The Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an iron-er.

A Demon iron-er.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine.

No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing. Everything had to be done just so.

I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron.

She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there that's a women's size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

A Little Religious Education

Dinnertime is family time.

And sometimes, you learn a lot.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had been steadily working our way through husby’s homemade beef stew.

With yummy thick slices of bread.

The conversation – revolved.

Three-year-old Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as G6) had finished and was waiting, somewhat patiently, for the rest to follow.

So she could be excused.

Suddenly, she remembered something exciting.

She had just received a new set of scriptures.

And in them, right there in the front, was a picture of Jesus.

This was news that simply couldn’t wait.

She had to show us.

She scrambled down from her chair and ran to fetch her book.

Opening it to the correct page, she proudly displayed the picture for everyone.

The conversation went something like this . . .

G6: “Look! It’s Jesus! Jesus. Everyone! Jesus!”

Daddy: “What’s Jesus’ last name?”

G6: Blank look.

Grandma: “What’s Jesus’ last name, Sweetie?”

G6: Blinking and blank look.

Grandma (speaking slowly in her best this-is-a-hint voice): “Jesus C-h-r-i-s-t . . .”

G6 (light dawns): “Oh!” Big smile. “Amen!”

So just in case you’re wondering about that elusive last name . . .

Now you know.

The picture.

Memories

Yep. Back then, the brain . . . worked.

The summer I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, volunteered to run a summer day camp for the kids in Milk River.

We had a marvelous time.

Games. Treats. Crafts. Treats. Contests. Treats. Activities. More treats.

I was ten.

Anything to do with food took priority.

Hmm. Still does in fact.

Moving on . . .

Chris put heart and soul into the program.

There were no parameters laid out, so she had to come up with the guidelines and curriculum herself.

She did a wonderful job.

Part way through the summer, she decided that it would be fun if she got all of the kids involved in performing a play.

And not just any play.

The Wizard of Oz.

A fairly ambitious undertaking for a seventeen year old girl and her group of pre-teens.

First, she had to come up with a script.

That was all right, because our family had the story on an LP.

LP.

Go ahead. Google it. We'll wait . . .

And that's where I came in.

I had one talent as a child.

I could memorize.

If I listened to it once, I could pretty much give a detailed description.

If I listened to it a lot?

I could recite it.

With voice inflections and sound effects.

And that was what I did.

For three days, I recited and Chris wrote.

The entire hour-and-a-half of 'The Wizard of Oz'.

As it had been recorded.

We had our script . . .

I should mention here that we never got to perform our play.

We simply ran out of time.

But we learned something important.

If you wanted anything remembered, let Diane listen to it ad infinitum for a couple of days and it was there forever.

Word perfect.

This skill stayed with me for a while.

In fact, I played the lead some years later in 'The Rented Christmas', and memorized the entire play.

To the point that I served as the prompter.

On stage.

My point in telling you all of this is simply to reminisce.

And to lament.

I've been trying to figure out what I watched last night on TV.

I know it was a good movie. And that I enjoyed it immensely.

I can't - for the life of me – remember.

Oh, for just a portion of that bygone talent!

Sigh.

Served With Love

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner last night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

Not steamed. Boiled.

I kid you not.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And you know something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

You're a Winner!

My first official household job when I became a newly minted teenager was the vacuuming.

Ugh.

Mom would drag out her antiquated upright vacuum, wheel it over to where I was sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, and say, cheerfully, “Diane! You've just won a trip!”

There, she would pause significantly, smiling widely at me.

I knew what was coming.

Which made it distinctly un-funny.

Finally, she would add, “Around the house with the vacuum!”

Sigh.

I hated vacuuming.

And her vacuum, whatever it's glowing attributes in its younger days, was distinctly past its prime.

In fact, it hardly had any suction at all.

Vacuuming with a machine that hardly sucks really sucks.

So to speak.

Dutifully, and after a significant number of follow-up 'encouragements', I would drag myself out of my comfy chair, grasp the handle of my nemesis, and start in.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Stupid vacuum.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Look at that! It won't even pick up that piece of lint.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Have I mentioned that I hate vacuuming?

Brrrrrrrrr.

And so it went.

Every Saturday, there was a half hour or so of my life that I'd never get back.

Sigh.

I learned a few things:

1.  Running an upright vacuum with a spinning brush over an area rug usually resulted in the disastrous ingestion of said rug.

2. Kind of funny to watch, but not so good for either the rug or the vacuum.

3. If you stood with a foot at either edge of said rug you could hold it down.

4. Genius.

5. SPINNING BRUSHES ARE NOT TO BE TAMPERED WITH.

Hmm. I think on that last point, I will elucidate:

One day, the wretched vacuum quit sucking altogether.

For several minutes, I ran it back and forth over the same piece of lint.

Nothing.

Without shutting it off, I tipped it up to see if the problem was something obvious.

It was! Right . . . there.

Now, just because a vacuum had quit sucking, doesn't necessarily mean that it has stopped working.

I poked one finger towards the problem.

ZZZZZTTTT!

Ow.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I dropped the vacuum and did the dance of pain, clutching my injured right pointer finger in my left hand.

Finally, I spread my hand, palm up and gazed at it.

Looked okay from here.

I turned it over.

My fingernail was black.

I kid you not.

Black.

The spinning vacuum brush had ripped it free of my finger in one quick, easy movement. Leaving it attached only by the outer edges.

And it had filled instantly with blood.

Ick.

And it hurt.

Ouch.

Sometime later, an incessant noise intruded upon my pain and I realized, belatedly, that the vacuum was still running.

Not that it was doing any good.

I switched it off and ran to find my mom.

My black fingernail was with me for a long time.

A long time.

A reminder that vacuuming was not to be taken lightly.

Or at least that vacuums were to be treated with respect.

After that, whenever I needed to see the inner workings, not only was the beast switched off.

But it was also unplugged.

A lesson harshly taught.

But a lesson nonetheless.

P.S. I still hate vacuuming.
Just FYI.

Mission Possible

“Ummm . . . hello?” I moved out of the hallway cautiously. The reception area looked deserted, but I knew from past experience . . .

“Good morning, Jim!” The slow, distinct, whispered words were coming from someplace ahead. And below.

“Umm . . . my name’s not . . .”

“You will find a document on the desk. Read it.”

I moved slowly toward said desk, still glancing carefully all about. In the very center of the spotlessly clean surface was a large, brown envelope. I hesitated, then reached for it. It was light. Thin. Obviously not filled with copious notes smuggled out in an ongoing industrial espionage heist. I slid out a single sheet of paper. A photograph.

And stared at it.

The whisper continued. “The person caught on camera here is a fairly normal, mundane woman from a rather boring branch of the civil service.”

Normal? I had my doubts.

“Not usually prone to riveting drama or hijinks; or galvanized to action by spectacular messages sent from unseen forces.”

What?

“Your assignment should you choose to accept it is to contact her. Set up an assignation. A meeting. Get to know her. I’m thinking maybe dinner.”

I wondered if I looked as surprised as I felt.

“And see where it takes you.”

Ummm . . .

“As always, should you or any member of your FedEx team be frightened off, or if the answer is no, the receptionist will disavow any knowledge of this transaction. Good luck, Jim.”

“Oh, and leave any packages you may be carrying on the desk. She’ll sign for them later.”

Each week, Our favourite blogger, Delores of Under the Porch Light, extends greetings.

And a list of words.

She only does this to friends.

I shudder to think of what she does to enemies . . .

Moving on . . .

This week's list? 

industrial, copious, galvanized, branch, riveting, camera

Take that, Delores!

We love you!

Later

This'll be my sweetie and me in another 20 years...

Now you have a Love that is loyal and true,

And perfect in every way.

But knowing all that, now I put it to you . . .

What in the world would you say?

From the time that we met as she walked down the street,

Just a’singing her favourite song,

Every moment together was perfect and sweet,

Put it mildly, we two got along.

Daily we’d treasure our moments together

And the years have gone past in a blur,

But lately, I’ve found that there’s one sort of weather,

I’m finding it hard to endure.

Now I’m not nasty or mean and I try to be kind,

I’ve given her arms that are strong.

It’s been fifty-five years, I’m mos’ deaf and near blind,

And I’m needing a different song!

I admit that I liked it when our Love was first new,

But more and more often, I find,

That ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’,

Is driving me out of my mind!

Sweethearts.

And to make the ear worm complete: Manfred Mann.

All-Day Hookey

So nice! Sigh.

I played hooky.

Once.

For those of you who don't know, 'hooky' is a term coined to describe being absent without leave.

In my case, I was absent from school.

And I didn't do it alone.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were in grade twelve. For the last semester of my grade twelve year, I lived with Debbie's family, the Joneses, and attended school in the town of Magrath.

Our school bus arrived promptly every morning at 7:30.

After an hour and a half commute, we would arrive, sleepy and slightly dishevelled at the Magrath High School to begin a day of instruction.

One morning, one of us really wasn't in the mood.

Oh, she got up all right.

Got ready.

Endured the bus ride.

But, standing there in front of those venerable halls of learning, she balked.

“I don't wanna go,” Debbie said.

I stared at her. “What?”

“I don't wanna go,” she said again.

“Oh.” What did one say to that?

“Let's play hooky!”

“Debbie, we can't play hooky!”

“Yes we can! We've never done it and the semester, the year, the school experience is nearly over!”

She had a point. Both of us had been exemplary students.

Precisely what our fathers expected.

“Deb, my dad would kill me!”

“C'mon, Diane, it's only one day!”

I looked at her. Have I mentioned that Debbie was the only reason I ever got into trouble? Well she was . . .

At that point, our friend Leonard, he of the pick-up truck, appeared.

“Leonard! Take us to Lethbridge!” Leonard looked at Debbie. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said.

. . . and she got other people into trouble, too.

The three of us trailed out of the school and into Leonard's pick-up.

There was plenty of room on the wide seat.

We settled in for the 12-minute ride to Lethbridge, a city of about 75,000 just to the north of Magrath.

For a guy, Leonard had a surprisingly clean truck. No trash rolling around. In fact, the only thing on the dashboard was his brand shiny new 'Western Horseman' magazine.

“Oooh!” I said, picking it up. “Is this the new issue?”

“Yep. Just picked it up this morning!”

“Do you mind if I read it?”

“Nope. Just don't damage it.”

Leonard took good care of his things. Obviously magazines were no exception.

“I'll be careful.” I sat back happily while the two of them chattered all the way to the city.

Lethbridge is not a huge place, but one with several malls and lots of shopping.

We spent the day going from one to another.

And having fun.

At one of our early stops, Debbie and I bought large lollipops.

Large.

On long sticks.

We spent the rest of the time . . . ummm . . . licking.

Before we knew it, it was time to head back to catch our bus. No sense in proclaiming that we had just spent the day somewhere other than where we should have been.

Leonard stopped his truck.

“This has been fun!” I told him. “C'mon Debbie, we'd better hurry!” I slid out.

At that point, a friend of Leonard's walked up to his window. “Hey, Leonard, where were you today?”

Distracted, Leonard turned to answer his friend.

Debbie started to follow me.

“Oh, my sucker,” she said, turning back.

Now Debbie had gotten tired of holding the heavy sucker and had laid it down. Not certain of the surface of the dash of Leonard's remarkably tidy truck, she had chosen to lay it down on his copy of the Western Horseman.

That same brand new copy he had been so protective of earlier.

She grabbed the long stick, only to realize that the magazine came with it. 

Uh-oh.

Not only had the sucker stuck to the cover of the magazine, but it had also stuck the pages together.

“Ummm . . .” Debbie glanced at Leonard, still engrossed in his conversation. “We'll just leave that,” she said, and slid out after me. “See ya, Leonard!” She slammed the door.

Leonard, still talking, waved cheerfully and the two of us headed for our bus.

Leonard never mentioned his sucker-stuck magazine.

The one he obviously never got to read.

After he had toted two girls all over Lethbridge.

Some fellow hookey-players are just plain nice.

Playgirl(s). Not.

College years are for making all sorts of mistakes.

Right?

Well, that's what I tell myself.

But this is one I didn't make.

My roommate, Debbie did.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Debbie and I were browsing through the convenience store.

Both of us were suffering from chocolate withdrawal.

We needed a fix.

There was a magazine rack near the checkout line.

Debbie was glancing over the offerings.

“Hey!” she said. “There's a magazine here called 'Playgirl'!

I looked at her. “I thought it was called 'Playboy'.

“Well, there's that one, too.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“What do you suppose 'Playgirl' is?”

The guy behind the counter spoke up. “It's pictures of naked men instead of naked women,” he said.

We stared at him.

Surely not.

I should explain here that both of us were children of the country. The words, 'sheltered', 'naive' and just plain 'dumb' come to mind.

“I've never seen a naked man,” Debbie said.

“Me neither,” I said. Something I was blissfully happy to continue for a good long time.

“Hmm.”

I should mention, here that when Debbie said, 'Hmm' in just that way, anything was possible.

Anything.

“I'm buying it,” she said, reaching for the cellophane-wrapped magazine.

“Ick!” I said. I was ignored.

She shoved it into her bag with her chocolate bars and we headed home.

At this time, we were sharing a two-bedroom basement apartment with two other girls, both as unworldly as we were. And neither of which was at home.

Debbie set her shopping bag on the apartment's only desk, which stood in our roommates' room and pulled out the magazine.

Then she stripped off the cellophane.

“Okay,” she said. “Ready?”

I shook my head. Again, I was ignored.

She flipped back the cover.

The magazine fell open to the centrefold.

Gasp!

I caught a brief glimpse of a handsome young man leaning casually against the doorway of what looked like an abandoned house.

Fortunately, I got no further.

Roommate slapped the book shut.

“Well, that's that,” she said, her face bright pink.

She shoved the magazine under the pillow of the nearest bed.

Episode over, we forgot about it.

Until a couple of days later when our roommate returned from her weekend home and crawled into bed.

We heard a shriek.

Then silence.

“Uh-oh,” Debbie said.

There was a knock at our door.

Debbie answered.

“What is this doing in my bed?” The magazine, held distastefully by finger and thumb, was extended.

“Oh,” Debbie said. “Umm. What makes you think we had anything to do with that?”

Our roommate gave her a 'Nice try, Debbie' look, dropped the magazine at our feet and disappeared.

Debbie picked it up and threw it into the trash.

Episode truly over.

But to this day, I wonder what was happening during the moment of silence after the roommate discovered the magazine . . .

You learn a lot of things during your college years.

One way or another.

Pudding on a String

Daddy, George and Me.
I'm the one in the dress . . . and curlers.

My Dad had made me a new toy.
It was a large - very large (about 5 inches in diameter) button on a string.
Intriguing.
You would thread a long, heavy string through the holes of the button and knot it. Then you would push the button to the centre and grip one of the two loops of the string in each hand.
Now you held something that resembled . . . a button on a string.
But then came the exciting part. If you wound up the button, you could pull the string out away from the button on each side and it would unwind and rewind the opposite way.
If you handled it just right, you could keep it going.
All day.
Which I did.
And it created a bit of a breeze if you got it going very fast.
Which I also did.
Enough background . . .
Mom had just made a large pot of pudding and set it on the cupboard to cool.
I was waiting, rather impatiently, for the temperature to drop below the boiling lava stage.
That was when I got my, to date, greatest idea.
My button could generate a breeze. I had felt it. It would cool the pudding and I could eat it that much faster!
I pushed a stool over to the cupboard and climbed up.
Carefully, I manoeuvred my button over the pudding and pulled the strings.
It worked!
For a moment.
Until I relaxed my hands on the ‘rewind’ or maybe the ‘unwind’ stroke.
Then, it dipped and skimmed the top of the scalding hot pudding straight into my face.
And my hair.
And the ceiling.
The covering properties of a button on a string have never been fully explored. I think they should be.
I believe Mom was cleaning up pudding from the most impossible places for months.
Long after I had healed.
P.S. I still like pudding. I just prefer it on the inside.

Pesky Titles of Authority

I attended a wonderful college at Rexburg, Idaho for one golden semester in the fall of 1973.

It was as long as I could manage to be away from my family.

Have I mentioned I'm a wuss?

Well, I am.

I was so homesick during those endless four months that I could have died.

I even wrote an article about being homesick that was picked up by the local paper.

I still think the tear-stains on the paper were the real sell.

Moving on . . .

During my time at college, I studied Physical Education.

Really.

I actually took classes in Soccer, Interpretive Dance, Track and Field, and Swimming.

Did you know they offer college level courses in those things?

Yeah. I didn't either.

It was a fun semester.

To round things out, I had to take some other remedial courses.

Chosen from a list.

And including such things as . . . English Language Arts.

And one or more sciences.

Sigh.

I chose Astronomy.

Because Zoology was filled up.

For an entire semester, I studied the stars.

We even went out in the evenings and, with the help of large telescopes, mapped the heavens.

It was chilly.

But fun.

Our instructor for the class was a man named Brother Greg.

Oh, I should mention, here, that this was a Christian school and that we called each other brother and sister.

Even the instructors.

Soo . . . Brother Greg.

Brother Greg was a wonderful man.

Kind.

Patient.

Let's face it, when you are shepherding a group of seventy or more students around, you'd have to have a good dose of both.

And he answered every one of the questions I put to him.

Smiling quietly and nodding whenever my hand shot up accompanied by, “Brother Greg! Brother Greg!”

I enjoyed my Astronomy class.

I even earned a reputable grade.

And it was then that my world stood still.

As well as all of the stars and planets I had been studying.

Because when Brother Greg handed out our final papers, with our grade prominently displayed, I got the biggest shock of the semester.

Brother Greg's name was Brother Nelson.

Brother Nelson?

Where on earth did I get Greg . . .? Oh. Brother Greg Nelson.

On the very first day of class, when I had been writing things down, I had started to write his name and was interrupted.

Thus, he became Brother Greg.

To this day, I wonder how I went through an entire semester without realizing that everyone . . . everyone . . . in the class was calling him something else.

I know the class was Astronomy, but was my head literally in the clouds?

Because he was such a nice man, he never corrected the weird student from Canada who insisted on calling him by his first name.

And neither did the other sixty-nine kids in the class.

Perhaps they snickered behind their hands whenever my hand went up.

Maybe (and this is a faint hope) they never noticed.

Oh, well, as least my grades were good.

Today, I couldn't tell you a single thing taught that semester.

Except for what I learned on the very last day.

And that, I simply can't forget.

I Know What You Did This Weekend

Two of our granddaughters stayed with us for the weekend.

While their mother, a professional face-painter, was facepaint-er-ing.
It was a wonderful weekend.
We learned:

1. Little sisters shouldn't sit on big sisters when both are trying to go to sleep.
2. Big sisters shouldn't sit on little sisters . . . ever.
3. Play-dough doesn't taste very good. But keep eating.
4. Whatever Sister is playing with is infinitely better than what I have.
5. Clothes are for spreading all over the floor.
6. Especially clean ones.
7. Sigh.
8. One can sit through any boring church meeting if there is food and/or things to colour.
9. One should never, ever colour one's sister.
10. Even if she would look better.
11. Water in a bathtub is only the beginning.
12. Fireplace ashes can make one's hands . . . and clothes . . . remarkably black.
13. Hot dogs and ice cream make anything better.
14. Especially ice cream.
15. As long as Grampa doesn't try to steal it.
16. Stories with Gramma must be followed by stories with Grampa.
17. Because he can do the voices.
18. Rocking mooses can buck you off.
19. Rocking stools can do the same.
20. When Grampa is holding the remote, we watch what he's watching.
21. Even if it is boring.
22. One can hide from Gramma for incredible amounts of time if one is quiet.
23. Or falls asleep.
24. If Grampa says something a two-year-old doesn't want to hear, one can just stare straight ahead.
25. For hours.
26. Almost six-year-olds know e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
27. And are happy to share it.
28. Especially if it means they don't have to eat their supper.
29. Toys are lots of fun to get out.
30. But not so much fun to put away.
31. Climbing is acceptable only if one doesn't fall.
32. See #13.
33. One should always know where one's head is in proximity to anything.
34. Tables. Chairs. Walls. Doors. Sisters. 
35. See #13.
36. Again.
37. One can do all the things in a pretty church dress that one can do in jeans and a T-shirt.
38. Until Gramma catches you.
39. If one kicks her foot just right, one can project one's shoe great distances.
40. And even hit one's sister.
41. In the eye.
42. Gramma doesn't like it when one sneezes and then rubs one's hand across one's face.
43. But do it anyway.
44. Socks are made for hiding, especially when one is getting dressed for Church.
45. Shoes, ditto.
46. Grampas are good for playing ponies
47. Or Troll-Under-The Bridge.
48. Grammas are good for dancing.
49. Both are good for cuddling.
50. But they get tired fast.

Weekend's over. I'm going back to bed.

Any Boys?

Stringams. And one addition.
The boy, second from the right is Graham. The son of one of Dad's college buddies.
He was staying with us for the summer.
Poor kid.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the town of Milk River.

And nine from the nearest neighbor.

Admittedly, it took many, many people to keep the homestead wheels turning.

People we associated with on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis.

Many people employed there had families who lived with them on the ranch.

And these families had kids that we Stringam kids played with.

So none of us really lacked for company.

But when Dad received notice that someone, maybe one of his old classmates or a friend from his bachelor days, was stopping by with his family for a visit, it was a cause for some excitement.

My first question was, inevitably, “Are there any girls my age?”

Because we lived so far from civilization, visits usually lasted for days rather than hours. Thus, if there happened to be peers in the anticipated company, I was set for a very good time indeed.

Usually I was answered with a non-committal, “ I'm not sure. I think they have a couple of kids. They might be around your age.”

I would scoff quietly. How could my parents not know the most important fact, like whether there were any possible playmates in the crowd of eagerly awaited arrivals?

I've said it before. Parents are weird.

Inevitably the guests would arrive.

Most of the time, their kids were pretty close in age to at least some of us.

And after five minutes, it didn't matter. We all played together anyway.

Time moved forward and things . . . changed.

Oh, we still had guests stopping by the ranch and said guests still stayed for a few days with us.

And brought their kids with them.

But now that I was twelve, my interest in their children was slightly different.

Now, when a visit was announced, my question was, “Is there anyone my age?”

Notice the slight difference?

I’ll say it again. “Is there anyone my age?”

This is significant.

Because I was no longer looking for girls to play with. Now I was looking for boys to flirt with.

And I thought I was being subtle about it.

Mmmm. Boys.

But looking back, I remember Dad’s grin whenever he told me, “I think they have a couple of sons. Probably a little older than you.”

He could read me like a book.

Probably a good thing I was never a gambler.

Or that there were boys in the poker pot.

Future Father

Big Brother

Our third son, Duffy, was two-and-a-half when our first daughter was born.

He stuck to the baby and I like glue.

That doesn't mean he learned anything . . .

At the tender age of three, Duffy was enrolled in the Sunbeam class in our church.

With eight little girls.

Boys were obviously something new.

Moving on . . .

The scheduled lesson was all about babies.

A precious gift from God.

It was a beautiful lesson.

My four-month-old baby, Caitlin was invited into the class.

I came with her.

Sort of like show-and-tell.

But interactive.

And noisy.

Okay, just like show-and-tell.

After the little girls got tired of cooing over the real baby, their teacher (the mother of five girls, herself) brought out a large basket.

Filled with everything 'baby'.

There were dolls by the dozen.

Clothes.

Blankets.

Bottles.

Instantaneous heaven for the budding little mothers in the class.

Duffy was a boy.

And, though his older brother liked cuddling dolls, Duffy was more comfortable with trucks and things 'boy'.

He was handed a baby doll.

Naked.

And a blanket.

He dangled his doll by one foot and looked at the little girls around him.

All had at least one (some had purloined two) little babies wrapped warmly and tucked tenderly into their arms.

Most were singing softly.

And rocking.

Duffy stared at them, then held up his baby.

Still by one foot.

Okay. He could handle this.

He spread his blanket out on the floor.

Then dropped the doll onto one corner and proceeded to roll it up like a sausage in a piece of burlap.

He then jammed the resulting package under one arm like a satchel.

Done.

The teacher handed him a bottle.

There's more?

He took the bottle and looked at it.

I should mention here that I nursed my babies.

Duffy had never seen a bottle before.

I can still see his little aggrieved face.

What an earth was he supposed to do with this?

Finally, he pulled out his little, blanket-wrapped bundle, grabbed a corner of said blanket and gave it a pull.

The doll flipped out, spun in the air for a moment, then clattered to the floor.

Duffy again grabbed it by the foot.

This time, he examined it minutely.

Ah. There was a tiny hole in one butt cheek.

Perfect for the strange little bottle he had been handed.

He stuck the nozzle of the bottle into the little hole and beamed happily at me.

All was well.

My son, father to future generations . . .

There is a codicil.

Despite this obviously rocky start, Duffy has proved to be an excellent and loving father.

Gifted with working with children of special needs.

I guess he was watching after all.

Delores of Under the Porch Light has issued her challenge.

Six little words: Minute, aggrieved, instantaneous, burlap, satchel, purloined

Use them or lose them.

I chose use.

Join us!

When Things Start Out Bad . . .

Our second son, he of the six foot eight inches in height, has been a pillar (pun totally intended) of the local city police force for most of a decade.

But, the experiences he has gathered over all of those years, serving as one of Edmonton's finest, still haven't been able to erase the experiences of his early days of training.

Case in point:

Each new officer must demonstrate his ability to continue to work under the most trying and difficult of circumstances.

Scenarios are crafted especially to create such a premise.

One of these is designed to demonstrate how well the new officer can function after being sprayed in the face with pepper spray.

The recruit stands to one side of the exercise yard and receives, directly in the face, a full dose of pepper spray.

That would be where a lessor man, ie. me, would just lay down and die.

But this is only the beginning.

Once sprayed, the officer, nearly blind and almost incapable of breathing, must call for backup and subdue and handcuff not one, but two suspects. Then finally, he may find his way to the sink at the far side of the yard to receive the blessed spray of water to clear eyes and air passages.

It is a gruelling, trying five minutes.

And ends with said recruits silent and contemplative as they sit blinking brilliantly reddened eyes, and breathing blessed pure air.

Fortunately for them, with the completion of this test, that particular day of training is over.

Family members are allowed to come and pick them up.

My son performed well.

He thinks.

Certainly he received a passing grade.

One can only assume what must happen if a recruit receives a failing grade . . .

Moving on . . .

As he sat there, blinking and sniffing, his new wife (of less than a month) arrived to take him home.

With much sympathetic cooing, she tucked him into a corner of the couch.

With a cool compress for his poor eyes.

And a warm, snuggly blanket.

Then she made him a batch of her famous cookies.

Remember where I said that his more recent experiences haven't erased those of his early training?

Well, I didn't say they were all bad.

Those Who Mourn

The peace and freedom we enjoy in our country comes at great cost.

Paid by the precious few who place themselves in harm’s way so that we don’t have to.

But all of the sacrifices aren’t made solely by those on the front lines of the world’s conflicts.

Their families who stand firmly behind them - missing them, praying for them - pay just as high a price . . .

One of my dad’s best friends growing up was a boy named Bernard.

He was a good boy, though rather heedless and daring.

Often the instigator of mischievous deeds and pranks.

As Bernard grew older, his independent, free-spirited view of life wasn’t always understood by everyone.

In particular his father.

When Bernard was sixteen, he and his father weren’t quite seeing eye-to-eye.

That fact, coupled with the additional incentive of a country fighting a righteous war, sent young Bernard to the recruitment center.

He was a tall lad. Easily passing for the eighteen he claimed.

When his father discovered what he had done, he had the option (and the power) to march in, relate a few home truths, and bring his underage boy home. But, after some thought, Bernard’s father decided that his boy needed some discipline. And what better way to get it than by enlisting in the forces?

Bernard went through his training with little trouble. In no time, he was on his way to the battle front, eager to get into the fray.

He charged into battle with the same heedless enthusiasm that had marked his life so far.

But this wasn’t the schoolyard games he was used to.

This was war.

And on his third day, like so many others, he paid the ultimate sacrifice.

His father never recovered from the blow.

Blaming himself for failing to retrieve an underage boy, he mourned his son throughout the remainder of his life.

A tragedy in so many ways.

On this Remembrance Day, let us honour all of the men and women who made and are making our lives possible.

 Let us remember the sacrifice of those who fought and fight still.

And those who mourn them.

Make Do

Mom and Aunt Grace. Even on holidays...

A friend told me a story.

A true one.

About his grandfather during the food rationing days of the Second World War.

The friend's grandmother had been to the grocery store and purchased, among other things, a new tin of pepper.

Which she set on the table.

Her husband picked it up and studied it for a moment. He looked at her and said, “This pepper is half peas!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” she said. “I thought I looked at it!”

I should explain, here, that, during the war, creative ways of extending food were discovered and explored. They called it ersatz. I'm not sure where the name came from, but it was expressive. Many different readily available foodstuffs were dried and powdered and added to other foods not so easily come by. Corn meal, for example, was widely used.

The use of dried peas, though not as usual, was not unheard of.

Back to my friend's story . . .

Another can of pepper was procured the next day.

Again, the grandfather picked up the little tin.

“Huh,” he said. “This one is half peas, too.”

His wife snorted in disgust. “Well, there's only one kind left,” she said. “I'll try that one tomorrow.”

She did.

She proudly set the third little tin on the table in front of her husband and proceeded to get his dinner.

He picked up the tin and peered at it closely. “Yep,” he said. “Half peas.”

“What?! I looked at it! Where does it say . . .” her voice trailed off.

Her husband was pointing at the 'Pepper' part of the label. “Here,” he said. “See? P-E-P-P-E-R. Half of the letters are p's.”

Oh. P's. Not peas.

She didn't upend the tin over him or anything drastic like that.

I know I would have been tempted.

But I'm sure they had pepper to last until the turn of the century.

This story reminded me of my Mom.

She was raised during the Depression years and knew very well the days of rationing and going without.

She learned very early to 'make do”.

And to purchase things quickly, when they became available.

Her parents bought a large, twenty-five pound tin of peanut butter, for example. Oil on peanut butter rises. The first two-thirds of the container were edible. The last third had to be run through a meat grinder to make it spreadable.

But they ate it.

Several large cans of cherry jam appeared at the local grocery.

Her Dad quickly snapped one up.

At first, cherry jam was a treat.

Served at every meal, it became a bit tiresome.

Still, it disappeared.

In her own home, Mom tried to practise what she had been taught throughout her life.

Waste not want not, she often told us.

Some of her attempts were successful.

Others . . . not so much.

When there was no milk cow on the place, she tried to extend the life of the milk container in the fridge by added powdered milk to it.

Fooling no one.

She tried purchasing the cheapest brand of peanut butter.

Unfortunately, her children hadn't been raised during the Depression and were finer-mouthed than their parents.

The cheaper peanut butter languished on the shelf.

Finally, in desperation, she bought the favourite kind. Which disappeared in a flash.

Coining the phrase, “I'm going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

She made her own roast beef sandwich spread by running cold roast beef through the meat grinder, along with some pickles. Then mixing in some mayonnaise.

That one was a hit. We kids loved sandwiches spread with beef and pickle hash.

I'm sure that, through the years, Mom saved our family a boatload of money with her careful ways.

Unfortunately, my children were even finer-mouthed than we had been.

One day, one of my kids saw her adding water to the ketchup.

I had seen her do that before. It made the ketchup a bit runnier, but still tasted okay.

The child was horrified and told all of his siblings.

And she became, forever, the grandma who put water in the ketchup.

The lesson in frugality and making do was completely lost.

Pity.

P.S. I've been known to put water in the ketchup, too. Don' tell my kids . . .