Any Excuse

Countdown to Halloween . . .

Tristan - acting evil.

Our family loves to dress up.

Maybe that's the reason we love theatre so much.

It's legal there . . .

For my husby and I, it started in our respective childhoods.

We carried it, happily, into our own family.

Through the years, any excuse to dress up was instantly seized.

Halloween.

NewYear's.

St. Patrick's Day.

Thursday.

As I said, any excuse.

Our costume collection grew apace (real word).

In no time, it outgrew the large cardboard box that I had originally stuffed things into and into its own room.

The kids spent many, many happy hours in that room, playing dress-up.

As they grew, so did their costumes, becoming more elaborate and detailed.

Bunnies, ladybugs and clowns became Elizabethan gowns and chain mail.

And I mean real chain mail.

With gauntlets.

The room that holds the costumes now is bigger than our first living room.

Our neighbourhood has grown accustomed to seeing our family traipsing around, dressed . . . unusually.

It's fun.

And now our grandchildren have caught the spirit.

Sometimes, good things are passed down through the generations . . .

Queen of Hearts

And yes, that's real chain mail. He knits it . . .

Expecting their/our first child/grandchild

A night in Bethlehem

Notice the backpack. Authentic in every way! Not!

My Husby as Teddy Roosevelt

Passing it on to the next generation . . .

Yes. They are PJ's

Nick-Naming

Bare Blue Stringam

Both of my parents served in the 4-H calf club in our community.
This duty included attendance at the club's annual summer retreat.
I know you are wondering what this has to do with nicknames, but wait for it . . .
Because both of my parents were going on the trip, all of their children had to come along.
Because.
My brother, Blair, was three.
A happy, friendly little boy.
Who didn't always spit out his words clearly.
One young man, a member of the club, asked the smiling little towhead his name.
"Blair Lewis Stringam."
"What?"
"Blair Lewis Stringam.
"Admittedly, it came out sounding something like 'Blairloostringam'.
But I digress . . .
"Bare Blue Stringam?"
"No! Blair Lewis Stringam."
"Okay. Bare Blue Stringam."
And just like that, he had a nickname.
It's that easy.
My Grampa, George Stringam had a younger brother who couldn't pronounce Grampa's name clearly.
It came out "Dard."
Thus, his nickname. Dard.
Which my brother, George, inherited the moment he was born.
My daughter, Tiana, was learning to spell her name.
She wrote the letters 'T', 'I' and 'N' properly. But her 'A's' had the lines on the wrong sides, thus disguising them as 'B's'.
Her second oldest brother, Erik was looking at a sheet of paper she had been practicing on. "Who's Tibnb?" he asked.
A name we call her to this day.
My eldest daughter was . . . bouncy.
She hopped everywhere.
We called her 'Tigger Pie'.
A lot.
So much that, on her first day of school, she insisted that it was her real name.
Oops.
I, myself have been through several incarnations of my name as told here.
My MIL didn't agree with nicknames. "Why," she would ask, "do people choose perfectly good names for their children, then go out of their way to call them something else entirely?!"
A good question . . .

A Good Cawse

This week's Delores words are way too much fun!

crow, evening, rapid, mist, emerge, blazing
Follow me . . .

A crow emerges from the mist,

Its blazing eyes can’t be dismissed,

I wonder as I have before,

What did he get his bad rap for?

Did he miss eating all his greens?

And then quit cawlege in his teens?

Drink too much cawfee in his life?

Forget to cawl his loving wife?

Perhaps his drinking went too far,

Spent too much time at his crow bar.

No visits from ol’ Santa Caws,

For frequent and diverse faux pas?

Did his cawstume-wearing e’er portend

An inclination to offend?

And did his friends all scream ‘foul play!’

When they met to play crowquet?

The cawking did our bird eschew,

When fixing plumbing old and new?

And did he horrify his Folks

With cawnstant telling of bad Jokes?

When meeting his albino friend,

Call him cawcasian to the end?

And did he stomp the crowcus flat?

When angry, crowcuss like a brat?

For such a shiny, pretty bird,

His reputation seems absurd!

So, for the record, I dispute

The rapid loss of his repute!

‘Tis evening of a crisp fall day,

And shrouded figures come our way,

Please be kind-hearted, don’t demean

Our slandered crows this Halloween.

Fluffy Guardian

Handle with care . . .

I had finished college.
I was now a college graduate.
This meant several things.
1. I was no longer a student.
2. I had to earn my own living
3. I had no idea how to do it
4. I was a bit frightened
My Dad knew the people who published 'The Canadian Hereford Digest'.
Yes, it's just as exciting as it sounds.
And yes, they would give me a job.
Their offices were in Calgary (population 450,000+ in 1975). This necessitated me moving there.
It was a bit larger city than I was used to.
A bit.
Okay, I admit it. Our family had been living outside of Fort MacLeod. Population 3500.
On a ranch.
Population 6.
I don't know what the percentage of difference is.
My estimate would be: large.
I packed up my little, orange Dodge colt and my six-month Old English Sheepdog puppy, Muffy, and headed out.
My best friend, Debbie was living in Calgary, in a comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I could move in with her.
In a matter of hours, it was done.
In a matter of days, I had gotten used to the change of pace that working and living in a large city entailed.
In a matter of weeks, I could fly across said city like a native, making use of the myriad (good word) back streets and little-known avenues.
I was officially a city girl.
I enjoyed my work and the people I worked with.
I got along famously with Debbie.
I was earning $300.00 a month. A fortune!
There really was only one thing that stopped me from being completely happy.
I was still a bit frightened.
Lets face it, Calgary just wasn't a ranch in the Porcupine Hills of Alberta.
For one thing, there were . . . people . . . everywhere you looked. People I didn't know.
And a complete lack of cows.
I did have my dog.
And I found a place to board my horse.
But somehow, that didn't make all of the strangers in my new world any more familiar.
Or friendly.
One Sunday night, I was just returning to my apartment from a weekend at the ranch.
I really hadn't been excited about leaving, so I had put it off until very late.
Very late.
My Muffy and I pulled up in front of the building about 2:00 am.
Now this wouldn't have been a problem back on the ranch. In that safe little world, the most I would have had to worry about was my parents . . . worrying.
Here, there was the unknown.
Suddenly the dark street looked, you know, dark.
And rather scary.
I got out and started unloading my suitcase and boxes of food and donations from my Mom.
Then I proceeded to lock the car door.
Suddenly, Muffy growled.
A deep, forbidding sound.
Then she pressed back against my knees, pushing me against the side of the car.
I stared down at her in surprise.
I should probably mention, here, that Muffy was the gentlest dog ever born.
Her own bark startled her. And I had never heard her growl.
I didn't know she could.
But there, still pressing me back against the car, and still growling deeply, was my gentlest of dogs.
I stared down at her.
A sound intruded.
Footsteps.
I looked up.
Just in time to see two men walk past on the sidewalk.
The far side of the sidewalk.
Both of them were looking at Muffy.
She was definitely looking at them.
Her head was lowered, her stance rigid and the hair on her neck and back, standing up threateningly.
She was almost unrecognizable.
For several moments, we stayed like that.
Muffy, me, and the car.
Which was beginning to dig into my back, by the way.
The men continued on their way, perhaps even quickening their pace a little.
They had disappeared before Muffy quit growling and looked up at me.
Her back end began to wiggle happily once more.
I let out my breath.
We made very quick work of gathering our stuff and getting inside the building.
After that, I made sure I returned, if not in the daylight, at least at a decent hour.
And, oddly enough, I discovered that I was no longer frightened.
And as long as I was accompanied by my guardian.
Gentle Muffy.

Potty 'Train'ing

We are potty training our two-year-old.
With mixed results.
But yesterday, I received a glimmer of hope.
She may be catching on to what 'potty-training' is all about . . .
(Make sure your volume is turned up for this one.)

P.S. If you can't hear it, she's saying, "Train go potty! Train go potty!"

We'll keep working on it . . .

Farm Girl Dating

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

We were playing football.

The full-on, tackle kind.

Oh, our grade six teacher thought she was teaching us ‘flag’ football.

We had the flags and everything.

But we were farm kids.

And flag football was for wussies.

Lloyd had the ball.

And was zipping toward our goal line.

Pretty fast.

The rest of my team had given up and fallen back.

I alone was still running.

I don’t give up easily.

I got him.

Perfect tackle.

At about the ten-yard line.

We both had the skinned elbows to prove it.

He was just as surprised as I was.

From then on, I was the star football player of our grade six P.E. class.

Fleeting glory, but glory just the same.

Moving ahead several years.

I was sitting, chatting with some of my school chums at our high school reunion.

I won’t tell you exactly how long my classmates and I have been out of school. Suffice it to say it’s been a tad more than 39 years.

Sooo . . . back to my reunion.

One man was talking about the dating scene during our high school years.

“I should have asked you out,” he told me. “We all wanted to ask you out.”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?! You could have asked me out! Any of you could have asked me out!”

He smiled, sort of sheepishly. “No,” he said. “We couldn’t.”

“Umm . . . why?”

“Because we were all terrified of you!”

Oh.

Wait a minute! I’m a nice person!

Then I thought of the times during our younger school years when I outplayed, outran, or outlasted the boys in my class.

Like our football days.

I think he had a point. 

That Slip

Mom. With Dad. Don't ask . . .

What articles of clothing do you treasure?

Get foolishly sentimental (ie. I’m never washing this!) over.

And why?

That jacket you bought that Peter Tork sneezed on when you went to that amazing concert back in ’66?

The red dress that was so eye-popping and perfect at the Christmas dance in ’80?

Those jeans that flattered so well and, even as they became more and more ragged, continued to be your best and truest friends from ’78 through to ‘92?

Those boots that were sooo warm and sooo comfortable that you wept when the sole ripped right out of the left one?

That slip.

Slip?

Ummm . . . Maybe I should explain . . .

My Mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in the 80s.

It is a horrifying, wasting sort of illness.

For several years, she gamely battled it, exercising, proper diet.

Medications.

But the disease won and she passed into eternity on April 9, 2002.

We were happy for her – she had been so ill.

But sad for the rest of us.

In the months after her death, Dad found homes for her jewellery, clothes and keepsakes.

Each of her three daughters carted home boxes of Mom’s ‘stuff’.

Special because it had been hers.

I had great fun going through my boxes.

Immersing myself in the memories.

I put jewellery into my own case, remembering special pieces Mom had worn.

Set fancy, fun hats on the shelf in the closet, thinking about the times I had sneaked into her closet to play dress-up with them.

Hung up dresses and other clothes. More memories.

And went back to my normal life.

Then, Sunday rolled around.

I should point out here that we dress in our best for Sunday worship services.

It’s just our way . . .

I scrambled through my closet for a slip and grabbed the first one I came to. One of my Mom's.

I slipped it on.

And was immediately immersed in the soft scent of Mom’s ‘special occasion’ perfume.

I had forgotten.

Mom had been ill for so long, and, in all that time, had worn no perfume at all.

Suddenly, I was lost in memories.

Mom hugging me before she and Dad went out somewhere special.

Mom sitting beside me in Church.

Mom smiling across from me in a restaurant.

And thousands and thousands more.

It took me a long time to get ready that day.

Stepping from the softly-lit past into the garishly -coloured present took great effort.

After church, I hung the slip up carefully.

Almost reverently.
And vowed never to wash it again.

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 . . .