of them.
We had our own cobbler, Mr. Szabo, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion great hunks of leather into real shoes with his little hammer.
A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera that magically developed its own pictures while you waited.
Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.
With five cents left over.
Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.
But happy.
The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row. Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.
All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.
Most of it was made on this continent.
Our clothes were mostly cotton.
Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.
Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.
And absolutely everyone attended church.
Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family, but any and all extended family members and shoe-horn the entire mob into any available space.
At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the centre of the intersection of Main and First streets.
The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season.
The arrival of Santa in Mr. Madge's special North Pole plane, a much anticipated event.
And, once again, everyone went to church.
Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.
We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.
One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.
Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').
There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.
In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in cubs, scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.
Mom always made treats.
Yummy ones.
We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.
And all of them were terrific cooks.
Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .
Sports events were exactly that.
Events.
Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.
Basketball was huge.
The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.
Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks, or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.
The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.
'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.
The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.
Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.
And everyone knew everyone else.
Their address, phone number, family members.
Even pets.
It was a wonderful way to grow up.
Like an enormous, caring family . . .
I loved growing up in Milk River.
It was a perfect life.
But that 'small-town' life is largely vanished everywhere now.
Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.
Friendly neighbourhoods.
Caring neighbours.
But the absolute freedom of those days is gone.
Replaced by something . . . darker.
More suspicious.
It's a great pity.
What are your memories of growing up?

Dressed for Success

Ready, set...

We are and always have been, a Church attending family.
We love it.
And I was raised to believe that, to show proper respect, we should always go dressed in our best.
And that included our children.
So from their very earliest days, our girls were in dresses.
Hair neatly done.
And our boys in suits and ties.
Sometimes, when we left, our home was in complete disarray.
Okay, often, when we left, our home was in complete disarray.
But we were neat and clean.
Even the youngest of us.
When our oldest boys were born, I made each of them a white shirt and tie and a three-piece suit; jacket, pants and vest.
They looked . . . dressy.
At least I thought so.
The clothes were handed down to our youngest son, who came some years behind.
So, at the age of 14 months, he was dressed for church in a little brown suit and vest, with a white shirt and dark red tie.
He looked like a miniature accountant.
All he needed was the tiny briefcase.
Moving on . . .
During our worship service, he wet his diaper.
And everything else below the waist.
Rats.
I took him to the Mother's room to make repairs.
Unfortunately, all I had to put him in was a fresh diaper.
The pants would have to go home for cleaning.
Fortunately, all of the upper garments has survived.
Now, my son was dressed in a white shirt and tie. Vest and jacket.
And diaper.
Okay, the accountant image was shot forever.
Or maybe not . . .
We headed back to the chapel.
He, happy to be dry once more.
Me, praying that no one would notice my baby, dressed in a less-than-normal manner.
My prayer wasn't answered.
We quietly opened the door and slipped inside.
So far so good.
We crept towards our bench.
Still well.
I released his little hand to slide into the bench.
And that's when the little cretin saw his opportunity to escape.
Giggling shrilly, he dashed up the aisle towards the front of the chapel.
I started to go after him, but stopped when I realized that the entire congregation was now watching us. I stared after the rapidly retreating shirt, tie, jacket and vest.
And diaper.
I was torn between stopping the charge.
And admitting that he was mine.
I should point out here, that our chapel has two aisles, one on either side of the large room, as well as a wide space at the front and back.
My son reached the front and started across towards the other side.
Still shrieking happily.
I studied him, trying to figure out the best and fastest way to knock him into next week stop him.
I realized that when he reached the far side, he only had two options. Go back the way he had come, or start down the far aisle.
I was betting on the latter.
As calmly as I could with the entire congregation now ignoring the struggling speaker and watching the two of us, I walked back up the aisle towards the back of the room. Then began to make my way across, paralleling my son's path.
He turned the corner at the front and started down the far aisle towards the back.
Hah! I knew it!
I cut him off at the pass, scooped him into my arms and disappeared through the far door and into the safe, unpopulated hallway.
Still shrieking.
Him, not me.
Though I was considering it.
I collapsed into a chair.
And sighed weakly.
Mission accomplished.
People thought the whole episode was 'cute' and 'sweet' and 'hilarious'.
They were so understanding.
I and my family however, will never forget.
And now we have a whole new meaning for the words, 'Sunday suit'.

Verbal Tactics

Now that I have your attention . . .

Our children learn from what they see.
And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not.
Sometimes, it's just plain fun.
My husby had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating his favourite - pancakes.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then my husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphamism (real word – look it up!).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged.
Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.
“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
I'm assuming he meant GRant.
His father's name.
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the eupham . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Honey!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Honey!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Honey!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Honey!”
His father emerged, still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“More pancake, Honey!”
We had created a monster.

Narrow Escape

Daddy and Me.

I loved baths.
Loved them.
In fact, once Mom got me into the tub, it was a major chore to get me out.
I would swim and play like a little marine mammal, till the water cooled to the point that it was tepid.
And I was shivering.
I know. I know.
Makes no sense to me, either.
But I was four. Little that one does makes sense when you're four.
Moving on . . .
One day, Mom discovered a technique that had me gasping on the bathmat quicker than a wet, slippery little Louisiana catfish.
Okay, I don't know much about those but I'm assuming they come from Louisiana.
And that they're wet and slippery . . .
Mom, patience growing thin, pulled the tub plug.
While I was still in the tub.
The water started down the drain.
Gurgle.
Gurgle.
Gurgle.
And suddenly, I knew that I was going to go down with it.
Eeeeek!
What were we saying about making sense?
Oops. There goes Diane!
I knew what my parents would say," Darn! Lost another one! Guess we'll have to get us another little girl!”
Okay, so even at four I had a lot of imagination.
After that, all Mom had to do was reach for the plug.
It was like she put a current of electricity through the water.
Zip!
I would be standing, shivering on the mat.
Clean.
But whole.
Another narrow escape.

Reaching My Beak

Admit it. This strikes terror into your heart.

For three years, we lived in the ‘Little House on the Prairie’.

Really.

It was a little house. (Just over 300 square feet.)

And we lived in it.

My Husby had built it as a dog kennel.

Then turned it into a chicken coop.

Finally, cleaned it up, insulated and finished the inside.

And moved his family into it.

But that isn’t what this story is about . . .

Our little house was heated with a wood stove.

Toasty.

During the summer (ie. July), that stove sat cold and unused.

Once August rolled around and temperatures started to cool, however, it was pressed back into use.

And that’s where this story starts.

Oh, and I should probably mention that I‘m afraid of chickens.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

My Dad was over for a visit. Which invariably consisted of trying to carry on a conversation with three little boys playing between us in the only available space in our little house.

It was nearly suppertime. The room was starting to cool.

Time for a fire.

I checked the damper. (I want you to know that I knew what I was doing . . .)

Opened the door of our little stove.

Piled in wood and kindling.

And lit a match.

Flames licked up immediately.

And that’s when we heard it . . .

The scratching and clawing and fluttering of something inside the chimney.

We both stood there, stunned. What on earth . . .?

“You must have a bird caught in the chimney,” Dad said.

What?! How was that possible?!

The poor thing!!!

I grabbed a bucket and doused the small fire, then began pulling out bits of blackened wood and setting them back into the box.

Finally, the stove was clear.

Dad and I knelt down and peered inside.

“Oh, I see it!” I said.

It was a blackbird.

The poor thing had obviously been overcome by smoke and dropped into the back of the stove. Quite clearly dead.

I reached out to grab what I thought was a foot in the uncertain light.

It wasn’t.

“EWWWWW! A BEAK! A BEAK! A BEAK!!”

Dad shook his head and stared at me as I did the dance of disgust. *Shudder*

Eventually, he got the bird out and we gave it a proper burial.

Later, my Husby checked to see how it had gotten inside in the first place. Ah. A loose screen. Quickly remedied.

I can wrangle the most dastardly fur-bearing animals the barnyard can offer.

But chickens and I give each other a wide berth.

Turns out that it’s really their beaks I’m afraid of.

And a beak is a beak.

No matter whom it’s on.

A Lament

Using Delores' Wednesday's words:
Servitude, plodding, cast iron, frequent, fanny, desperation

Join us! This is fun!

Our chief of Under-the-Porch-Light fame,

Forever blessed be your name,

Our servitude we pledge to you.

As we pen prose all fresh and new.

With cast iron will we set to work,

And struggle not to go berserk

Upon our fannies do we sit,

And strain to make the verses fit.

Your pithy words do us inspire,

And all our faculties require,

To try to make our plodding way,

And skill'fly use your words today.

With frequent dabbings of our brow

We play with ‘twist’ and ‘pot’, and ‘plow’.

Occasionally, your evil bent,

Leaves us unsure where our brains went.

We grumble but we persevere,

The challenge sent each week, all year,

And so, your words, you see, appear

Penned in desperation here.

Whew! Six more days till I again

Must take a cudgel to my brain!

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.