Getting Badgered

Yes.

No.

The Stringam ranch sprawled out over many, many miles.

And took many hands to cover.

My Dad was twelve and had happily, and of necessity, joined the ranks of the ranch-employed aboard the first horse he could truly call his own.

The recently-broke and still fairly green, Queenie.

His pride and joy.

His first assignment was to keep an eye on the bulls.

I should point out, here, that the bulls were kept in the South pasture.

A vast, open field which went on forever.

With an outer fence that also went on forever.

Back to my story . . .

This fence had to be constantly patrolled.

On the other side of it were the Community Pastures.

Filled with . . . community cattle.

All female.

And none pregnant.

A state which their owners wished to preserve.

So someone had to explain to the bulls that any form of interaction was distinctly discouraged.

Hourly.

This was Dad's job. Make sure that the fence was doing its job.

Keeping the heifers on the one side . . .

And the bulls on the other.

But bulls are, after all, bulls.

And when the siren song goes off in their vicinity, they must answer.

With voice and/or action.

Usually action.

What's a paltry five lines of tightly-stretched barbed wire when love is calling to you from the other side?

They would ignore it as if it wasn't there.

And that's where Dad came in.

At a gallop.

Chase the bulls back.

Fix the fence.

He got pretty good at his job.

One day, he was riding along the fence.

Everything was unusually calm.

Then, something moved.

A brown head poked up out of the great sea of grass.

A brown head with darker brown stripes.

Badger.

Dad had never seen a badger close up.

He turned Queenie towards it.

It turned away from them and started off across the prairie.

They followed.

It ran faster.

They pursued faster.

After a few minutes of this, the badger had had enough . . . umm . . . badgering.

He turned and attacked.

Well. Hissed.

At this point, Queenie decided she was finished with this adventure.

Dad could go it alone.

She piled him, forceably, into the prairie dust.

And left him there.

Dad screamed and jumped to his feet, certain that his beloved horse had landed him on the badger.

Or near enough that the badger would soon be on him.

He pictured teeth and claws.

And ravening. He wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded nasty.

He looked frantically around.

Nothing.

The badger had disappeared completely.

He took a deep breath of relief, then recovered his horse and continued with his job.

Dad decided, then and there, that the only four-footed animals he and Queenie would chase would be the big ones with hoofs.

And horns.

They were safer.

One Tiny Jab

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggers.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.

But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots.

Dad Date

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

The best of times.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying.

Moving on . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. Not that I'm admitting anyway . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader.

I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line.

By whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation.

“Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much.

“Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant.

The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing.

Quiet talk and laughter around us.

Gentle chime of silverware on china.

Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu.

“Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match.

Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life.

Dirt Wranglers

Ranching is always an adventure.

Sometimes a tad . . .  uncomfortable.

But always entertaining.

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a pair of coupled calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

Flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.

His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. An adventure.

You get the picture . . .

Breakfast Show

Ever helpful and concerned.

Kids can make eating out such an . . . adventure.

It was the early fifties.

Mom and Dad were travelling in Montana with their three small children.

As they drove past the Deer Lodge prison, Dad tried to explain to four-year old Chris and two-year-old Jerry just what it was. He told them that when people were bad, the police would lock them up in the big building for punishment.

The original ‘time-out’.

He wasn’t sure just how much his two oldest children took in.

The next morning, he had his answer.

The family had stopped nearby for breakfast. While they were eating, a deputy sheriff came in for coffee, then proceeded to tell the waiter about his exciting evening. One very intoxicated individual had been disruptive at a local dance and the deputy had had to take the man to the local jail to sober up. There were no charges to be laid, so all that remained was to get the fellow up and send him home.

Throughout this story, Chris and Jerry were busily eating, not really paying attention to the tale.

Finally, the man stood up and said, “Well, I guess I’d better go down and get my boy out of jail!”

Chris looked at her parents wide-eyed and very concerned. “That man’s little boy is down there in the jail!” she said loudly.

See?

Call Me Babe

I love baseball.

Let me rephrase that.

I LOVE baseball.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because you get to beat an inanimate something with a thick, wooden stick.

Outside.

In the summer sunshine.

Whatever . . .

I played a bit.

Grade school.

High school.

But I didn’t play regularly until long after I had married and had a family.

It was then that I spent three glorious years in a mixed league.

And it was fun.

Oh, I wasn’t one of their best players.

In fact, I spent most of my time out in right field.

Praying that the other team would hit the ball anywhere but to me.

In fact, the only place where I was competent was in the batter’s box.

And even there, only competent. Good for a base or two.

Until that night.

Let me tell you about it . . .

It was a clear summer evening.

The mosquitoes weren’t too bad.

The sun was setting, but the field was situated such that it wasn’t in anyone’s eyes.

The shadows were lengthening.

The sky was trying to decide if it wanted to be cerulean blue or glorious orange.

My team was at bat.

Well . . . I was at bat.

The other team eyed me curiously.

I hadn’t done too badly in the field, but really hadn’t distinguished myself.

A couple of the guys moved in a bit.

The pitcher glanced around at the two players we had on base, then looked at me.

He went into his wind-up, which, in slow pitch, isn’t.

And flipped the ball at me.

I swung.

And felt the sharp crack and the burst of exhilaration as bat met ball.

Solidly.

And that’s when the first surprise of the evening dropped every jaw on my team.

Including mine.

That ball sailed out over the heads of the outfielders.

Way out.

Way, way out.

A triple.

It would have been a home run, except I’m old.

I brought in both of our runners and settled myself firmly on third base.

Then grinned as my team cheered wildly.

The next hitter brought me in and I was met by many slapping hands.

The good kind.

An inning or so later, I was again facing the pitcher. I grinned as the fielders moved back slightly in a she-did-it-once-but-is-this-going-to-be-a-habit sort of way.

They didn’t move back far enough.

Another triple.

Sometime later, I again stood in the hot spot.

This time, the entire outfield moved back.

Way back.

It didn’t matter.

This time, it was a home run.

That ball went far enough that even my aged legs could toddle around all the bases.

We won the game.

But that didn’t matter.

Because for the first – and only – time in my life, I felt like a real ball player.

I had watched as the opposing team moved back to the far reaches of the field and knew they were doing it because, and I quote, ‘This girl can hit!’

I don’t know what happened that night.

Maybe there was some charmed quality in the clear air.

Maybe the spirit of Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays or Babe Ruth had wandered in for a visit.
Maybe I was channelling my Mom.

Maybe I just had a pitcher I could hit off of.

All I know is that it was magical.

It was my night.

My only night.

And I’ll never forget it.

Parental Perception

Not-Quite-Sanctuary. The family ranch in Fort MacLeod.

You can't hide things from your parents.

Just ask me . . .

I had my first 'official' job.

My Dad would argue this, as I worked for him for eight years.

Let me start again . . .

I had my first job-away-from-daddy's-ranch job.

It involved moving to Calgary, a city two hours to the north. And all the things that 'moving out' entails.

I had been an official Monday to Friday resident of Calgary for four months. And was feeling mighty independent as I made my weekly drive to my parent's ranch to fill my gas tank and stock up on food.

You look at 'independence' your way and I'll look at it in mine.

Ahem . . .

Just as I was driving into Claresholm, a small town just north of  the ranch, an ad came on the radio.

A rather effective ad, as it turns out. Wherein (good word) different people were asked what was most important in their lives.

There were various answers. The last being 'family'. Which was followed immediately by the sounds of screeching tires and an obvious vehicle collision.

I hadn't seen my family in six days.

And, I will admit it here, I'm a wuss.

The ad hit me hard.

I started to cry.

At that point, things got a little confused.

My Old English Sheepdog, Muffy, happily ensconced in her seat of power (commonly known as 'shotgun') came unglued.

Tears did that to her.

She alternately tried to lick my face.

And crawl into my lap.

Neither of which is very desirable when one is hurtling along the road at 40 MPH.

Which, if I could have seen clearly, should have been 30 MPH.

You can guess what happened next.

Red and blue lights erupted just after the last intersection.

And suddenly a wavery figure was indicating, rather forcefully, that I pull over.

Sigh.

He poked his head into my car, took one look at my red-rimmed eyes and tear-drenched face and immediately withdrew.

"Come to my car when you've composed yourself," he mumbled.

Then disappeared.

I dried my face and blew my nose.

Then calmed Muffy, who was still under the mistaken impression that I needed some good, doggy-style comforting.

Then I made my way over to the officer's car.

We had a nice chat, which culminated in an issued ticket for $25.00 and a warning to 'be more careful'.

Then, just as I reached for the door handle, the officer said, "If you don't mind. Why were you crying?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's silly, really," I told him.

"Do you mind telling me?"

"No." I related the entire fiasco, sparked by the ad on the radio.

It lost nothing in the telling.

I so love a good story.

He chuckled. Yes. People did that back then.

"I remember when I first went out to Regina for my RCMP training," he said. "I was one homesick puppy! I had never been away from home and I really missed my family."

We chatted a while longer.

Mostly about families and missing them.

And the incongruence (real word) of airing radio ads about car accidents specifically designed to make people cry.

And cause more car accidents.

I know. It doesn't make sense to me, either.

Then I left.

A few days later I paid my ticket and all was forgotten.

Or so I thought.

Moving forward several weeks . . .

I was sitting at the kitchen table when my parents came back from a quick trip to Calgary.

Dad came in and stopped beside my chair.

"How do you know an RCMP officer in Claresholm?" he asked.

I stared at him blankly.

RCMP Officer? I didn't . . .

Oh!

I had to relate the entire story, something I had formerly neglected to do.

Because of my reluctance to confess.

Dad chuckled. See? Chuckling again. It did happen.

"So how did you find out?" I demanded.

"Your mother and I just went through a check-stop in Claresholm," Dad said.

"Oh," I said.

"And this very kind and cheerful officer took one look at my license and asked me if I had a daughter, Diane."

"Oh," I said again.

"You can't blame us for being curious."

"Umm . . . so . . . what did he say?" I could feel my face getting red.

I hate it when that happens.

"He just told us that we had quite a daughter."

"Oh."

"Your Mother and I agreed with him." Dad smiled. "He handed back my license and waved us off."

"Oh." For a normally talkative person, I was really groping around for something to say.

Dad patted my arm.

"And don't speed," he said.

See? Parents always find out.

Pony Promotions

Sorrel gelding (male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, I would present myself to my teacher at the tack shed and draw my piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

I would grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, I would pick out a suitable mount (ie: one that I could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing I was ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

And/or lazy.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining.

A fairly common occurrence.

The wind wasn't blowing.

Not so common.

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Umm . . . Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

Something that had never been done before with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day.

With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Snipe Hunt

Who could fool that face?
Actually . . .

As a young man, Dad spent his summers working on the ranch.

It was these summers that convinced him that ranching was in his blood.

And that he would make it his life’s work.

Even though it had its embarrassing moments . . .

Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.

Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.

He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.

The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness - they were mesmerized by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.

Slick.

The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.

They waited for over two hours.

Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.

Only then did they realize they’d been had.

They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.

They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.

Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.

It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.

Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.

But being cowed.

P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

Parenting Fail

Chris, Jerry and Dad.
Background: The RIVER
Eeeeek.

Sometimes, in our best efforts to raise and protect our children, we blow it.

My Mom was amazing, but even she had her moments . . .

My eldest sister, Chris, was a wanderer.

On a ranch, that is never good.

Mom often was forced to perform herculean feats in order to keep her small daughter safe. (See here.)

Hmm . . . Training for a few years down the road when another small daughter would try her patience?

And her ingenuity?

But I digress . . .

She tried many different things.

And, on one occasion, resorted to ‘reason’.

With less-than-stellar results.

Three-year-old Chris was very fond of wandering down beside the river that flowed past the ranch house.

At times, Mom had to physically pluck her daughter from the very jaws of death.

Finally, she decided to try something that would encourage Chris to police herself.

She told her small daughter that it was dangerous to walk near the river.

Because there was a giant octopus that lived there.

And it would get her if she got too close.

Chris stared at her mother wide-eyed.

“Octopus?”

“Octopus,” Mom said knowledgably.

“Oh.”

Mom went back to her chores, happy in the knowledge that her little girl would now stay far from the wicked river’s banks.

A few minutes later, she looked up to see that, not only had her daughter disappeared, but her even smaller son.

Sighing, Mom began her search.

Even though she knew that the probability of the two of them heading for the river with the ravening, slavering octopus living there, her footsteps just naturally turned her in that direction.

Good thing, too.

Because it was there on the river bank that she found her intrepid duo.

Chris had toddler Jerry’s hand and was leading him along the bank.

Encouraging him to look out into the water and see if he could spot the octopus.

Yeah. Parenting fail.

The Birds and the Bees and the Cows and the Rabbits . . .

Oh, the things you learn from the top rail...

It’s spring.

Finally.

The time of new growth.

And baby animals.

Farm kids are exposed to the mating habits of animals early in life.

They just don’t always understand what they are seeing . . .

I was sitting on the top rail of the corral fence with my Dad.

Some cows, and a few bulls, just brought in from the nether pastures, were milling about below us.

Suddenly, one bull reared up.

Right onto the rear quarters of a cow.

I stared at them.

Weird.

The bull slid down.

And another took his place.

Really weird.

After three or four re-enactments of the same scenario, I turned to my dad.

“Daddy.” Indicating the bull. “What is that cow doing?”

Where did you think they came from?

Dad got a bit red-faced.

This was the fifties. Sex hadn’t been invented yet.

“Erm. Well . . . he’s resting his feet.”

“Oh.” Yeah. I was fairly easy to fob off in those days.

Today’s kids are also educated.

At least as well.

Case in point . . .

My friend raised rabbits.

Beautiful, lop-eared, gentle, soft, furry rabbits.

And by raised, I mean hutches in the back yard, carefully and successfully monitored.

With the help – or at least close scrutiny - of her children.

Babies (kittens or kits) came with amazing regularity.

These are rabbits we’re talking about, after all.

One day, a school friend asked the daughter where the baby rabbits come from.

“From the mommy,” she said, knowledgeably.

“Oh,” said the friend. “How does that happen?”

“Well,” the daughter said, “The daddy rabbit gets on the mommy rabbit and shakes her!”

We've come so far.

What can I say but CUTE!

I'm Baaaack!

We did it!

Our steed.

Sailed the ocean north to Alaska.
And survived.
Actually, I've discovered that when one goes adventuring on a cruise ship, one should be prepared for difficulties.
Such as deciding which of 700 entrées one would like to eat at any given time of the day or night.
I think they should just weigh everyone when they come onto the boat, then again when they are leaving, and charge by the pound.
I had to take two different sizes of clothes. Pre and post cruise.
But what a glorious, glorious time!
Sun.
More sun.(Incidentally, if you've been wondering where Spring is hiding, I found it. It's in Alaska!)
Friends.
Shopping.
Food.
Fabulosity. (Is that a word?)
It was a week I will never forget!

Friends.

More friends. And Husby and I.

Amazing food. eg. Watermelon pie. Made of different flavours of sherbet. With chocolate 'seeds'.

Unbelievable weather!

Approaching Glacier Bay.

Got him where I want him.

What happens on the cruise ship, STAYS on . . .

Thank you, Honey! What a way to celebrate thirty-eight wonderful years.
Here's to the next thirty-eight!!!

Thirty-Eight Years

Kids . . .

It's been thirty-eight years since my Husby and I said "I do."
It was eight o'clock in the morning when we exchanged our vows.
The first hot, sunny day of the year.
I forgot his ring.
And tossed the bouquet so high that it hit the ceiling and dropped directly behind me.
But it was there that the adventure started.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My Husby and his brother-in-law (hereinafter known as BIL) worked as civilian guards for the RCMP.
A job that entailed long nights spent watching the prisoners.
And visiting with the 'on shift' RCMP officers.
They became friends.
The guards and the officers.
Not the prisoners.
I thought I should point that out.
Ahem . . .
When my new Husby and I were set to leave on our honeymoon, we were very careful to leave a get-away vehicle safely hidden.
In the next town.
Let's face it, with this BIL, getting away was not only difficult. It was very nearly impossible.
He had been known to fill honeymooners vehicles with balloons or crumpled newspaper. Saran-wrap them shut. Apply Vaseline to each and every surface. Stick Oreo cookies to every window. Wrap them in toilet paper.
He had a fund of new and clever ideas.
But new Husby was crafty.
He and a trusted friend had gone days before and stashed the get-away vehicle in a garage of a friend of a friend of a  friend.
No one was finding it.
Oddly enough, his BIL asked only one thing. "In what direction are you headed?"
Husby told him. "North."
He merely smiled and nodded.
Okay, yes. It seemed too easy.
Sigh.
Our friend sneaked us out of the reception and into his car.
Then he took us to our truck.
It was undamaged.
Whew.
We piled in and started out.
Just as we were about to turn onto the main highway to Calgary, Husby stopped.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"It's too easy," he replied.
I stared at him.
"Too easy," he repeated. He put the truck into gear and turned it around.
"Umm . . . so . . . what are we going to do?" I asked. I mean, going back to my parents' was sort of out of the question . . .
"We're still going to Calgary," Husby said. "But we're going by a different route!"
And we did. We followed every secondary, gravel and/or dirt road all the way from Fort Macleod to the great metropolis.
It took a bit longer.
But we arrived safely.
We checked into our hotel.
Stayed there for a couple of days.
Then headed out on our real honeymoon.
We were gone two weeks.
Two wonderful, enjoyable, surprising, educational weeks.
When we arrived back home, we were met by the BIL, who welcomed us home warmly.
And with a wide grin.
Husby could stand it no longer. "What did you do?" he demanded.
The grin widened. "I had the boys put an APB out on your vehicle," he said.
"You . . . what?"
"Yeah. They put an APB out on your vehicle. I'm amazed they didn't pick you up!"
An APB is an 'All Points Bulletin' which alerts every police station - and I do mean EVERY - that such-and-such a vehicle is wanted. If spotted, approach, detain and apprehend.
Yikes.
I mean, the police in other areas didn't know why our vehicle had been flagged. They only knew it had been.
The results may have been disastrous.
I still shiver.
And glare at the BIL.
Thirty-eight years later.

P.S. Husby surprised me with an Alaskan cruise for our anniversary!
Internet connections are few and far between.
I'll check in when I can.
And give you the full report when we get home!
Wish us luck!

Prayers With Blair

To my younger brother on his 54th birthday . . .

Happy Birthday!

 . . .or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were outdoing . . . ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly, playing quietly in the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Gentility Lost

This post is a bit of a departure for me.

I usually don’t like to discuss issues.

But something has caught my attention . . .

My daughter, son-in-law, and their children enjoy attending Cosplay exhibitions.

They get quite involved, creating costumes for their entire family, interacting with like-minded people.

Tons of fun.

At a recent gathering, my SIL saw a couple that he is acquainted with.

I stress that he knows these two people.

But only in a ‘Hi, how are you doing!’ sort of way.

He had seen them at a recent Cosplay fair and they had been dressed as a coordinated couple.

At this show, the one partner was dressed as they had been before.

The other was in something different.

Innocently, my SIL asked this person why she wasn’t in her matching costume, especially as there was a contest.

Loudly, and blithely, she informed him – and anyone else who happened to be standing nearby - that she couldn’t wear that costume this weekend because she was, and I quote, “Having her period!”

My SIL was embarrassed. He mumbled something, took his little girls and left.

Do we share too much?

Is there nothing that is personal? Or private?

Or special?

In our efforts to prove that thinking people can discuss anything, have we lost our gentility?

That thin slice of refinement that sets us apart from the less intelligent creatures of the earth?

I’ve watched my dog greet others at the dog park. They have, quite literally, no secrets.

If they can sniff it out, they will.

And do.

And they are quite happy sharing.

Have we reached this stage? When we can (and will) blurt out anything.

Anything.

Have the words: refined, courteous, gallant, cultured, polite, discrete been discarded in favour of (so-called) freedom and independence and equality.

Have we lost our gentility?

What are your thoughts?

The Great White (Blonde) North

See? Blonde.

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) did not like blondes.

And my Mother-in-Law hated beards.

These two statements go together.

Just give me a moment . . .

So . . . back to my FIL.

No one knew why he did not like blondes.

And they did ask.

“Dad! Were you dumped by a blonde?”

“Dad! Did some blonde do something horrible?”

“Dad! Could I borrow twenty bucks?” Oh, wait, that has nothing to do with this.

Back to my story . . .

He passed away without ever sharing the reasons for his aversion.

But his family knew it well.

Whenever one of his five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, the first question was, invariably, “She’s not a blonde, is she?”

To which the invariable answer was, “Oh, no, Dad! She’s not a blonde! Definitely not a blonde!”

Even if she was.

The keys would be produced.

The date embarked upon.

All was well.

Yep. FIL’s aversion was well known.

Sometimes a little too well known.

His wife had an aversion as well.

To facial hair.

Here it comes . . .

If her husband ever suggested that he was considering growing a beard, she had the perfect answer.

“I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

Even the remote possibility of beard growing disappeared instantly.

Genius.

In his later years, he did make allowances.

I mean, he personally picked me for his son, and I had the white-blonde hair only found in people of Swedish heritage (like me) or points north.

And, in fact, two of his sons married blondes.

Call it parental opposition.

But the mystery remains.

The only other statement we ever heard from him concerning blondes was, “You know why blondes have more fun, don’t you? Because they get dirty quicker!”

Hmm . . . was that a hint?

Well Served

Server and Servee.

I'm a people-pleaser.

Or try to be.

Call it a weakness.

But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.

Most of the time, it's fun.

Occasionally, not.

Let me tell you about it.

When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.

I worked hard at it.

Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.

I had meals ready at meal times.

Kept the laundry done.

Cleaned the house.

Ran errands for him.

This went on for some time.

Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.

And probably should.

Case in point:

Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.

True story.

Can everyone say “gullible”?

This went on for nearly three years.

Then, one day, we were at a reception.

My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.

Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.

The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”

Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.

And that's when I hit him.

Oh, not hard.

Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.

And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.

Ha!

There.

I said it.

Erm . . . can I take that for you?