Judgement . . . Seat

Me and my Partner in Crime/ Future Best Friend

I was sitting in a Sunday School class yesterday.

The group was studying a particular scripture.

It concerned what happens when we all die.
The teacher explained that, when we die, all of us will be taken back to that God who made us.

I was with him that far.

Then he explained that everyone will wait there until the final judgement.

The righteous in a state of peace and calm.

The wicked in a state of anxiety knowing that the final judgement won't be pretty.

It was an interesting class.

It reminded me of something.

Because I have an active imagination.

And because I can't pay attention to anything for more than two minutes.

Unless there are moving pictures and/or shiny things . . .

My next older brother, George, and I used to squabble.

A lot.

It was his fault.

I can say that because this is my blog.

Okay, yes, it's connected to his blog, but I'm going to worry about that later.

Moving on . . .

I don't think we could exist in the same room for more than a few seconds before a fight would break out.

She's touching me!

He's taking my toys!

She's playing stupid games!

He says I'm playing stupid games!

HE/SHE'S BREATHING MY AIR!!!

You know the drill.

My mother tried all sorts of remedies.

Chores.

Confiscation of treats.

Loss of privileges.

The only thing that worked was 'time out'.

George and I spent many, many minutes thus engaged.

Or rather dis-engaged.

For first offences, such as minor disagreements over toys, she started out small.

“You two go and sit on a chair!”

This punishment was usually informal.

Consisting of a few moments spent sitting at opposite ends of the table.

If the crime was a bit more serious, ie. name-calling, time was added.

“You two sit there until the timer on the stove goes off!”

Rats.

Then there were the major offences.

Where things had gotten a little . . . physical.

Hair pulling and/or pinching and/or scratching.

“Both of you sit there on that piano bench until your father gets home!”

Oh, man.

Not only did we lose playing privileges.

But we had to sit in very close proximity to the person who had landed us in this predicament.

Sigh.

Did you know that, sometimes, older brother have cooties?

Well, they do.

Just FYI.

So there we sat.

Back to the discussion in Sunday School.

And I don't mean to be disrespectful.

But I think I know precisely what the teacher was trying to tell us.

My brother and I sat on that piano bench for what was probably only a matter of minutes.

But which seemed like hours to a four-year-old.

In a confined space.

Unable to leave.

Waiting for the punishment of a just father.

Yep. I know.

Momtime

Okay. Sometimes, it worked.

Naptime.

Next to bedtime, the highlight of a mother's day.

Or at least in my mother's day.

Mom was a great believer in the taking of naps.

It didn't matter if her children – ie. me -- weren't tired.

It they, meaning me, were willing and able to perform amazing feats of strength and energy. Provide positive proof that a nap definitely wasn't needed.

Someone needed a nap.

She would march me to my room.

Pull the blinds.

And point to the bed.

Sigh.

Reluctantly, I would lie down.

Mom would lie down beside me.

To make sure I stayed.

It worked.

I did stay.

Until she went to sleep.

See? One of us definitely needed a nap.

But I digress . . .

And that's when the skills I had learned over time at great personal cost came into play.

Let me describe . . .

First, I would slide out from under Mom's arm.

You have to know that this was only the beginning.

And, oddly enough, the easiest part.

Because once free of that arm, things got more complicated.

Mom was attuned to the slightest shift in the mattress.

I had to make sure that I didn't get careless and move too quickly.

Slowly, I would slide toward the edge of the bed.

An inch.

Another.

And carefully.

With long pauses between.

That fourteen inches of mattress looked mighty big at times.

And I didn't get a second chance if I got caught.

Countless times, I would have nearly reached my goal and Mom's eyes would snap open. “Diane! Get back here!”

Rats.

But there were glorious days when I was really sneaky, and would make it clear out to the living room before she noticed.

She would appear in the doorway, bleary-eyed and unsteady.

“Diane! What are you doing?”

It was a small victory.

But a victory nonetheless.

P.S. You know you're truly an adult when you no longer take naps.

But wish you did.

Little Health. Matters.

Bonk Eye.

Recently, I've noticed something.

That, in itself, is remarkable.

Moving on . . .

I work with a group of elderly people.

Some of them like nothing better than talking about their health.

Or lack thereof.

I've been treated to stories of gall bladders.

Knees.

Hips.

Hearts.

Lungs.

Mysterious lumps.

And a plethora of aches and pains.

I cluck sympathetically.

Knowing that each of these ailments will probably visit me at some point in the very near future.

But what is truly remarkable is the fact that the very young people I also associate with, ie. my grandchildren, are equally interested in their health.

Scrapes, bruises and cuts are examined minutely and then displayed, accompanied by a lurid tale of woe.

Often.

Sometimes, a tiny wound might go undetected for several days. Have scabbed over and be well on its way to healing. But once discovered, it must be fussed over and bandaged and kissed.

Several times.

My two-year-old granddaughter had fallen and bumped her head.

Just above her eye.

After the initial tears and hysteria, she had examined her wound in the mirror.

There was a distinct bruise.

“Mom!” she said loudly. “Bonk eye!”

Her mother agreed that, yes, she had 'bonked' her eye.

But that wasn't enough.

She had to tell everyone in the room.

Several times.

Later, at dinner, she mentioned it again.

Several more times.

Her uncle Tristan, having been at an activity, was late to dinner.

He slid into his chair and started dishing out food.

Here was someone new to tell.

“Unca Tristan!” she said, “Bonk eye!”

Tristan looked at her. “Yes, I see that you bonked your eye,” he said. He started eating.

“Unca Tristan, look! Bonk eye!”

“Yes,” he said.

“Bonk eye, Unca Tristan!”

“Yes.”

She took a couple of bites of food. Then, “Unca Tristan!”

“I know,” he broke in, rather wearily.

“Bonk eye!”

“Yes.”

This went on through the remainder of the meal.

And every time we saw her for the next few weeks.

Long after the slight bruise had healed.

And until the next injury pushed it off the front page.

Then it was, “Unca Tristan! Look!”

He looked at me. “On, man. Are we going to have another chorus of 'bonk-eye'?” 

I laughed.

Health issues.

Most important at each end of the age scale.

Differing only in seriousness.

Not in concern.

The Kitchen Window

For three years, we lived next to a haunted house.

Okay, it really wasn't 'haunted'.

But strange things went on there.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We lived on a street of tiny, beautiful starter homes. Less expensive and perfect for people living on a lower income.

They were filled with senior couples and young families.

We fit into the second category.

The house beside us, whose front porch I could see from my kitchen window, was home to a little elderly couple.

Sweet people.

Quiet.

Private.

We saw them seldom.

Then, one day, I noticed that two young girls were going in that front door.

I should mention, here, that I spent a lot of time at my kitchen window. It was over my kitchen sink.

Enough said.

For many months, we saw those girls regularly.

Then, suddenly, more people appeared. A young woman with tattoos, piercings, a neanderthal whose whose origins were questionable, and a baby named Levi.

Then I realized that I hadn't seen our elderly couple in quite some time.

In fact I never saw them again.

For several months the two young girls and the couple with their baby came and went.

Then two young boys, similar in age to the two young girls, appeared.

And the two young girls stopped.

Appearing, that is.

Now, as near as we could figure, the young couple and their baby and the two young boys lived there.

Then all activity ceased.

No one came or went.

One morning, I opened my front door to a very tall police officer. “Do you know the people who live next door?” he asked.

“That house?” I asked, pointing.

He nodded.

“I'm ashamed to say that I don't,” I said. “There was a nice elderly couple there. Then two young girls. Then a young couple and a baby. Then two young boys. But that's about all I can tell you.”

“Come with me,” he said. He led the way to the house.

I stopped in the front doorway.

Aghast.

I've always wanted to use that word . . .

The cute little house had been destroyed.

Cupboards had been ripped down off the walls and shredded into matchsticks. Every single wall and door had been punched out. The bannister ripped off the stairway and broken. Toilet ripped off the floor and thrown out the window.

The damage was unbelievable.

Incredible.

And, over the din of five kids and seven day-home kids, I had heard absolutely none of it.

Obviously someone had been very angry.

Or very, very disturbed.

For six months the little house remained empty.

Then, one day, crews appeared and effected repairs.

And, finally, a sweet young couple and their baby moved in.

Ahhh. Normal at last.

Then the fights began.

Usually in the wee hours of the morning.

One morning, after breakfast, I was again at my post, hands in the sink, when a police car, followed by a van pulled up next door.

Two policeman, one carrying a large camera got out.

Oh, no. Someone's killed someone, I thought.

The two went into the house.

Sometime later, more police cars arrived.

It took me a while to notice because I had the phone and was sitting on the floor calling my husband.

“I don't want to live here any more,” I said, tearfully. “Please move me somewhere else!”

I ended my phone call and stood up.

Just as the front door opened.

A policeman came out.

Carrying two large, beautiful, healthy marijuana plants.

Oh.

He was followed by another, carrying two more.

Then another.

And another.

In all, I counted 16 plants.

Okay, not what I expected.

The officers stowed the plants in the van and left.

I must admit that I was quite surprised when things next door became more or less normal for a while after that.

Then the fights began again.

One particular night, we heard the loud slam of a door.

Then pounding.

Then, “Open this door!”

The husband had pushed his wife outside and locked the door.

Soon we heard the starting of a vehicle and the squealing of tires.

Exit wife.

For a few weeks, the young husband and the baby continued to live there.

Then we moved.

I couldn't take it any longer.

Who needs TV when one has a kitchen window?

Type-Cast

 . . . or you could just throw it at someone . . .

In high school, amid the myriad choices, there was one class everyone was expected to take.

None of us could understand why.

It was a useless class.

What on earth would we ever need it for?

It's not like it had any practical applications.

Yep. Typing 10.

The colossal waste of time.

But we were, if nothing else, dutiful.

Daily, we would report to our teacher.

Then scurry to get the best machine.

I should explain, here, that the machines we used were all elderly 'Olivetti Underwoods'.

Non-electronic.

Totally manual.

Capable of jamming if any two keys approached the action zone at the same time.

Heavy, cast iron.

And able to take whatever abuse we chose to mete out.

And, believe me, that was Abuse with a capital 'A'.

One friend would systematically pound on her machine for every mistake she made.

It was quite entertaining.

And made the typing of the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog not quite so mundane.

And repetitive.

Daily, we were taken through exercises designed to improve our accuracy.

Our ability to type while looking anywhere other than our keyboard.

And our speed.

None of which were my forte.

Our teacher would stand at the front of the room with her trusty little stopwatch.

And holler 'Go!”

Dozens of keys would begin clicking.

Okay, another thing I should mention is that manual typewriters, at least the ones we used, were noisy.

All of us typing together would constitute what could only be considered a 'din'.

With the sound of my friend periodically rising above as she stopped to punch her machine. “Stupid, useless . . .!”

“Stop.”

Hands in our laps.

Then we would roll out our paper and check for mistakes.

This is where I always came to grief.

Well, one of the places.

I could type fast.

I just didn't ever hit the right keys.

Of all the kids in the class, I probably scored the worst.

Oddly enough, I'm the only one who now makes her living . . . typing.

The irony is just sickening.

P.S. Every time I see an old Olivetti Underwood, I get all misty and nostalgic. Go figure.

The Uninvited Guest

Picnics are a fixture of the great Canadian summer.

Something anticipated throughout the long, dark winter. The reward for spending months huddled around the wood stove.

Okay, I'm exaggerating.

But Canada does have winter.

And Canadians definitely look forward to summer.

And picnics.

The trouble with picnics is that they are so dependent on so many factors.

Weather is a biggie.

For instance, it's rather hard to picnic in the rain.

Though it has been done.

Wind, too can play havoc with one's plans.

As well as one's picnic blanket, napkins, paper plates.

And smaller guests.

But one of the most insidious of picnic problems is the uninvited guest.

And, believe me, they show up for every picnic.

They show up if a picnic is merely being contemplated.

I'm sure they have poked their noses in at your picnics.

And I do mean poked.

I'm talking mosquitoes here.

Those little, lighter-than-air messengers of doom.

Irritators extraordinaire.

High-pitched precursors to prolonged itch and expressive words.

Known to achieve sizes heretofore only seen in the pre-Cambrian days.

With the ability to carry off unsuspecting small animals.

The reason Canadians wear their winter gear year round.

And learn to eat quickly and with one hand.

While the other hand feverishly stands guard . . .

My friends were picnicking.

Their entire family had turned out.

They were visiting.

Eating.

Laughing.

Enjoying the beautiful day and fresh air.

And generally doing those things that make a picnic so enjoyable.

Grandmother was seated at one of the many picnic tables.

Enjoying a hamburger.

With a sesame seed bun.

In the company of one of her young grandsons.

That's when the uninvited guests arrived.

One particularly determined individual was making life miserable for said Grandmother.

She lifted a hand and grabbed at it.

Now the normal hand motion is: Grab. Look. And if one is successful, Smash.

She completed the first two manoeuvres.

Grab.

Look.

Rats. She had missed.

But she did see a sesame seed, stuck to her finger.

Which she then, happily, licked off.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the grandson was seated opposite, watching his beloved grandmother.

I probably don't have to describe what he thought he saw.

But I will.

Grandmother grabbing mosquitoes.

And eating them.

His horrified expression and the words 'Grandma! Yuck!' which burst out of him alerted her to what he was seeing.

She quickly explained.

And peace and appetite were restored.

But she raises an important point.

Instead of making mosquitoes the uninvited guests at a picnic, why not make them the picnic?

Who's with me?

Smashing hands up!

Men Wanted

This . . .

Will get you this . . .  Maybe . . .

For over twenty years, we ran a family business.Mikey's Music Machine.

We were DJs, specializing in family dances.

We had . . . fun.

Running a family business is wonderful in many respects.

Dealing with telephone solicitors isn't one of them.

With my apologies to anyone reading this who may have 'telephone solicitation' on their resume.

Ahem.

One particularly persistent individual had been on the phone with me for longer than I cared to talk to him.

Which was more than five seconds.

He wanted to sell our company pens.

Pens with 'Mikey's Music Machine' printed in a number of different fonts.

On an even greater selection of backgrounds.

In an attempt to convince me of the need for said pens, his company would guarantee that, by placing an order for a mere 1500 of the rascals, I would receive one of the following:

• A new car
• A new, big-screen TV
• A six-man hot tub.

It was there I stopped him.

“Six-man hot tub?” I said. “Does it come with the men?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“Ummm . . . no.”

“Darn,” I said.

Then the unexpected response. “Are you married?”

It was my turn to say, “Ummm . . . yes.”

And his turn to say, “Darn.”

I really don't know what path the conversation had taken, but it was definitely not the one that we had started out on.

Time to get off the phone.

Which I did.

Without my pens.

Yep. Running your own family business.

An eye-opener.

In so many different ways.

Taking Aim

I'm home!

Hopefully to stay for a while . . .

Lunch.

For over twenty years, my Husby served as Scout supervisor.

This included acting as a leader on numerous scout camps.

A true test of one's manhood.

Or at least one's patience and endurance.

These camps were held, invariably, in the great outdoors. Woods. Mountains. Streams.

Wild animals.

The scouters glimpsed many, many of these latter. But the animals they saw most were the cute, little furry ones who ran in and out of their campsites. Made messes.

And stole food.

Squirrels.

The original camp robbers.

On one camp, there was a particular little scamp who was a little bolder and craftier than others like her.

She got into one too many bags of treats.

One of the scouts - who had aspirations to play major league - threw a rock at her.

Hit her square.

And knocked her dead.

I don't know which of them was the most surprised.

Husby looked at the chagrined boy and decided this was a perfect teaching moment. One did not waste what was given in the woods, he told the scouter.

He made the boy skin the squirrel out.

Clean it.

And cook it.

Unfortunately, the lesson was rather lost. It was a young squirrel, tender and succulent.

Rather tasty.

The boys talked about the incident throughout the rest of the camp and into the next season.

And winter camp.

Attended by the younger brother of the first scout.

Who now had some big shoes to fill.

Or so he thought.

Again, there was an abundance of squirrels.

He chose one.

Took aim with his rock.

And hit it with one shot.

So far so good.

After enduring the getting-to-be-standard lecture from his scouter, he skinned the squirrel out.

Cleaned it.

And cooked it.

And suddenly discovered that not all squirrels are the same.

This one, a rather elderly male had been surviving on winter fare and was . . . nothing like the first.

Tough, stringy and decidedly . . . un-tasty.

Unhappily, he chewed his way through it.

Then hung up his stones and throwing arm for good.

Some records just aren't made to be broken.

Insignificant. Part Three.

By request, a repost of my award-winning story.

If you missed Part One, it's here.

Part Two? Here.

We'll proceed slowly so you can catch up . . .

What would you do?

If you could . . .

Part Three

“It is with great pleasure that we present this award to the team of Dr. Lucy Snow and Dr. Lawrence McGovern.”

The applause was thunderous as Lucy and Larry made their way to the podium. Breathless and smiling, they stood there in the spotlight and waved to the crowd.

“Dr. Snow? Dr. McGovern?”

They turned.

“The Scintell Company is proud to present you with this award of astounding achievement,” Dr. Rogers said, holding out a large, silver plate. “In recognition for your amazing contributions this year.”

Lucy reached for the heavy trophy. “Thank you, Dr. Rogers,” she said.

“We are honoured,” Larry added.

Dr. Rogers laughed. “It's so nice to be able to come out from behind the president's desk once in a while and mix with the people who do the real work in this company.” He put a hand on each doctor's shoulder. “And especially when it is for something this momentous.”

“Well, Dr. Rogers, we have to return the thanks,” Lucy said. “If it weren't for the support and the faith of this company, Dr. McGovern and I would never have been able to achieve this milestone.” She looked out at the crowd. “And thanks to all of you!” She held up the trophy. “This is for all of us!”

The applause and cheering were deafening.

Dr. Rogers was back at the mike. “So, what's next?” he asked.

“Oh, we have many plans,” Lucy said, her eyes glowing. “Many, many plans.”

* * *

“Is that what you're going to wear?” Larry asked.

“Lare, this is all about functionality, not fashion,” Lucy said.

“Okay,” Larry grinned. “If you say so.”

“Oh, shuddup and get on with it,” Lucy said, grinning.

Larry laughed. He twisted a couple of dials. “Okay, I'm ready,” he said.

Lucy pulled the strap of a small bag over her shoulder and buttoned her heavy, cotton jacket. “Me, too,” she said.

“You're sure you've got it right this time?”

“Lare, haven't we done this enough times that you can stop asking me that?”

Larry shrugged. “You keep looking and looking,” he said, “and you haven't hit paydirt yet.”

“I'm feeling lucky this time,” Lucy said. “My research was just a trifle off before. I'm sure I've got it right now.”

“So . . . how long do you want me to give you?”

“Oh, say . . . two days?”

“You think you can finish the job in that short amount of time?”

“Lare. I told you. I've done my research this time.”

Larry shrugged. “You're the boss.”

“I am,” Lucy grinned. “And don't you forget it.”

“Well, I guess we should get on with it.”

“Wish me luck,” Lucy said, stepping into the booth.

“You don't need it,” Larry said. “You've got research!”

Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.

“But, good luck!” Larry pushed the brown button.

An orange glow filled the booth. With a slight 'pop', Lucy disappeared.

Larry set some controls and glanced at the clock. He pressed a button. “Trial 238, proceeding,” he said. “Time: 2:59 PM.” Then he left the room.

Bucket Wars

Not just for food storage any more.

Son Two is tall.

In his stocking feet, six-foot-eight. Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.

I have a close family friend.

I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.

Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.

She makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.

In fact, the word 'feisty' might describe her perfectly.

ST used to tease her about her height.

Or lack thereof.

I should point out that this woman has six children of her own. She could give it right back.

One day, she and ST had been exchanging insults.

After a particularly pointed comment which ended with his pretending to put an elbow on the top of her head and using her as a fence post, she tried something a little more proactive.

“Oh!” she said. Nearby was a bucket of honey.

Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.

Moving on . . .

She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.

I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.

“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do now?”

ST merely stepped backwards.

“Oh!” She said again. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him.

Then she stepped up once more.

“Ha!” she said a second time.

He stepped back once more.

“Oh!”

This went on for some time.

She pushed that bucket of honey all over the kitchen.

Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.

Hmm.

I wonder if we could market this idea on a global scale . . .

Boy's Toys

It's time for our family's annual trek to beautiful Banff, Alberta.

Hiking. Swimming. Climbing. Games. Reading.

Family.

We are staying at a beautiful hotel. Comfortable.

Even luxurious.

The only thing it lacks is a steady connection to the internet.

Sigh.

Posts for the next few days may be spotty.

Inconsistent.

Or completely absent.

Sorry!

You know I love you!

Picture it green. And nickel-plated.

When my Husby was a teenager, he bought an old truck.

Which he painted green.

Forever after, it was known as The Frog. And became a common sight on the streets of Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

The Frog was Husby's pride and joy.

He loved tinkering with it.

Often, his father commented on the amount of time spent with that old truck.

And the dollars.

“What are you doing now?” he asked one day. “Nickle-plating it?”

Husby laughed, but an idea was born.

He bought a small tin of aluminium paint.

Then crawled under the truck.

Scraped the rust and dirt off the chassis.

And painted it.

Shortly thereafter (oooh! good word) his father took the truck down to the local shop to have the oil changed.

The mechanic slid underneath to begin proceedings.

“Hey!” he shouted. “It's chrome-plated under here!”

Husby's dad had to see it. Then shook his head and snickered.

Yes. Snickered.

“I knew it!”

Later, Husby and many, many friends were heading to a youth activity down near the river in Lethbridge.

The cab of the truck was stuffed with young bodies.

And the back with many more.

A policeman pulled them over.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked my Husby.

“No, officer,” came the respectful reply. (It's my story, I'll tell it how I want.) 

Moving on . . .

“No officer. We are just heading to a youth activity.”

“Well you have a taillight out,” the officer said. “While we're at it, let's give this truck the once-over.”

“Okay,” Husby said.

The officer and his trusty flashlight began a systematic search for 'things wrong'.

Lights.

Brake lights.

High/low beams.

Horn. Husby pulled out the ashtray.

The horn honked loudly.

The officer swung his flashlight back to the console.

“Do that again!” he said.

Husby pulled out the ashtray.

HONK!

“This thing belongs in a museum!”

He was right.

I never got to meet The Frog.

It had been sold long before I came on the scene.

It's definitely my loss.

Sneaky-ness Detected

Our eldest son isn't someone who could be considered 'sneaky'.

In fact, I think he swings quite the other way.

Oh, he tries.

In fact, when he was little, he used to fancy himself a ninja.

The master of subtlety and sneak-iness.

But when it came to actually . . . shifting the blame, or obfuscation of facts?

He was lost.

And oddly enough, it was usually because he couldn’t bear to leave things in a disorderly manner.

Let's face it. Sneaking into other people's possessions, and tidying them before you leave?

Better than they were before?

Not the most subtle of practices.

When ES was 12, his scout group was fund-raising.

He dutifully received his case of chocolate-covered almonds.

I should point out that he was supposed to sell them.

He didn't.

The case rested - for safety's sake and because I knew my almond-loving son - on the floor in my bedroom.

Daily, I lifted one of the boxes on top and rattled it.

Just to make sure it hadn't been tampered with.

In hindsight, I should have dug deeper.

Moving on . . .

The evening came when we had been planning to go door-to-door.

I lifted the case.

It was surprisingly light.

Much too light.

I discovered that the only boxes that actually contained almonds were the four on the top.

ES had been systematically eating the rest.

Then tidily sealing the empties and putting them back into the box.

Sigh.

He also had a thing for ice cream.

The sneaking of which was a family Olympic sport.

But where the other kids would grab a spoon and sneak a bite, then dispose of said spoon into the sink where it would instantly achieve anonymity, ES would get out a bowl.

And spoon.

Sneak his ice cream.

Then rinse the bowl and spoon.

And set them in the freezer.

With the ice cream.

Remember what I said about subtlety?

Yep. Not happening.

Years have passed.

I can't comment about his almond/ice cream snitching ways or their effectiveness today.

His wife and his kids have to worry about that.

It's a perfect world.

The View

A better view. From our porch.

Mexico.

The history.

The culture.

The food.

The heat.

The warm beach.

The tourists . . .

Husby and I had finally achieved a lifetime dream and were sitting beneath a shady umbrella on a patch of the wide, white sand near Cancun.

 Around us was every classic romantic novel encapsulated.

Creamy surf laving the beach.

Sun-worshiping bodies lying in various positions of relaxation and abandon.

A soft breeze caressing white skin (safely hidden from the February sun), flirting with the fringe of the stripped umbrella, teasing the brim of an intricately woven hat and breathing gently across the ice floating in a crimson drink.

With a sigh of pure contentment, Husby leaned back and took a long drink, ice clicking quietly in his tall glass.

Then he gasped.

I looked at him. His eyes had widened as he stared at something down the beach. I turned to follow his gaze.

And felt my breath catch in my throat.

A large man . . . I emphasize large . . . was coming toward us.

And he was naked.

No. Wait. Beneath a ponderous, hanging belly, did I catch a glimpse of something . . . blue?

The man turned slightly.

I did! Something blue!

I felt the blood drain out of my face. Okay. Something small and blue.

The man had enveloped his cargo in a speedo.

Then, not really concerned with anything as trivial as modesty, had . . . rolled it down.

The result was not a mere infraction of the whole beach-wardrobe code, it was a felonious crime of . . . massive proportions.

I reached for Husby’s drink and gulped.

Lying on a beach in Mexico had been heralded as the ultimate in relaxation and pure, sensual comfort. With limitless views of both ocean and sky.

No one had mentioned the views that one could encounter a little closer to one’s beach chair.

Umm . . . Yikes.

Oh, Delores. My Delores. What challenge will you give us next . . .?

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light fame hands out - with grave impartiality - six little words. Then we, her devoted followers, try to make sense of them.

Or at least a story . . .

This week's words?

enveloped, shady, classic, speedo, infraction and cargo

What could that possibly suggest but a glimpse of Husby's and my trip to Mexico . . .

Party Pooped

Jerry. With Mom.
Oh . . . and me.

Jerry is my big brother.

He’s cool

He’s neat.

And he never could be considered a ‘party animal’.

An explanation is in order . . .

One of the best times to host a party is on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone is excited.

Everyone is happy.

And , more importantly, everyone wants to party.

Jerry decided to host his first, ever, New Year’s Eve celebration.

Invitations were extended.

Preparations were made.

And Mom cleaned the house for two days straight.

They were ready . . .

The party started out well.

Forty or so kids, all intent of having a great time.

There was a group in the ping-pong room.

Cheering or competing.

Another group around the pool table.

Ditto.

There were kids dancing in the front room.

Kids playing games wherever there was a space.

Kids circling the snacks table.

And kids visiting with my Mom in the kitchen.

The house was full and the party was, for lack of a better term, ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

The time came for the big build-up to the New Year.

Noisemakers were handed out. Because forty-plus people couldn’t make enough noise on their own.

The countdown.

The cheer.

Or rather, din.

And the New Year was official.

Everybody completed the ritual hugging and kissing.

And went back to what they had been doing.

Well, almost everyone.

Several young ladies were looking for someone specific to ‘congratulate’.

My brother, Jerry.

They searched throughout the house. Staked out the bathrooms until the current occupant emerged. And finally enlisted the help of my Mom.

She did a circuit of the obvious places. Then decided to see if Jerry was, for some reason, in his room.

She knocked.

No answer.

She cracked the door and peeked into the darkened room. Reached in and flipped the light switch.

A sleepy head lifted from the pillow.

“Whazzup?”

He had visited and played games.

He had congratulated and cheered.

He had gotten tired.

He had gone to bed.

Never mind that he was leaving his guests to wind down and find their own way to the door.

Nope.

Bed was the place for him.

My brother, Jerry.

Party host extraordinaire.

“Hope you had a good time! Don’t forget to put out the lights when you leave!”

Who You Gonna Call?

Now tell me a dark shirt and light tie wouldn't have looked spiffy!

My future Husby and I were preparing for our wedding.

It had been a painless process to this point.

We were standing in the Men's Wear shop.

The best one in Lethbridge.

Husby-to-be was dressed in a new suit.

Light blue.

Spiffy. (real word)

He looked fantastic.

It was the 70s.

Enough said.

I loved this new, light-blue suit.

I thought it would look fantastic with a dark blue shirt and a light tie.

Now, I should explain here that Husby-to-be had spent his whole life - and particularly the last two years - in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie.

He never noticed how the rich and famous and photographed were dressed.

Never caught a glimpse of the 'fashion' ads.

Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie were what a young man wore.

Every young man.

Always.

His wife-to-be was just a touch more daring.

I had seen the fashion ads.

Had glanced through the Movie Star magazines.

I knew Husby-to-be would look amazing in a light suit, dark shirt and light tie.

Like the men in the Godfather.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that.

I had gotten him into the suit.

But there, all progress had stopped.

He stared suspiciously at the dark shirt I was holding up.

And the light tie.

Finally, he uttered the words that every husby-to-be learns, sooner or later, NOT to say.

Those fateful words that draw a neat line between pre and post-marriage days. 

“I'll ask my mom what she thinks.”

I sucked in a breath. I'm sure the look on my face spoke volumes.

Volumes.

Because he immediately recognized he had said something wrong.

He wasn't sure what, but . . . definitely wrong.

He did wear the light suit.

With a white shirt and light-ish tie.

All totally without any input from his mom.

Compromise at its best.

Using Protection

Big Sister modelling the new chaps.
And yes, something (footwear?) is missing. 

Dad. Ditto.

In the calving field at the Stringam Ranch was a large patch of bullberry bushes.

Or at least that's what we called them.

I don't know what their 'official' name is.

It doesn't matter.

Whatever their name, they're deadly.

Spikes – I am not exaggerating – up to two inches long.

Against a tender and unprotected human hide, they could do some real damage.

The cows in the field had learned to use them.

When a *gasp* human appeared, they would charge into the bushes.

And chuckle with their friends.

I know.

I heard them.

Moving on . . .

The first time or two, my horse decided to charge in after them.

I should explain that a horse's hide is equally as tough as a cow's.

A human's? See above.

Inevitably I would emerge from such incidents rather the 'worse for the wear'.

As my mother was so fond of saying.

The second time I showed up at home with bloodstains on my shredded jeans, my mother drug out Dad's moose-hide chaps.

Now, I should mention here that chaps look really good on a tall slim cowboy.

Really, really good.

Ahem.

And certainly they have their uses.

The chaps, not the cowboys.

Okay yes. A cowboy, too, has his uses.

But that is a completely different sort of post . . .

Back to my story . . .

Chaps provide protection from the ravages of ranch work.

They have saved many a pair of jeans from wear during haying.

And many a cowboy from damage when things get up close and personal.

But they are perversely hard to ride in when one is doing so bareback.

I know.

I tried.

Bareback riding requires balance.

Intuition.

And a good grip with the knees.

Chaps, especially heavy ones, prevent the all-important knee grip.

And actually make balance a bit more difficult.

Sigh.

What to do?

Protection won out.

I wore the chaps.

And they sported the scars to prove it.

Picture leather nearly a quarter of an inch thick.

With cuts that went almost all the way through.

That could have been me.

Years later, I showed them to my children.

Who expressed proper and well-deserved awe and amazement.

Yesterday, my Husby and I were wandering through a store in cattlemen country.

Hanging from the rafters just inside the front door were a pair of chaps.

But not just any chaps.

These were made of leather, dyed green and purple and gold and pink.

With silver fringe.

I stared at them.

Chaps had obviously changed.

Not just for protection any more.

Now they could be worn to scare cows out of the bush.

Or so that their rider could be seen by satellite.

Ranching has come a long way.

Beyond the Statute

Or something similar...

I can only write this story because the Statute of Limitations has expired.

Growing up on the ranch provided many opportunities to drive the tractor around the field. And around and around and around and around and . . .

You get the picture.

This can be very boring.

However, if one is on the right tractor . . .

One hot day, I was given the opportunity to drive our big Case.

At the time I was about 16 years old and I liked driving it because it made a very big vroom sound.

I don't remember the horse power. Let’s just say it had lots of ponies in its motor.

I also liked it because it had a comfortable seat that moved up and down as you drove across the bumpy field, air conditioning, and a radio.

Things not found on other tractors on the ranch.

On a nice hot day, the air conditioning was greatly appreciated and I always liked having a radio. It helped relieve the monotony/boredom.

Now here is where the statute of limitations comes in.

I was instructed by Mom to keep the air conditioning at a reasonable level. She told me that if I had the air conditioning at its maximum level, it was unhealthy. I would say “Sure, Mom” then wait for her to leave and turn the air conditioning as cold as I could get it.

The second thing I was told to do was keep the radio at a moderate level. Then I could hear mechanical noises in a timely manner and shut down and repair equipment. If one didn’t detect these things early there was the potential of having a catastrophic failure.  In other words fix/replace a small part or fix/replace lots of parts. Again my reply was “Sure, Dad” then wait for Dad to leave the field and turn up the radio. 

I was operating the big Case tractor on a beautiful hot summer day.

The birds were singing.

Well I guess they were singing.

Who can hear birds over the roar of the tractor and the ‘moderate’ radio.

The air was fresh and clear.

I think.

It was definitely cold in the cab of the tractor.

I was pulling a big cultivator around the field.

Then it happened.

The cultivator snagged a rock that was just under the soil surface.

In a few short seconds I was staring in horror at an expensive cultivator rolled into a ball around a rock the size of a cow.

I should mention here that I was not concerned about the cultivator. But about the explanation that I was going to give Dad.

My mind immediately started putting my account of the situation together.

Phrases like:

“I was regularly looking at the gages of the tractor and all was fine.”

“I was constantly surveying the soil surface for rocks and other nasty potentially machine-breaking items.” 

“Oh, no! The radio was not blasting loudly, I don’t think I could hardly hear it.”

Then a miracle happened.

The big ball of metal, rock, and soil disentangled themselves and the cultivator popped back into its original shape.

The entire episode lasted a few short seconds.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stopped the tractor. I felt that I had better look the cultivator over and make sure everything was in place before I continued my trek around the field.

It was then I learned why Mom told me to keep the air conditioning at a moderate level. 

I threw open the tractor cab door and was immediately hit with a blast of hot outside air.

I felt a little dizzy but continued down the ladder to the ground.

As I was moving down, a massive amount of hot air from the very powerful motor hit me. My ears started to ring and my head started to spin. My legs turned to spaghetti and I stumbled to the ground.

Luckily, this moved me away from the hot air spewing from the motor.

My head cleared and I was able to move/stumble away from the tractor. 

I looked at the cultivator and determined that it was all right.

I breathed another sigh of relief.

The engineer that designed said cultivator had foreseen my encounter and put in the trip mechanisms to protect it.

I was suddenly grateful for engineers.

Once I had finished with the cultivator, I carefully avoided the blast of hot air as I climbed back on the tractor.

Then I turned down the radio and air conditioning.

And vowed to listen more to Mom and Dad.

Every Sunday, I am featuring stories from little brother Blair, now an Engineering Professor in New Mexico. Who also lived on the ranch with me.

And whose memories are almost as good . . .