Parked

Ha! Parked.

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving. Mowing. Baling. Stacking. There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in. And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Just FYI.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to travelling in the fields and doing ranch work but I was still driving.

And in control . . . more or less, as I made wide turns about the fields.

On to my story . . .

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically  lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked, spent an hour or so riding in the early morning sunshine, and drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where it all went so very wrong.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding really early. By the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

And remember where I said that I was only accustomed to maneuvering in large spaces?

Well, that would apply here.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine. This was going nowhere fast.

And suddenly, standing there in a shaft of early morning light looking like the avenging God of Sleep(lessness), was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wears pajamas. Nicely pressed, matching, button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They are quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed. Oddly enough, it's usually when I'm around.

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me. I knew that look. I'd seen it before.

A few times.

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience. I disappeared in a heartbeat.

Dad surveyed the damage. There were a couple of 'bruises' on one of the carport supports and a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out later when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor if you don't count lost sleep.

Which Dad does.

Sigh.

I want you to know that I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time. And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget. 

From the Other Side

They watched as the family picked its way reverently through the cemetery, stopping to exclaim over one headstone or another.

“Look at this one!” the mother exclaimed. “This man served as a soldier in the First World War!”

Her three kids gathered around her and stared down at the marker.

“Ooh!” the oldest boy said. “A soldier!”

The three-year-old looked at his brother. Ooh!” he echoed.

Their sister simply stared, then reached for her mother’s hand.

“Come over here and look at this one!” The father had worked his way to the oldest part of the cemetery.

The family moved toward him . . .

The man snorted. “Look at them! Ooh-ing and ah-ing over the epitaphs!”

His companion smiled gently. “I think it’s charming!”

He looked at her. “Charming?! To wander among the dead, exclaiming over what their relatives thought appropriate to carve on their expensive headstones?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Pfff.” He turned back to the family. “Look at them, wandering around in their hideously mundane existence! Just look!” He pointed to the youngest son. “He’s picking his nose. How charming is that?”

His companion laughed. “He’s a child!”

“Oh, and now he’s . . .!” The man shuddered. “You know what the difference is between broccoli and snot, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe I don’t want to . . .”

“Kids won’t eat broccoli!”

“James! That’s revolting!” She made a face.

“Yes. Revolting!” He turned a slightly nasty smile toward the wandering family.

“Well I, in probably what is a lone opinion, think they are precious! I hope they enjoy their time here today. And I dispense with any formalities and give them franchise to make a thorough and enlightening tour of the entire grounds!”

“Hmph! Like they need your permission!”

“Nevertheless, they have it!” She nodded decisively. Her face softened. “We who sleep, dream; wait 'neath marble slabs and blowing grass . . .”

James stared at her. “What are you talking about, Anne?! You didn’t wait fifteen seconds ‘neath marble slabs and waving grass!”

She laughed, rather self-consciously. “Well, I am a bit claustrophobic.”

“Claustrophobic?! How can you be claustrophobic when you’re dead?!”

“Well, you're dead too!” Anne shot back.

“Yes, I am!” James glanced at the family once more. “And here are these awful people stomping around without the least respect for the people they are tramping heedlessly over!”

“They’re not awful!” Anne said. “They’re . . .” She paused, then pointed. “Look!”

James spun around.

The little family had reached the furthest corner of the grounds. A small, slightly overgrown area, rough with tree roots from the encroaching forest growth. The father had knelt down and was pulling carefully at some grass and weeds. “Look at this!” he said softly.

“What is it dear?” The mother and her children crowded close.

“These must be the oldest graves in the cemetery! See this one?!” The man leaned closer. “Sixteen . . . something.”

The mother knelt beside him and bent over, pulling her glasses to her nose and peering over them. “I think it’s a seventy-four.” She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it is. 1674.”

The father traced the faded carving gently. “James Marion. . . Coville? Goville?”

“I think it’s Coville. See, there has been a part chipped off to make it look like a ‘G’.”

He nodded, then pulled out a small, obviously well-used notebook and scribbled something. “James Coville.” He said. “1674.” He touched the small slab gently. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any!”

“Wait, Dad!” The oldest boy had moved to one side. “Look! Here’s another beside it, but it has tipped over and is almost covered.”

The man got to his feet and joined him. “Huh. You’re right, son.” He knelt again and pulled away the overgrowth, then brushed off the stone. “This one has been more exposed and is more worn.”

“I can’t make out a date,” the mother said. She traced the stone with reverent fingers. “It looks like . . . Anne?”

“That’s about all I can see, too,” the father said. He stood up and studied the two stones. “They are the only two over here, so I’m going to assume that they are connected somehow and go from there.” Again, he made a note in his book.

The mother nodded. “Good idea.”

The father pocketed his notebook and reached for his smallest son’s hand. “Well, shall we go? I have a feeling that there is a lot of work to do.”

The mother nodded. “Come on kids.”

The family began to pick their way to the entrance.

Anne watched them go, then turned and elbowed her companion. “A penny for your thoughts?”

For the first time in over 400 years, James was silent.

Every week, Delores of Under the Porch Light stands atop her mountain . . . . well, sits at her computer and issues a challenge to those foolhardy courageous enough to accept it.

This week's words?

Expensive, Thorough, Franchise, Dispense, Broccoli, Mundane

-and-

we who sleep

dream

wait

'neath marble slabs

and blowing grass

 What could this suggest but genealogy? :)

One Quarter Thief

Me. Sigh.

What you are about to read may be shocking. You may even want to re-think continuing your friendship with me.

I’m a thief.

Well . . . a would-be thief. If I’d gotten away with it, who knows where I’d be now.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was nine.

Mom was chatting in the front room with one of her friends. Their discussion had turned to something that said friend was interested in purchasing from Mom.

Goods were produced and delivered.

Exclamations of surprise and delight. (Okay, I’m assuming here.)

Friend’s handbag appeared.

Was opened.

And a coin purse came into view.

A number of quarters were counted out and cradled in friend’s hand.

To this point, all was above board, friendly and honest.

But this is where bright-eyed, slightly avaricious Diane came into the picture.

Mom turned to me. “Diane, could you please bring me the money?”

I nodded, my eyes already on the gleaming silver in the woman’s hand. I moved closer and held out my hand. She tipped hers and poured the pile of coins into mine.

And that’s when my heinous plan was hatched.

There were a lot of coins. Surely Mom wouldn’t notice if just one went missing?

Deftly (?), I sneaked one quarter into my other pocket as I turned and walked over to Mom - duly delivering the treasure.

Then, task completed, I dashed upstairs with my booty (ie. Ill-gotten gains), already planning how I was going to spend it.

A few minutes later, I vaguely heard the front door close.

And then my Mom was standing in my bedroom doorway.

“Diane, we need to talk.”

Uh-oh.

She sat on my bed and held out her hand with the quarters in it.

I looked at them. Then at my Mom. “Ummm . . . yeah?”

“Diane, one of the quarters is missing.”

“Really?” My brain started turning frantically. “A quarter?”

“Diane, did you steal a quarter?”

“Umm . . .”

“Diane?”

“Maybe it dropped. You know, when I took the change? On the floor? I’ll go look.” And I escaped out of the door and into the front room where I quickly (before my Mom could get there and see what I was doing) flipped the coin under our recent guest’s chair.

Then, dropping to my hands and knees, I miraculously, ‘found’ it moments later. Holding it out proudly in my hand, I presented it to Mom. “It was there! See?”

Mom nodded and took the coin. Then looked at me.

With a ‘Mom’ look.

Yikes.

“Don’t ever take anything that doesn’t belong to you, Diane.”

“But I dropped . . .”

“Okay?”

I nodded unhappily. How had she seen through my clever subterfuge?

My career as a thief ended that day.

I obviously didn’t have the ‘knack’.

Mom saw to that.

Saying Amen

You'd better be thankful for that!
Just sayin . . .

Suppertime at the Stringam Ranch.

Wonderful food.

Great company.

The best part of everyone’s day.

Well . . . most everyone.

Mealtimes on a spread the size of ours inevitably meant the mixing of people of vastly different lives and lifestyles.

There was the family. Mom, Dad, children, babies.

Hired men. Ranging in age from the world-weary, leather-faced, taciturn individual who had spent a lifetime squinting into the sun, to the young, smooth-cheeked, ready-for-anything boy, away from home for the very first time.

And assorted people who simply found themselves in the vicinity when the dinner bell rang; and happily joined the queue heading into the dining room.

A fairly eclectic mix.

All knew they would be treated to the very best of good, ranch cooking.

And that the traditional meal would begin with another, more important tradition.

Thanking the Lord.

Regardless of race, creed or colour, the people gathered around my father’s table to eat my mother’s food, would patiently and solemnly bow their heads as Grace was said.

Further participation was optional.

Case in point:

My eldest sister had just turned four.

And had taken on all the heavy duties and responsibilities associated with that venerable age.

Seated happily among the people gathered around the table for the evening meal, she folded her hands tightly, bowed her curly red-haired head, and squeezed her eyes shut when the prayer was said.

There was a chorus of ‘Amens’.

Chris’ head swivelled around and she pinned the hired man seated next to her with a blue-eyed glare.

“You didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said loudly.

The man turned slightly red and squirmed in his chair as he reached for the stack of still-warm, freshly-sliced bread.

Chris turned to her father. “Daddy! He didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said, even more loudly.

Dad paused in the passing of a large bowl of potatoes. “Ummm . . .” he said.

She turned to the other end of the table. “Mom . . .!”

“That’s okay, dear,” Mom soothed.

The now red-faced man managed to make it through the rest of a meal punctuated by the side-long glances from a tiny girl with strong convictions.

I’m sure he had had more uncomfortable meals in his lifetime.

I’m also sure he was wishing he was at one of them.

Landslide

Aerial view.

The day after.

Not far from Calgary, Alberta, and just east of the Crowsnest Pass, lies the small, bustling town of Frank, Alberta, nestled on the floor of a deeply-glaciated valley.

Looming menacingly nearby is Turtle Mountain.

Also nearby is a scene of a destruction of such magnitude that it has never been equalled!

In the early morning hours of April 29, 1903, Turtle Mountain collapsed, resulting in the greatest landslide in North American history.

In 100 seconds: at least 76 people were buried alive under tons of massive limestone boulders; three-quarters of the homes in Frank were crushed like balsa wood; over a mile of the Canadian Pacific Railroad was completely destroyed; and a river became a lake.

Yet, few people have ever heard about it.    - Neil Simpson                                                                        

My parents were driving out to the coast and travelling through Frank Slide was a necessity.

In the years after the tragedy, not much of the rubble had been disturbed. The giant boulders and pieces of mountain lay where they had fallen, a silent testament to those trapped forever beneath.

The road had been cut through and the railway reconnected.

Little else had been touched.

Driving through, one's car dwarfed by the massive chunks of rock, one could easily imagine the horror and heartbreak of that fateful morning.

Unless one was four.

Which I was.

I should mention here that, when our family travelled, the scenery or anything else flying past us outside the car never interested me. Because when I was in a car I was either:

1. Sick
2. Oblivious
3. Sick and oblivious
4. Asleep

The only thing that could rouse me were the words, “Look! Horses!”

I would leap up instantly, despite being heretofore (real word) comatose and press my nose against the nearest window. “Where!? Where!?”

One or the other of my parents would point out the eagerly anticipated animals.

I would stare at them for as long as time permitted, then collapse back onto the seat with a sigh and return to whatever I had been doing.

I was fairly easily entertained.

But I digress . . .

The road had been long. We had already been travelling for an hour.

I was drowsing on the back seat.

Suddenly, Dad spoke up, “Here we are kids! Frank Slide!”

At almost the same time, my Mom said, “Look at all the rock!”

The tone of voice was the same as what my parents used whenever they pointed out something interesting.

Like horses.

But because the word 'horse' had not actually been used, I was slow to respond.

I must admit that I never even heard my Mom's comment.

I sat up and pressed my face against the window.

I don't know what I was expecting. Dad had said something about a 'slide'.

To me that meant something 'playground-y'.

All I could see were huge rocks.

What kind of playground was this?

Finally, I turned to my parents and said, “Can't see it!”

They burst out laughing.

What was that all about?

Mom pointed out the window. “Can't you see all the rock?”

I glanced outside. “Yeah.”

“Well that's it!”

I looked again. “But I can't see it!”

I don't think they ever figured out that I was talking about the 'slide'.

The real slide. The one Dad had seen.

All they wanted was to look at the stupid rocks.

Parents are so weird.

Perspective.

Magic

He looked at me. “So? What’s your wish?”

I scrunched up my face into my most impressive I’m-thinking-about-it form and . . . thought about it. So many options. So much to choose from. I opened my mouth, expecting something of import to emerge.

What came out was, “Ummmm . . .”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

He sighed heavily and started tapping on the palm of one hand with a . . . Rats! I knew what it was, but the word ducked around the corner before I could bring it forward. I finally settled for calling it a wand. He tapped on one hand with a wand. “C’mon, lady. Make a wish. I really don’t have all day!”

I blinked and gulped and nodded. Maybe I could try . . . or . . . no . . . what I really wanted . . . Suddenly a brilliant suggestion presented itself. “Could I have a combination? A mixture?” I whispered hopefully.

He shrugged. “Please keep in mind I’m not a wizard,” he said. He scratched his ear and glanced toward the window.

Not a wizard? But I thought . . . I looked toward the window, too. The streetlights had come on and were casting pools of gold on a black street; shining bravely in a dark and moonless night. It appeared that a wind was starting to kick up. I could see bits of litter being blown around. I shivered and turned back.

He was watching me. “Well . . .?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll have a Double Magic Burger with everything on it except the cheese. And a side order of Onion O’s and . . .” - I again glanced outside - “. . . a Wizard-size mug of chocolate.”

He dropped the spurtle (I finally remembered the name of it!) he had been fiddling with to the counter and punched some buttons in the cash register. “Fine. You’re order number 16.” He took the ten from me, efficiently made change and then nodded and looked past me.

I stuffed my change into my purse and quickly shuffled to one side.

“Welcome to Magic Burger,” he said to the person in line behind me. “What's your wish?”

Delores of Under the Porch Light comes up with a challenge once a week. A word challenge. One never knows what it will be, except that it will be fun! Tricky, tricky Delores.

This week's challenge?

a wish, a wand, a wizard, a dark and moonless night

This is what I did with it. Go to Delores' and see what her other minions have created!

Pie a la Mud

Mmmmm...

I've used many, many recipes in my life.

Starting with simple: crackers and cheese.

And, believe me, you have to get that one just right . . .

To more complicated: hot dogs.

And I'm sure I don't have to explain the vital importance of the meat to bun ratio. And I won’t even go into the selection and/or serving size of condiments.

But my very first recipe was not nutritious.

Or even edible.

In fact, though it smelled rather good, I wouldn't have fed it to the dog.

Well, actually I did try.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was staying with my friend/cousin, Jean.

It was summer.

We had been playing in Aunt Grace's kitchen. Under Aunt Grace's feet.

Aunt Grace had finally had enough and had kicked us outside to play.

Dutifully, we had played.

 Now we were looking for something a little more . . . constructive.

“Let’s make mud pies!” Jean suggested.

Mmm. I like pie. “Okay.”

She found an old pot and we started adding ingredients.

I should mention here that, as we didn't have all of the ingredients for pie, and really weren't completely sure what those ingredients were, we . . . erm . . . substituted.

Back to my story . . .

Dirt. (For flour)

Water. (For water) And I should tell you that you have to get this ingredient just right. Too much and your mud pies are sloppy. Not enough and you can’t do a thing with them.  Just FYI.

Rocks. (Those were the raisins)

Two eggs that we stole from the hen house. (For eggs)

Grass. (For coconut)

We didn't mix any awful things into it, though I did find some dog doo that I was tempted to add.

For flavour.

Jean stopped me. “Diane! If you put that in, no one could eat it!”

Important point.

Finally, we mixed our wondrous concoction and formed it carefully into little blobs on the wall of her mother’s flower garden. Right in the sunlight where our pies could cook and get nice and toasty.

Mmmm. They even smelled good.

I never got to taste our pies.

We were called in to dinner and my Mom picked me up just after that.

But I remember them. And how they would have tasted . . .

Last night, our good friend, Shirley was over visiting.

And told us about her ‘mud pie’ story.

She and her sister had found an old pail.

Added their ingredients.

Stirred well.

Now they were ready for the ‘cooking’ part. But here, Shirley’s story takes a different turn from mine.

When she was young, her family had a chicken coop.

With a little wood stove inside to keep their feathered friends warm in the cooler months of the year.

Hmmm.

Why bother to set their mud concoction into the sun, where the actual ‘baking’ would be iffy, at best.

They would set their creation on the little wood stove.

And boil it.

Genius.

No sooner said than . . .

I probably don’t have to tell you that the flaws in their technique were almost immediately apparent.

In Shirley’s words . . . “It really stank!”

So, a note to all mud-pie enthusiasts out there.

Bake.

Don’t boil.

You heard it here first.

Have I Reached the Party to Whom I'm Speaking?

Call me!

My Dad is the last surviving member of a family of thirteen, the youngest of eleven children.

He has been reminiscing . . .

One of Dad’s elder brothers, Alonzo (hereinafter known as Uncle Lonnie), became a wealthy man by the simple practices of thrift, caution and wise investment.

Besides being brothers, he and Dad were good friends and often ranched together.

Which necessitated good communication.

Living fifty miles apart, this meant telephoning.

I should explain here that, in the late sixties, phone plans had not yet been invented.

You had two options.

You dialled a number directly and paid.

Or, if you weren't certain that the person you wanted was home, you could dial ‘person-to-person’ and have an operator facilitate the call. This was more expensive if your party was there, but cost you nothing if they weren't.

Understand?

Moving on . . .

Uncle Lonnie, he of the sound mind and thrifty practices, needed to talk to Dad.

But it was the middle of the day, a time when phone calls were at their most expensive. Uncertain if he would find Dad at home, he opted to have an operator place the call.

Dad answered the phone. The call went something like this . . .

Dad: “Hello?”

Operator: “I have a person-to-person call for Dr. Mark Stringam.”

Dad: “This is Dr. Stringam.”

Operator: “Go ahead, sir!”

Uncle Lonnie: “If I’d known you were actually there, I’d have dialled directly!”

Dad: “Well, I'm here!” And he hung up the phone.

Counting

My 1300^th post.

My daughter says I should do something . . . important.

But I don’t know anything important.

You’re getting the old and usual . . .

I was helping out in my grandson’s first-grade class.

An active bunch. (If any of you have seen the movie, The Lion King, you will recognize the row of monkeys in the ‘future-king-presentation scene’. They were modelled after any first grade class you find.)

Ahem . . .

The activity I was there to help with was an exercise in caring for animals. Each student chose an animal, then was given materials to build a little compound specifically suited for said animal’s needs. Food, water, sleeping arrangements, toys, entertainment.

Because what animal doesn't need its big-screen TV, right?

Moving on . . .

As co-ordinator of my little group of four boys, I was entrusted with the bag ‘o treats. The feathers, popsicle sticks, foam sheets, paper cups, string, sticks, tape, glue and scores of other building materials.

It was a large bag.

And everyone was having a large time.

One of them asked for sticks and I dove into the mass of materials and dug out a small container of bundles of sticks. Colourful little bundles of sticks.

And just like that, I was transported back fifty-five years to my grade one class.

And no, it wasn't held in a cave . . .

Our teacher, Miss Woronoski had laid out multi-coloured sticks. Some singles. Some in bundles of five and ten.

And with a combination of those singles and bundles, we were learning to count and add.

I loved it.

I especially loved saying the word ‘bundles’.

I would manipulate little packs of sticks, laying them out in regimental order, and add them. Then re-arrange and add again.

Sometimes I would concentrate so hard, I would completely miss what was going on around me . . .

“Your Gramma isn’t listening to me!”

“Gramma! Gramma!”

Like now.

Sigh.

Staged

In honour of Family Day, I present . . . my family . . .

I’m sure it was a normal, every-year, run-of-the-mill holiday.

Everywhere but at the Tolley home.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I have six children.

Six.

Originally, we were going for a baseball team, but we ran out of steam somewhere around short stop.

Sooo . . . six kids. Ages five to seventeen.

It was Christmas time and we had to do something with them. Hmmm . . .What if we put them all on the stage? Had our own theatre company?

Well, it made sense to us.

Moving on . . .

For that one magical Christmas, we had just that.

The Tolley Troubadours. Specializing in Dinner Theatre Who-done-its.

Our most famous play? The Demise of Santa Claus.

Okay, Broadway, we weren’t. But we sure had fun.

The players:

The Grinch. Our Seventeen-year-old. Self-proclaimed hater of Santa Claus and everything he stood for. And possessor of many and varied instruments of death and destruction whose sole purpose was the final end of the aforementioned and hapless Claus.

Scrooge. Our sixteen-year-old. Hater of everyone equally. And not above threatening anyone who interfered with him (i.e. tried to engage him in conversation. Or smiled/looked at him.)

Alfie the Elf. Our thirteen-year-old. Mobile-mouthed purveyor of all things ‘cookie’. Not averse to a little bribery when the mood took him.

Mrs. Claus. Our eleven-year-old. Heavily made up, padded and hunched over model of sweetness and light. Until someone questioned her honesty. Then watch the rolling pin come out.

Angel Sweetface. Our eight-year-old. Wealthy, angelic example of life lived well. A little too well. Heaven forbid that anything should interfere with her rather skewed view of the world.

Elfie the Elf. Our five-year-old. Son of Alfie. And mute. Until moments of stress/surprise/revelation when he became remarkably conversant and effusive. Strange.

Inspector Clueso. My Husby. Bumbling, inept investigator of all things mysterious. Namely every person on the playbill.

Bambi. Me. Feather-brained mistress of ceremonies. Woefully type-cast.

And there it is. The line up.

Before, during and after a good dinner, based on the clues gleaned from presented scenes, the guests had to figure out who ‘done it’.

Most guessed a Tolley.

Surprisingly, they were right. Just not right enough.

It was hard to figure out who had the most fun.

The guests.

Or the players.

Yep. The best of holidays.

P.S. Looking for some unique entertainment for your celebrations?

Not too particular about quality and/or expertise?

I have someone I can recommend . . .

First Valentine

My First Valentine is nearly 90 years old.

I have been visiting him and making sure he is eating and all of the important stuff . . .

Look at that sweet face . . .

I was out yesterday, at Dad’s local grocery, buying food.

I so love buying food!

I walked past a display of Valentine goodies.

And stopped.

There were several heart-shaped boxes.

 Beautifully, elegantly - decorated boxes.

Cute, colourful boxes.

Boxes with favourite cartoon characters printed on the lids.

Dozens of kinds to choose from.

Somewhere in the middle was a stack of boxes.

Simple.

Red.

They reminded me of something.

A gift from my Dad on a Valentine’s Day many, many years ago.

Dad always gave my Mom a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Always.

It was the one special day of the year he was confident in his gift-giving abilities.

The year I turned six was even more special for me.

It was the year that Dad first included me in the gift giving.

At breakfast that morning, he handed my mom a beautifully decorated large box of chocolates.

To much oohing and ahhing from us kids.

Then he smiled at me and handed me a box.

A small, heart-shaped box of chocolates all my own.

I stared at him.

Then at the box.

For me?

All for me?

He nodded. “For my littlest Valentine,” he said.

I jumped up and gave him a hug. Then snatched the box and fled.

The chocolates inside were gone faster than you can blink.

But the box remained.

 Because I like boxes.

For years, it held my smallest treasures.

Then, when I moved out, it remained with all the little keepsakes of my childhood . . .

I didn't mention the Valentine's display to my Dad. I thought that when the time came, I would just go and buy one of those boxes for him.

Last night, as we were sitting visiting, he asked me to get him his little sewing kit.

I went to fetch it.

And discovered that his sewing kit was my little chocolate box.

I held it in my hands and stared at it.

I was suddenly six years old again.

Receiving my first Valentine’s gift from my first Valentine.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

I'm here to help my Dad.

But really, he is helping me.

A little the worse for the wear,
but it is over 50 years old! Like me . . .

The Family Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, semi-hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

The Stringams join the end of a line of cars.

Dad peers ahead through the windshield. "Huh. Weird." 

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom spits on a Kleenex and starts to scrub the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet. But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along. The Stringams creep along behind it, more cars joining them every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster.

"Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, is standing on the front seat and has started doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here." Mom pulls the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear. We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because the Stringams will be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss." She turns to Dad. "How long till the turn?" 

"At this rate? About three days."

The family is heading to the relatives for dinner. Mom and Dad are beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.

She glances around at her brood. Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine. Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses. The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms crossed on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap. "There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

Dad glances back at his second son. "There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" 

"You can have some of mine!" Anita offers her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red and makes a face. "That's okay. I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.

Again the potty comes into play. Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad again leans forward and peers through the front windshield.

"I'll tell a story!" Mom volunteers. She proceeds to drag out her Reader's Digest and regale the family with a humorous gem about being raised in the ghettos of New York.

The story winds down and she closes the magazine.

George sighs. "I'm bored."

Mom blinks. That was fast. Then her face lights up. "Let's play a game! How about 20 questions?"

Jerry drops his magazine to the floor. "Okay! I've got it!"

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Is it dead?"

"Maybe."

"Hey! You can't have maybes! Only 'yes' or 'no'!"

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad grins and points. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often!"

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he shouts with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver shouts back. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" 

They wave to each other and the Stringam car moves off.

Just another family car trip.

Forklift Fiasco

Just when you thought you knew what went on behind the scenes...

My daughter works in Theatre.

It is an adventurous, kaleidoscopic, challenging, exciting, sometimes disturbing way to make a living.

It also requires one to think quickly on one’s feet and handle any (and all) challenges that may be thrust in one’s way.

Because the show must go on.

Throughout her career, she has built sets, created props, installed/focussed/programmed lights, produced/managed entire shows and everything in between.

This story is about one of those ‘in-betweens’.

And the whole ‘show-must-go-on’ scenario.

The Fringe Festival was gearing up. (The Edmonton International Fringe Festival is an annual arts festival held every August in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Produced by the Fringe Theatre Adventures (FTA), it is the oldest and largest fringe theatre festival in North America. The Edmonton Fringe is a founding member of the Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals. Just FYI.)

Signage needed to be installed.

Attached to the existing street lights.

Someone with a height anomaly (as in ridiculously tall) needed to be found.

Or maybe they would just find a person who could run the forklift presently residing in the Fringe impound.

The call went out, in usual Theatre jargon. “I need someone to take their lives in their hands.”

And was quickly answered by my daughter. “I’ll do it!” A forklift was a machine. A benign, helpful, non-deleterious machine. I mean – what’s the worst that could happen?

Dutifully, she slipped into the driver’s seat and twiddled the unfamiliar controls.

Her braver-than-smart co-worker stepped into the appropriately-named man-cage and buckled up.

They were ready.

They approached the first light pole.

Daughter carefully, though rather jerkily, raised the cage plus co-worker.

Sign was duly attached.

Sighs of relief were heard.

Co-worker was lowered.

They approached the second pole.

This went on for some time.

Daughter was beginning to feel quite skilled. Even ambidextrous.

Then they reached one of the 104 Street light poles.

There was nothing to suggest that this was any different than the scores of others they had already approached and conquered.

But what they failed to see was the 104 Street sign dangling from the bracket on said light pole.

Co-worker saw it first. And tried to halt the inevitable: “You’re too close to the sign! Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!”

Crunch.

Oops.

The 104 Street sign, to this day, sports an impressive dent. Every time we see it (And it happens often because we are, after all, theatre people.) we point it out to whoever may be with us.

Our daughter’s handiwork.

We’re so proud.

P.S. Sometime, remind me to tell you about the Zebra.

Each Wednesday, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a challenge - and six words - to her followers. It's fun. Hurry over and see what the others have come up with. Or better yet, join us! 

This week's words?

deleterious, ambidextrous, anomaly, forklift, impound and zebra.

(Not-So) Aptly Named

Today is my eldest son's 38th birthday.
38th.
Wow. I've just realized how old that makes me.
Sigh.
The following is a story from many years ago.
When he was little.
And cute.

Okay, I still think he's cute . . .

Little Mark. And a friend.

Big Mark

Dr. Mark Reed Stringam.

My Dad.

Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Adviser. Confidante. Friend.

Veterinarian.

Rancher extraordinaire. Breeder of purebred polled Herefords, single-handedly working to improve the beef industry in Alberta.

And succeeding.

With so great a man as his example, our eldest son could only profit from sharing his name.

And so we decided to name him Mark.

Enough background.

My parents had taken my husband, myself, and our two small sons to dinner to celebrate my birthday. It had been a lovely time. Wonderful roast beef for which the restaurant was famous. Wonderfully sparkling, satisfying conversation. Two well-behaved little boys. (Hey! This is my story. I can remember it the way I want!)

We were replete. On every level.

It was time to go.

I packed the baby into his carrier and my dad picked up Mark, his fourth grandson (the first named for him) and we headed towards the door.
In the entry, we paused for a few moments, waiting for my Mom.
Mark Jr., safely ensconced in his grandfather's arms, began to look around. He discovered a pin in the lapel of his grandfather's suit jacket.
A spiffy gold pin in the shape of a polled Hereford.
Oooh. Shiny.
The small hand reached out, caressing the fascinating bit of gold.
Pretty.
"Do you like that, Mark?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you know what it is?" A note of pride crept into the grandfatherly voice.
Small head nodding.
"What is it?"
Our son, the namesake of the great Hereford breeder who was holding him, the small child who had been around cattle since he was born, could not help but get this right.
We waited breathlessly for the answer.
Mark screwed up his face thoughtfully. Then smiled. "Pig!" he said.
Oh, how have the mighty fallen . . .

Paradise Lost

I'm a maker-of-beds; a bed-maker, me.

I do it to make things as neat as can be.

My Husby’s a nest-er; glad burrower, he.

Rolled in the bedclothes, cocooned in debris.

I'm ready as soon as my feet hit the floor,

To straighten and tighten and tuck and restore.

While Husby, yes he of the im-press-ive snore

[Through his actions], explains just what bedding is for.

We don’t argue or fight – we’re above all of that,

We don’t even have what you might call ‘a spat’.

But with such different wishes, his – messy; mine – flat,

You’re wondering how we've avoided combat . . .

Well . . .

There’s something that you need to know about me,

I'm sneaky. Hereafter, I'm sure you’ll agree.

Through the night, he may bundle as tight as can be,

But, sooner or later, he’ll have to go [pee].

Forgive my crass blurting of natural acts,

But this is what happens. Yes. These are the facts.

As he nips to the ‘john’ to regroup and relax,

His spouse leaps from bed, morning ritual enacts.

Emerging, he sees, once again, he’s been bossed.

That his needed relief didn't come without cost.

He looks at the blankets, once comfy and tossed,

Heaves a soft, simple sigh for his Paradise Lost.

Tree Speak

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

I had to bundle up for my walk this morning.

It was -28C (-19F) with a nasty, evil north-westerly wind blowing. Temperature allowing for wind chill = -40C (-40F)

I walked fast.

The most difficult part of my walk is past the south end of a wide park.

In the summer, it is truly beautiful.

In the winter, with a north-westerly (see above) wind blowing, it is an open space where the elements can really get up a head of steam. So to speak.

As with many things in life, though, once one gets through the worst, the best appears. 

Just past the park is a stand of hundred year-old pines.

Instantly, the force of the wind is lessened to insignificance.

There is only a soft 'hiss' as it threads its way through the green boughs. 

I stopped, as I do every morning, to listen.

Instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood . . .

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Standing there this morning, surrounded by the massive evergreens, I closed my eyes and I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees as whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.