A Paltry Sum

A few days ago, Husby and I went to a movie. 

We enjoyed it.

And we got in for the price of $25.00 for the two of us.

And that included two drinks, and a bag of popcorn to share.

Bargain.

And as he was swiping his debit card, I was remembering another theatre experience.

In another time.

For the paltry sum of fifty cents . . .

Fifty cents used to be a lot of money.

And gave you the ability to do amazing things.

Let me explain . . .

Saturday.

That wonderful day of the week when one didn't have to dive frantically from their beds, feverishly dash through a morning routine, and drive frantically to catch the school bus.

No.

On Saturday, one could leisurely climb out of bed.

Enjoy a healthy breakfast.

And spend the morning . . . diverting.

Okay, well I don't know about the rest of the family (ie. Mom . . . and everyone else), but I could.

And the best part of Saturday?

Talking Dad into taking me and my siblings into town for the movies.

Remember, we lived twenty miles away.

On sketchy 'gravelled' roads.

Sometimes, it took a great deal of talking.

On the days we were successful, he would pull up to the theatre, hand each of us fifty cents, and wave as we scrambled for the door.

The smell of freshly popped and popping corn would wash over me the instant I stepped inside. Clutching my money, I made a dash for the admissions counter and handed over half of my precious coins.

Then I took up a post in front of the all-important concession and eyed the limitless possibilities.

After several moments of tempting myself with mouth-watering indecision, I made my choice.

Inevitably, Grape Crush and a bag of popcorn.

With a nickle for a package of red licorice.

Then, clutching my booty and my ticket, I would approach that magical doorway to infinite worlds and possibilities.

The door-keeper would tear my precious ticket in half with a grin and an, “Enjoy the show!” and I was inside.

The curtains, deep green velvet, would be tightly closed, hiding the magic behind them.

Reverently, eyes glued to them, I would slowly make my way down the sloping, creaking wooden floor to my chosen seat.

Somewhere near the front.

Preferably in the first two rows.

Then, one hand stuffing popcorn into my mouth, and the other clutching my precious bottle of pop, I would settle back.

Waiting for the magic.

Waiting to be transported to another place and time.

Suddenly, the house lights would dim and a bright beam would shoot through the air and snare the green curtains in a noose of light.

They would slowly begin to part.

I should mention here that, for years, I thought that the thick, heavy curtains actually became opaque.

And that the beam of light was shining through them from the back.

Yeah. So, Einstein, I wasn't.

Moving on . . .

For the next two hours, I was somewhere else.

Watching the lives and/or exploits of someone else.

It was magic.

Occasionally, reality would intrude for precious seconds.

Especially if the projectionist was a bit slow in starting the second and/or third reels.

But mostly, my immersion was happy and complete.

Another world.

Another time.

Another life.

Complete with yummy snacks.

All opened to me for the paltry sum of fifty cents.

Scuba for Seniors

Yes. That's me.

Just before I turned fifty, Husby took me and our two youngest children on a holiday.

To Italy. And, even more exciting, on a tall ship cruise through the blue Mediterranean waters surrounding Italy.

We met our second son there. He was stationed in Bosnia and was quite happy to make the short hop to meet us when he was on leave.

There are lots of stories.

The one I’m going to tell you about could easily be titled “Scuba Diving for the Direction-ally Challenged”.

Ahem . . .

Whilst Husby was topside, exploring such wonders as . . . Malta. Sicily. Corsica. The rest of his party was under the water - air canisters strapped to our backs and flippers and wet suits correctly and prudently donned – exploring the wonders of undersea ship wrecks. Fish schools. Sea life.

We still argue about who had the most fun.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

First we had to get in the water . . .

It was a perfect day.

Perfect as only a bright, sunny day in the Mediterranean can get. The tender, filled to the gunwales with happy, excited tourists all attractively clothed in black wetsuits, made its way out to the center of the bay immediately adjacent to the Island of Malta.

We had been given extensive instruction.

Do this.

Never, ever even attempt to do that.

We were ready.

Our first duty was to attach any and all tubes necessary to continued breathing and/or life, and fall backward into the warm, welcoming depths of the blue, blue water.

I emphasize the word ‘fall’.

It was a simple procedure.

All you had to do was fall.

And this is precisely where I came to grief.

I flipped over backwards, twisted around a bit.

And came up under the boat.

Under the boat.

Uh-oh.

It was about then that I got totally confused.

And forgot which way was up.

I was equally muddled about which way was down.

While I was thrashing around, trying to sort things out, my knowledgeable (and very attractive, but that is a different story) instructor, who fortunately had up and down . . . erm . . . down, reached in and extracted me.

Whew.

We had an amazing time. We swam through great clouds of yellow fish. Past entire undersea gardens. And flew out over a cliff.

The best of all was the WW2 battleship wreck which we covered from stem to stern.

An entire new hemisphere opened to our eyes.

And me? The instructor kept me right by his side the entire time.

His reasoning was simple.

If I could get lost falling out of the boat, just imagine what I could do with a whole ocean.

Sigh. 

With Family Like This...

Don't blink! Blink and you're dead

Way, way too scary . . .

We had been visiting with our daughter.

Had a wonderful time.

Talking.

Walking.

Making puzzles.

Playing games.

Eating.

And she had introduced us to the TV show, Dr. Who.

Yes I know that most of you will have seen this program.

I know I had certainly heard of it.

But I had never actually sat down and watched it.

Our daughter chose, for our first experience, an episode called, “Blink”.

A story of statues that come to life when you aren't looking at them.

And do terrible things to you.

It was, in a word, scary.

Truly frightening.

Chilling enough that I watched the entire thing snuggled close to my Husby.

And holding his hand.

Okay, so . . . brave, I'm not.

Through the last half of the episode, I had to visit the 'little girl's room', but was watching the screen so attentively that I . . . didn't.

Once the show had finished, I shivered, then turned on every light as I made my hasty way down the hall.

A few seconds later, much refreshed, I opened the door.

And this is what was sitting on the floor directly in my path.

I screamed.

And heard loud answering laughter from the family room.

I hate my family.

Santa's Secret

The truth behind the beard...

Husby and I come from a long line of designated drivers.

Generations of teetotalers.

It works for us . . .

Husby also spends the month leading up to Christmas dressed in red and sounding jolly.

These two facts go together.

Perhaps I should explain . . .

Santa lives at the North Pole.

Where it’s cold.

His wearing of red velvet and fur is out of necessity.

Here in Edmonton, Alberta, though it gets bone-snappingly cold outside, Santa’s helpers – like my husby - inevitably end up sitting in a warm room. Surrounded by hundreds of overheated people. And in very close contact with those people’s kiddies.

Let’s put it this way: The red suit absorbs more than ambiance.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Simply throw it into the nearest washing machine!

And that would be a great idea.

Except for the fur.

Fur and/or water and/or detergent don’t do well together. Just FYI.

And sometimes there is a long drought between dry-cleanings.

Sigh.

Now the need for some sort of odor-eater is most apparent just after Santa finishes a ‘gig’, when Santa and Mrs. are stuck in a warm car together for the entire ride home.

Sometimes it is a long ride.

On one such ride, our daughter (also closely closeted with us) mentioned a solution that the theatre costume authorities here in Edmonton use. They call it ‘French Dry-Cleaning’.

1 part Vodka and 1 part Water. Mix the two and spray all nasty odours away. "And it works!" she said, holding her nose. "It de-scents the unwashable!"

There was only one problem.

Our household did not have any vodka. (See above.)

Being people of the moment, we stopped in to the nearest liquor store and Santa girded up his suspenders and headed inside.

A quick question to the proprietor and he was walking down an aisle and procuring the cheapest bottle of vodka in the store.

Happily, he joined the queue at the checkout.

Let me describe: Man in an overcoat, paying for two bottles of whiskey.

Another, younger man, buying a couple of cases of beer.

A woman purchasing wine.

And Santa, clutching his bottle of vodka.

He looked up.

And realized that all eyes were on him.

Smiling, rather self-consciously, he said, “I know how this looks . . .”

The man at the front of the queue promptly responded, “No. Looks pretty natural to me!”

Ha! Ever wondered how Santa makes it through the holidays?

You heard it here.

Santa and Mrs.

Husby and me. In our alter egos.
Picture by Bonnie-Jean McAllister at Ealanta Photography

It's the single best job anywhere. Ever.
And all it takes is a bit of red cloth. Some fur.
A beard.
And a big smile.
Seriously. Who wouldn't do this?
For several years, Husby and I have been appearing at parties and malls as Santa and Mrs.
There's nothing quite like the cheer that goes up when we step into a hall.
The rewards are immediate and long-lasting.
From the sweet:
"Santa, I love you!" from the little girl who just dropped her coat on the floor and dove into Santa's arms.
To the practical:
"Santa, I've been waiting all year for you!" from the little boy with the long list.
And the funny:
"Santa, that's my sister. She doesn't deserve anything because she always fights with me." from the little boy with the freckles and the cowlick.
To the touching:
"Santa, I need your help. My Dad's sick." from the little boy with the eyes that are too sad for this normally joyous time of year.
Husby takes a few moments for each of them. Gently and tenderly giving them their little bit of uninterrupted, precious and personal 'Santa Time'.
Acting as Santa to the kids is wonderful.
But the reaction from people when we are en-route is just as much fun.
Yesterday, kitted out in our red finery, we were stopped at a stop light.
In the time it took for the light to change, we heard that the man in the truck next to us had been a good boy.
That the woman on the other side really needed help with her mortgage payments.
And that the woman in front of us wanted a boyfriend. And also, where was our sleigh?
I can't think of a single other character who is as instantly recognizable and universally loved.
It's like being a rock star.
In fur and velvet.
Yep. Best. Job. Ever.

Hole in the Ice

Later...

Mom was in a panic.

She had looked away for an instant.

An instant.

And her toddler had disappeared.

Twenty-month-old Christine, dressed in her warm, little woolen snowsuit had been playing happily in the front yard.

Mom had zipped into the house to check on her new baby. Happily, rosily asleep in his cradle.

And now, seconds later, her eldest child was gone.

Frantically, Mom called and cast about for her little daughter's footprints in the snow.

There!

Leading . . . toward the river.

Mom was off at a run.

A few seconds later, she was standing on the bank.

The little tracks meandered out onto the snow-covered ice.

To a large, black hole.

Mom stared at the patch of dark, swiftly-moving water.

Her entire life crashing about her ears.

Feeling suddenly, completely numb, she stepped out . . .

Then she realized that the little footprints didn't end there.

No.

The trail turned and continued back to the bank.

Her heart beginning to beat again, Mom scrambled to follow.

And there was her little daughter, heading toward the barnyard.

Mom scooped up her baby and carried her back to the house.

Then spent the rest of the day alternately crying and hugging Christine.

Infinitely grateful for the divine intervention that had protected her daughter.

Mom raised all of her six children to adulthood on that ranch.

Rescuing them from such things as:

Altercations with the local livestock.

Wrangles with barbed-wire.

Numerous falls.

Differences of opinion with power tools.

An infinite number of scrapes and bruises.

And, yes, plucking them from the muddy jaws of death in a capricious river.

But she never forgot that moment of stark and frozen terror.

Standing on the bank of the river, looking at the trail of little tracks that ended at the great hole in the ice.

And how differently it could have ended.

Her very worst . . . and very best of moments.

When Cool Isn't Cool

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.

1965.

I had just realized that boys didn't have cooties.

I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.

The two went together.

Perhaps I should explain . . .

Grade five.

The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.

Times tables proved important.

Story writing, more intense and personal.

Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.

And boys became . . . interesting.

The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.

“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”

It was signed, 'Paul'.

What???!

A boy?!

Wanted to go to a movie with me?!

What should I say?

What should I do?

What should I wear?!

Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.

He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.

And that was it.

My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the week, actually.

Saturday was a long time coming.

I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.

The popular, cool boys.

And way out of my league.

But his group adopted me as one of their own.

For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.

Back to my story . . .

I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.

For about a month.

Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.

And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.

Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.

Who took me back in without so much as a frown.

For half a morning, I complained bitingly.

Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .

You can see where this is going.

“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”

Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”

I sprinted to join them.

Didn't even look back.

Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.

I know what you are thinking.

Fickle non-friend.

And you're not wrong.

Ahem . . .

This went on for some time.

Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.

Then my popularity waned.

And died.

And do you know what?

My old group again took me back.

Without even a sideways glance.

This time, I stayed.

We went through grade six together.

Then Junior High.

Then Senior high.

And we had fun.

I discovered that it all comes back to math.

♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.

♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.

I learned my lesson.

P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.

Life is the true leveller.

Biology

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teachers notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lots of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not.

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

Country's Child

To my friends:
Diane has the plague.
Don't worry, it's not contagious through internet contact. I don't think . . .
I'll be up an about soon.
But for the time being, a repost of my favourite story.
Enjoy!

Me. (Missing from the photo: the Chicken)

Harvest.
A mellow time.
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season.
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets.
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
On the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good.
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water.
It was every parent’s dream for their small child.
Not.
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations.
Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end.
Not a good thing for a four-year-old.
Mischief happens.
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country.
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away.
Hmmm. This was fun!
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient.
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial.
It was genius.
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . .
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED!
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went.
By the time it and its contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!”
Not very inventive, true, but effective.
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details?
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly.
My family still laughs.
There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo.
Fun!
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them.
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain.
It moved closer.
I moved closer.
It looked over the fence.
I looked at it.
Its beak opened.
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . .
You get the picture.

Unforgettable

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw.

He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

Best Friend

I have a friend.

A best friend.

Or BFF, if you prefer.

She is fiercely loyal.

Supportive.

Encouraging.

Kind.

Fun.

Believes in me.

And I nearly missed out on gaining that friendship.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Many, many years ago, our family had just come through a very difficult experience.

Very difficult.

We were wounded and aching.

This woman, a single mom, called me to see if I was interested in babysitting for her.

She had two adorable little tow-headed girls.

I turned her down, with the excuse that I needed some time to heal.

I asked her to give me a year.

She was disappointed.

But understanding.

She gave me my time.

One year later, to the day, she called again.

This time, though still feeling less-than-whole, I accepted.

Reluctantly.

And her two happy little girls arrived.

Immediately, they mixed seamlessly in with my own kids.

Played the same games.

Ate the same food.

Watched the same programs.

Fought over the same toys.

Became two more members of the family.

Meanwhile, their hardworking and dependable mom gave me an insight into the life of a single parent.

Work.

Joy in her children.

And loneliness.

More and more, we invited her and her girls to spend time with our family.

We became friends.

Best friends.

That was over twenty-five years ago.

We were with her when she began to date her future husband.

Who became my Husby's best friend.

We were with them when they married.

And had two more little girls.

We are best friends still.

I often think about her request to babysit.

Given when I was feeling selfish and sorry for myself.

And how nearly I turned her down.

I might have missed this.

Catching Claustrophobedience

Mom and I were visiting at my Auntie's house.

An innocent enough activity.

And from it, I got claustrophobia.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mom and Auntie were in the kitchen chatting over cups of tea and home baked goodies.

My cousin and I had already done the rounds of the dessert tray.

Several times.

And had retired upstairs to more important matters.

Play.

One of the bedrooms upstairs had no furniture in it.

Or at least, I can't remember any.

But it did hold a large carpet.

Rolled into a neat bundle.

It looked like a hot dog.

Let's face it. In my world, everything resembled food.

Moving on . . .

Suddenly, I got a marvellous idea.

“Let's play 'Hot Dog'!” I told my cousin.

“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, as though she knew exactly what I was talking about.

Which she didn't.

I unrolled the carpet and lay down at the edge.

“Okay. Now roll me up,” I commanded.

She did.

Cool!

Fun!

Neat!

Wait . . . I can't breathe!!!

I began to scream.

Okay, I could probably still breathe.

The ability to scream would indicate this.

My cousin, understandably concerned, stared at me.

Or at the rug that contained me.

I struggled mightily (I should probably point out that it didn't occur to me to simply - unroll) and finally, managed to extricate myself.

I headed for the nearest safe place.

My Mom.

I burst into the kitchen, every white-blonde hair standing on end and eyes like saucers.

“Mom! I nearly died!!!”

Okay, so melodrama and me were close, personal friends.

Mom set down her teacup and looked at me. “What?”

“I nearly died! I couldn't breathe!”

Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“We were playing 'Hot Dog',” I told her.

She stared at me. “Hot Dog?”

“Yeah with the carpet. And I was the hot dog. And I rolled up . . .”

Suddenly, Mom understood. “Oh.” She gave me a stern look. “Diane, don't do that again!”

I admit that I often disobeyed my Mom.

Often quite deliberately.

But this time, I listened.

I like to think it was because I discovered the joy of obedience.

But, actually, I think it's because I discovered claustrophobia.

Obedience would have been more fun.

The Real Woman

Mom being Mom

My Mom was amazing.

She was the force behind:

Meals appearing at clockwork intervals.

Soiled clothes in hampers being replaced by clean, folded clothes in neat stacks in drawers.

Floors scoured to a mirror finish.

Dirty dishes disappearing from the table.

Clean dishes appearing.

Yummy snacks, (ie. Puddings, cakes, pies, pastries) showing up with amazing regularity.

Gardens stretching, lush and weed-free for miles.

Lawns being mowed.

Pets fed and cared for.

Kids travelling to and from school.

Deadlines met.

Bills paid on time.

New, hand-made outfits appearing.

Hired men cared for.

Doctor's appointments kept.

Sewing and other women's clubs attended.

Bedtime routines honoured.

Sicknesses nursed.

Arguments refereed.

Church attended.

In fact, she was the driving force behind every facet of our daily life.

Always there.

To me . . . just Mom.

When I was four, she bought me a pair of skates.

Sat me on our front step and strapped them on my feet.

Then took me across the yard to the ice-covered street and taught me how to skate.

Once I got my balance, she skated along behind me for a while.

Encouraging, instructing and safe-guarding.

Finally, when she was sure of me, she struck out on her own.

Swooping and spinning across the ice like a bird.

I stopped and watched.

Mom?

This was the woman who spent her days 'looking after'.

Tending.

Feeding.

Supplying.

For the first time in my four years, I realized that there was more to my Mom than what I had always seen.

Here was a woman who had been talented enough to skate competitively.

I later discovered that she had also been invited to play ball professionally.

Offered a scholarship to university.

And many other opportunities.

All of which she set aside for my Dad.

My siblings.

And me.

I watched her as she spun in a tight circle.

Going faster and faster.

Coming to a final, breathless halt.

And skating smoothly away.

Backwards.

Wow.

My Mom.

She skated past me.

“Mom?”

She spun and looked at me.

“I'm hungry.”

She smiled. “Time to go in, dear?”

I nodded.

Immediately, she stopped and reached for my hand, helping me carefully back across the yard to our front step.

Mom was just 'Mom' again.

But just for an instant, I had caught sight of something else.

Someone else.

The woman inside.

That day.

Cowlights

One of a series of cartoons from the
'What I Saw at the Calgary Stampede' collection
By Calgary Herald cartoonist, Stewart Cameron

Cows.

I know you’ve seen them.

Quietly standing in the ranchers’ fields, peacefully grazing or happily chewing their cud.

Gentle. Calm. Maternal.

Okay, here is where I debunk the myth.

Because – and I know this will be shock to some – All Cows Are Not Created Equal.

Oh, there are many who are exactly as they appear. Tranquil. Easily managed.

But then there are some . . .

Maybe a story will illustrate.

My grandfather, George Stringam, and a group of men had gathered together a herd of cattle for shipping. These animals were from several different herds. None knew each other. (Yes, cows can tell.) And all were ‘feeling their oats’.

So to speak.

They had chased each other around the pens and corrals of the train terminal and finally managed to break down one of the fences.

Oops. I think Bossy did it!

Moving on . . .

One of the critters managed to escape through the newly-created exit.

And she was headed for the nearest far-away place and didn’t care who knew.

By this time, it was growing dark and all of the men were using lanterns to help them see to sort out the mess.

One of the ranchers, intent on stopping this determined animal stepped in front of her.

Yes, you heard that correctly.

His thinking was that if he swung the lantern in front of her, the cow would just naturally turn and head back to the corral.

Seems like a sound theory to me.

Of course it didn’t work.

The cow skimmed past him.

Closely.

In fact, so closely that one of her horns snagged said lantern.

The last they saw of her was a light going over a distant hill.

Do the words, “Follow me! I’ll light the way!” come to mind?

Don’t do it.

To Gramma's House

Gramma and Grampa Stringam

Beginning with Remembrance Day, going through Thanksgiving and into Christmas, the season of ‘family’ and ‘togetherness’ is upon us.

The best part of the year.

However, in 1912, ‘going to visit the family’ took on a whole new meaning.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Gramma and Grampa Stringam, with their (then) three children, moved to southern Alberta in 1910, leaving their extended family behind them in Utah.

They settled in Glenwood and started to farm.

Outwardly, all was well.

Inwardly, one of them missed her mother.

Finally, after two years of pining and tears, the decision was made for an extended visit.

Gramma and her (by then) four children packed up and, kissing Grampa goodbye, boarded the train for Salt Lake.

The trip there was fairly uneventful, the highlight - seeing the sprinkler system in the Salt Lake depot.

But what came afterward . . . wasn’t.

Uneventful, that is.

Gramma and the kids climbed aboard another train for Salina and then the mail stagecoach from there over the mountain to Thurber and Teasdale.

A short hop by today’s automobile.

A considerably healthy prospect for the white-top mail buggy of the early 1900’s.

In the rain.

On one particularly steep pass, soaked through and tired, the team of horses gave out. Despite considerable encouragement, they refused to move one more step up the mountain, choosing, in typical balky-horse fashion, to back up instead.

They succeeded in backing the coach until they, quite literally, ran out of mountain. When the driver finally got them stopped, the vehicle’s wheels were hanging right out over the edge of the canyon.

Gramma and the kids were frantically extricated and gratefully took shelter under a large spruce, where they turned, as they had been taught, to prayer.

While they were thus engaged, the driver tried – unsuccessfully - to remedy the situation. The wagon remained hanging over the edge of the cliff.

A rather precarious position.

Meanwhile the little family under the tree had finished praying. And it was as that exact moment that a second white-topped buggy came up over the hill.

A buggy that was empty, save for the driver, a local real estate agent. Who, to the little family huddled under the tree, suddenly took on the aspect of a saviour.

The man stopped and surveyed the situation, then climbed down and, using a knife, cut the traces holding the horses to the buggy and led the animals to safety.

The mail man thanked him, threw his mail bags over one horse and mounted the other, and rode on over the mountain, abandoning his little group of paying passengers without a backward look.

On the side of a mountain. In the rain.

Don’t you hate days like that?

Fortunately, the real estate man was very kind and loaded Gramma and her kids into his buggy and delivered them safely to the nearest village.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.

Let’s face it. After this experience, most events would pale by comparison.

Gramma and her brood got their visit.

And, for generations to come, a story to tell.

Rock That Planning

Yorkshire Pudding.
A solid piece of our history.

My Husby is a Planner.

Really.

It is a legitimate occupation.

He plans . . . stuff. Has built his career doing it.

Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.

It has been a varied and unusual career.

And he is very good at what he does.

Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.

That never turns out well.

Moving on . . .

Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.

They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.

A fun and exacting job.

It required spending many months in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.

At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.

Doing what had become their favourite pastime.

Eating.

One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.

With all of the trimmings.

One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.

With gravy.

Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.

In all its glory.

I love it.

But this particular pudding had been baked too long.

Or left uncovered.

Or simply neglected.

It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.

Its owner poked at it morosely.

“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”

Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile. All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display. Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.

A short time later, they had the cover off the resident large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).

They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.

One of the designers studied the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly created an official-looking label.

When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one, ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.

Nothing more was said.

In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.

Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call from the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.

“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Well, that is odd.”

There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”

“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”

“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”

Notice the clever prevarication? (Ooo. Good word!)

Back to my story . . .

“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”

Need something planned?

A building? A display?

A prank?

I know someone you can call.