Parking Marks

My stylin' ride.

The grocery store in Milk River in the 50's was on main street.
Parking was on the street.
Angle only.
I know this doesn't seem to have much to do with my story, but wait for it . . .

Mom usually came into town once a week to do the grocery shopping.
For me, it was a magical time. Mind you, I was born with unfettered enthusiasm. For me, everything was magical. But I digress . . .
On this particular occasion, my brother George was with us.
The two of us had been separated because he was causing fights.
Not me.
Never me.
Ahem . . .
So George was in the back seat and I was in the front.
Mom parked the car in front of the AGT building, directly across from the grocery store, and got out.
When we made to follow her, she put out her hand and told us to stay where we were.
As punishment for being so disruptive on the trip into town, both of us were forbidden from going into the store.
Mom was only going in for a moment.
We could sit in the car quietly and think about what we had done.
We each thought about it in our own unique fashion.
George pouted. Arms crossed, face fixed in a frown of displeasure.
I did gymnastics.
I should probably point out here that the seats of our (then) late-model car were wide.
And long.
And bouncy.
I started out small. Bouncing up and down in a sitting position.
Then I discovered that I could get more height if I got up on my knees.
Finally, I was standing, hands on the back of the seat, jumping up and down. I think I hit my head numerous times on the roof, but no brain, no pain.
I continued to bounce.
I should point out here that, in the 50's, crime hadn't been invented yet. It wasn't unusual for people to leave their kids in a car. With the keys in the ignition.
And the car running.
Don't condemn my Mom. She was a product of her time.
I bounced closer and closer to the steering wheel and wondrous, automatic gearshift attached to it.
Closer. Closer.
And then . . . that one bounce too many. I came down on the gearshift.
The car lurched into action, leaping over the curb and across the sidewalk on fat, whitewall tires.
I think I screamed, but I can't be sure.
There was a distinct 'crunch' and the car came to a sudden stop.
I don't remember George's reaction. I think he remained stoically silent in the back seat.
I picked myself up off the floor and began to cry.
And suddenly, my Mom was there. Holding me in her arms and telling me that everything was all right.
Mom was really, really good at that.
After she had calmed me down, she set me back on the seat and put the car into reverse and edged back off the sidewalk. Then she put it into park and, this time, shut it off and we all got out to survey the damage.
The bumper had pierced the stucco, leaving a half-moon crescent in the wall of the building, just below the front windows.
Where the entire AGT staff had assembled.
They waved, cheerfully.
Mom sighed and towed us into the office to explain.
The office workers were remarkably forgiving of the whole incident. Even laughing about it.
Red-faced, Mom was soon able to drag George and I back to the car.
I think I received a lecture on using the inside of the car as a playground, but it wasn't very forceful.
Probably because Mom realized that the whole thing wouldn't have happened if she hadn't left the car running.
The mark I had made in the wall remained there for many, many years. Until the building was renovated and re-faced, in fact.
Some time after my escapade, a second crescent appeared in that same wall, just a few feet from mine, obviously from a similar source.
I examined it carefully. It was a good attempt.
But mine was better.

Circa 2011. (52 AD (After Diane))
Note the damage. Or not . . .

Prayed Awake

See? Adorable.

I went away to school.

Far away.

It was the most difficult four months of my life.

But I learned a lot.

Most importantly, I learned that I really don’t like to be away from family.

All I could think about was being home.

I learned a lot about prayer in those days.

It got me through.

My five roommates were great. Supportive, fun, encouraging, sympathetic.

And they taught me something about prayer as well.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I lived in an apartment with three bedrooms.

Each shared by two girls.

My roommate, Bev, was a sweetheart.

Kind. Sweet. Patient. Soft-spoken.

And very strong in her faith.

It was not unusual for her to kneel in prayer for a long time.

A. Very. Long. Time.

At some point, shortly after we became roommates, I realized that she wasn’t praying.

She was asleep.

There. On her knees on the hard old floor.

It couldn’t have been comfortable.

After that, when she had been praying for what seemed a sufficient amount of time, I would make some noise.

Not a lot.

Just enough so that if she really had dozed off, it would stir her.

And save those knees.

Now Bev was nothing if not proactive.

She saw that she had a problem and did what she could to fix it.

She bought a book, ‘How to Pray and Stay Awake’.

I applauded her positive, pre-emptive spirit.

That evening, she sat down happily on her bed and opened her new purchase.

A few minutes later, I glanced over at her.

She had nodded off over her book.

And was snoring softly.

Some things you just can’t fix.

Snow Drop

It's snowing.
Spring is here.

A normal Northern Alberta winter.

In Southern Alberta, in winter, we get snow.

I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to many of you.

The only problem is that it never stays.

Usually within days of falling, Southern Alberta snow melts away under the warm breath of a powerful Chinook.

True story.

Thus, throughout winter, it snows.

Then melts.

Then snows.

Then . . . you get the picture.

I’m sure Southern Alberta is the only place on earth that can go from -40C (-40F) to +20C (+68F) in the course of three hours.

It is a bit disconcerting at times . . .

In college, I dated a boy from Red Deer.

Okay yes, technically, that is only about five or so hours drive north of where I was raised.

But a world removed in weather patterns.

In Red Deer, in winter, it snows.

And stays.

And snows some more.

And stays.

I learned about this on a visit to his family one long weekend in February.

Picture going from brown grass and snow only in the ditches, to snow piled four and five feet deep.

There was even snow on top of the fence posts.

Imagine that!

For the first day, I simply stared.

So this is what winter is supposed to be like!

It was . . . beautiful!

But all of that snow causes . . . difficulties.

The sheer weight of it piled on roofs threatens the structural integrity of the homes.

Don’t I sound like an engineer?

I’m quoting, by the way.

Snow piled high on roofs must be removed. No Chinooks to do the dirty work for you.

People have to climb up and actually . . . shovel.

At first, it was an odd sight.

People standing on their roofs, shoveling snow.

But, after a day or two, I got used to it.

Then it was my turn.

To shovel, that is.

My boy friend’s grandmother’s house was one of those piled high with heavy white stuff. It positively groaned under the weight of it.

It needed relief.

We volunteered.

Well, actually, he volunteered.

And I simply nodded and smiled.

I found myself standing atop what looked like a large, white muffin.

Did I mention that there was a lot of snow?

Somewhere beneath us was his grandmother’s single story home.

We set to work.

The actual removal of the snow didn’t take long.

The house wasn’t that large.

As we alternately scraped and shoved, our collection of snow on the ground grew deeper.

And deeper.

We were nearing the end of our task.

I slid a large shovelful over the edge and peered down at the huge drift that had collected beneath me.

My boyfriend joined me.

I looked at him. “Do you think you would get hurt if you fell off the roof and into that?” I asked, pointing.

He frowned, thoughtfully. “No, I . . .”

That was a far as I let him get.

 “Aaaaah!” Poof!

He was right.

Classroom Whiskey

Okay, this is my last story about whiskey.
For a while . . .

Grade: Ten.

Age: Fifteen.

A good time to make a statement. Just be sure you are making a good statement . . .

Dad was sitting in class.

Learning.

Okay, I have my doubts, too, but he stands by the declaration.

The teacher was espousing something important. She skewered the boy seated in the desk next to Dad with a gimlet gaze. “Bill!” she said.

Bill sat up straight and tried to appear attentive. “Yes, Ma’am?”

Kids were very polite in the forties.

It was at that precise moment that Dad felt the first unmistakable twinges signalling a forthcoming sneeze.

A large one.

Silently, he opened his mouth.

“Bill, can you tell me . . .?”

The rest of the teacher’s question was completely submerged beneath the thundering sound of Dad’s sneeze. “AHHHHHHH . . . WHISKEY!!!”

Of course everyone heard.

Of course, everyone laughed.

When order was restored, they all realized that the teacher was still standing as she was, awaiting her answer.

“Erm . . .” Bill said, turning slightly pink.

“Bill? Were you considering your answer? Or were you listening to Mark sneeze.”

Bill frantically sorted his options. Finally, timidly, "C-c-could you please repeat the question?"

The teacher rolled her eyes and complied.

Dad – and everyone else – learned something from this.

Never bring whiskey into the classroom.

It’s disruptive.

Just FYI.

Little Ears

Don't let that innocent face fool you...

My parents didn’t drink alcohol.

But even in such a family, the topic does come up . . .

Christmas was nearing and Mom and Dad had been in Lethbridge all day. Shopping.

It had started out as a joyous occasion, with brightly-lit and garishly-decorated shops to visit. Lunch at an amazing diner with marvelous spinning stools.

That . . . spun.

Okay, they were almost a little too marvelous.

Santa to see and talk to/cry about.

Amazing piles of toys and goodies that were right at the level of mesmerized little eyes.

Heaps of slushy snow scraped up by the grader and specifically designed for small, booted feet.

Little bottoms that had to be repeatedly dusted off because of the heaps of said slushy snow scraped up by the grader and specifically designed . . . you get the picture.

Evening was nearing and, with two tired little kids in tow, the family was standing on the street corner, mentally going over their shopping list.

“Okay,” Mom said. “I think we’re nearly done. The only person we have left to shop for is Jerry.”

I should probably mention, here, that the aforementioned Jerry was now the sad and sorry little boy currently clutching his mother’s hand. As the afternoon had worn on, and his two-year-old patience had shortened, his opinions on everything had increased perceptibly in volume.

For a few moments, Mom and Dad discussed possibilities for their small son.

Little ears were hearing.

Finally, Dad shrugged. “Oh, let’s just get him a bottle of whisky!”

“Mark!” Mom didn’t think it was as funny as Dad did.

“Well, it’s getting to be supper time,” Dad said. “Let’s head home.”

The light changed and the four of them stepped, along with scores of other people, into the street.

Suddenly, over all the noise and confusion of a city street in the throes of ‘Christmas’ rose a piercing, small boy’s voice. “I don’t want to go hooome! I want some whiiiisky!”

And we’re done.

Starting at One

A re-post of our first date to commemorate our thirty-ninth anniversary.

First Dates are like Dress Rehearsal. If a Dress Rehearsal is terrible, the play will be great. Likewise, if the First Date is terrible, the Marriage will be great.                                                         Diane Tolley

Thirty-nine years today!

First dates.

Relationship killer or kindler . . .

I had known Grant for just over two months.

We attended the same church.

He was cute.

Really cute.

We decided to go on a date. Well, actually, I decided and he . . . never mind.

The first half of the date was fairly low-key:

He was driving a volleyball team to an away game.

Because he could.

The team played. We drove home. And that's as far as our plans went.

But there was still evening ahead.

What to do?

We stood there.

Rather awkwardly.

Finally he proposed that we go to his parent's house and see what movies were on TV.

It was the early 70's. Your choices were limited. In fact, you were pretty much stuck with whatever your one TV station had planned.

We were lucky. There was a movie programmed.

But that's where our luck ran out because it was a movie that both of us had seen.

And neither wanted to see again.

But we grabbed snacks and settled in.

I should point out here that Grant was the middle child of a large family. And yet we had the front room to ourselves.

On a Saturday night.

Weird.

Moving on . . .

I watched the movie.

He slept. (Something that happens to this day . . .)

When the movie ended, sometime around midnight, I woke him and indicated that I was more than ready to go home.

Sleepily, he complied (real word).

The miles to the ranch were covered quickly as we talked and laughed.

A little too quickly.

Suddenly, by the light of his car headlights, we were staring at my parent's house.

What to do?

Kiss?

Shake hands?

It had been a wonderful evening. We had talked and laughed.

And he had taken a nap.

Yep. Wonderful.

We settled on a hug. And the promise of a second date the next evening.

And now perfect.

He walked me to my door. And we discovered that, for the first time in the history of the world, Dad had locked it.

Really.

It had never happened before.

I turned the knob in disbelief. What on earth was going on?

I walked around to the main doors.

Also locked.

I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

I went to my parents' bedroom window and tapped softly.

"Daddy?"

"Mom?"

No answer.

I tapped louder.

Still no answer.

They must be out.

What was I going to do? Visions of staying the night in one of the barns flashed through my head.

I suddenly missed my bed.

I walked back to Grant, still waiting patiently beside the first door.

"Maybe we can open the window into Daddy's office," I said, pointing to the window beside the door.

"Okay."

I tried to push it up. It moved. Half an inch.

"Maybe if we pry it . . ."

Obligingly (great word) Grant grabbed a nearby shovel and pushed the edge under the window.

It slid up some more.

He applied greater pressure. Another inch.

Then, the shovel broke.

I am not making this up.

It really broke. The bottom edge came right off.

Huh. I didn't know they could do that.

Stupid, cheap shovel.

Fortunately, by this time, I could get my fingers under the window and was able to shove it upwards. I climbed through, turned and waved good-bye to my date and slid the window shut.

All was well.

The next day was Sunday. I was looking forward to seeing Grant in church and had settled myself in the chapel and was watching the door.

He finally came through it, rather red-faced, and sat beside me.

I stared at him.

He was embarrassed.

Huh.

Later, he told me that, as he had entered the building, he had met my father and our Bishop just inside the front doors.

My Dad had grabbed his hand in greeting, then hung onto it and turned to the Bishop.

"Bishop, do you know that this young man broke into my house last night?"

Grant swears his heart fell into his shoes.

Dad then turned to Grant and said, "Didn't you get it?  I didn't want her back!"

Did I mention that Dad is a great joker?

But to this day, I wonder if he really meant it.

Hot Mom

Watch me as I melt . . .

Have you noticed words you say

Mean something different today,

Than what they meant so long ago

When you were young and days went slow?

There are a few that fit, I think,

Like ‘gay’ and ‘pot’ and ‘spam’ and ‘shrink’.

But one I’ve kept throughout my life

As daughter, sister, mother, wife.

The word is ‘hot’, I’m here to say

And has been used most every day.

When I was four, it simply meant

I was too warm, my vigour spent.

Then teen-aged years crept up on me

And ‘hot’ meant something else, you see.

T’was what we all aspired to,

When hanging round the kids we knew.

But now I’m old, my hair is grey

And ‘hot’ is with me every day.

In seasons cold, and seasons warm,

Somehow the word has lost all charm.

‘Cause now it’s simply how I feel

When’er my world begins to reel.

The slightest stress, the merest strain

My temp is through the roof again.

So know, if you should hear me speak,

And perspiration starts to streak,

That being sexy’s mostly not

What’s meant when’er I say “I’m hot!”

'Shain' of Command

Okay, I'm not sure if this is what it looked like,
but I know it had four wheels and seats for all of us . . .

My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.
It was our first foray into town without parental supervision.
For the first time, ever, there would only be siblings in the car.
A truly magical night was planned:
1. Great company. (Jerry and George wouldn't tease me, even once. They had promised.)
2. Great entertainment. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - but that is another story . . .)
3. Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
4. An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
5. The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
Best. Night. Ever.
Then, as with any magical night, twelve o'clock came. With some sadness, our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, partway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car. Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired.
I think they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly; they would have loved to crawl over, under and through  . . .
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas. Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And suddenly realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window. The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh tha's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
Oh, goody. They had a shain.
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded with . . . colourful language and various starts and stops . . . to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!

Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.
We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night.
And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot shain . . . erm . . .chain.
I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti. (Go ahead, google him. We'll wait . . .)
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.
I have to tell you that was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment.
But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first experience.
I guess 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.

A P-P-Poem for T-T-Tuesday

Sailor Sam’s a nervous sort,

So when excitement thrums,

Can hardly stammer out a word,

A stutter-er, becomes . . .

The ship was cruising east to west,

The sails were athwart,

When wide-eyed Sam approached the Cap,

With something to report.

“C…C…C…C…C…C...” he said.

The Captain signed ‘okay’.

“Th…Th…Th…” the sailor gasped.

He’d nothing else to say.

The Captain’d heard poor Sam before,

He knew what Sam should do.

“Just sing it, Seaman,” Captain said.

“You’ll find that you’ll get through.”

Sam went away and thought a bit,

Then came back to his chief.

And cleared his throat and tunefully

He started his debrief.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind . . .

The bloomin’ cook fell overboard,

And is forty miles behind!”

A Gopher Tail

Nature boy.

It was 1934 and the Stringams had a gopher problem.

For any of you who have lived on or near a farm/ranch, you know that gophers cause no end of troubles. They dig burrows that can and do break the legs of horses and cattle. They eat grain intended for the livestock. They make little gophers, who then become big gophers who, in turn, add to the all-of-the-above-mentioned problems.

The fact that they’re cute and furry with big, dark eyes, has no bearing on the story. And no, Diane, you can’t keep one!!! Sorry. Remembering my childhood and the voice of my father there. Back to my story . . .

Nine-year-old future-Dad-to-Diane had been assigned the all-important job of gopher eradication. It was a fairly simple process.

1. Find a burrow.

2. Set the traps.

3. Dispatch the cute but unwanted vermin that wound up in the traps.

Oh, and:

4. Remove the tails from the dead gophers and give them to your father and receive one penny.

Yep. Simple.

A little background is needed: The Stringam chicken coop was actually a cave dug back into the cliff. Faced with river rock, mortared together with mud, it seemed an impregnable fortress for things feather-headed and vulnerable. The feather heads were moved in.

And almost immediately, attracted something that liked things feather-headed and vulnerable. Something small and gopher-sized that could dig through the mud mortar and into the coop.

I should also mention that gophers really weren’t known for their chicken-dispatching tendencies. This was one weird gopher.

Dad hunted around and finally discovered its burrow. Then set his little snares. And waited.

After four days, he decided that nothing was going to be fooled into stepping into his cleverly-disguised traps, so he walked over to the burrow, prepared to dismantle the whole set-up.

And discovered that he had finally been successful.

He had snared a gopher.

But what a gopher!

He stared at it. It was the approximate colour of a gopher. And furry. But there, all similarities ended. This animal was absurdly long. And narrow. With a long tail.

Dad shrugged. He had a job to do and a penny is a penny. He moved closer and reached for the animal.

Then jumped back in alarm as the animal leaped at him, hissing.

In Dad’s own words, “It scared the wits out of me!”

The intrepid hunter burst into tears. And ran to his brother, Lonnie, working in the shop a short distance away. Lonnie, with still-sobbing Dad following closely behind, went to take a look at this strange gopher that had the nerve to scare his baby brother.

“You’ve caught a weasel!” he said.

Weasels are also persona non grata on a farm/ranch. They eat the chickens (see above). Just FYI.

In short order, the weasel suffered the same fate as a gopher would have.  The chickens stopped dying and peace was restored.

But the best part was that Dad got a whole nickel for the weasel’s tail. Four cents because it was four times longer than a gopher tail.

And one cent for tears and anguish.

The End of a Show

We are theatre people.

Have been for more years than I care to confess.

My Emperor's New Clothes, the play we have been producing for four months drew to a close last night.

So many hours of hard work for so many wonderful people.

And such a triumph!

Let me give you a glimpse (Photos by Kristi Pfeiffer):

The whole crew. (Minus a few musicians . . .)

The Emperor (his daughter and the townspeople) singing about his favourite subject. Him.

The show did not lack in smacks!

My son, the cop, in 'disguise'.

The Emperor at the point of discovering 'he has nothing on'!

Our intrepid co-director, Kathy.

Kathy's intrepid other half, Jodi.

My son, Mark, who composed the music.

Husby and me. Doing what we do best.

And now the bitter-sweet moment has arrived.

The work is over.

But the 'togetherness' is, too.

The memories will live on forever!

Thank you to my ward/theatre family.

I love you all!

Fairly Fraudulent Fair

The criminals are seated second row: Second and fifth from the left.
And they look so innocent . . .

I was so excited.
My cousin/pal, Jody and I were going to have a fair.
During afternoon recess at school. A real fair, with games and prizes.
We had saved our allowances. We had . . . ummm . . . permission . . .
Maybe I should tell you the whole story . . .
Jody was staying with me at the ranch for a few days while her parents were away on holiday.
We had conceived a marvelous scheme while we were supposed to be sleeping.
Just before my dad threatened to separate us for the night.
For the record, I don't know why they are called 'sleep overs'. Nothing resembling sleeping ever takes place. But I digress . . .
Jody and I had come up with this amazing idea. To hold a fair. With different contests and featuring real, bona-fide prizes of toys or candy. It was the best plan ever! Stupendous! The school would be talking about it for years!
Our plans grew and hatched more plans.
Barnum and Bailey would be put to shame! (I didn't know who they were, but whenever a circus was talked about, they were mentioned, so they must be important.)
There was only one hitch in our marvellous plan.
We were eight years old, in grade three, and needed permission to go down town to purchase the necessary candy and prizes.
And my mom refused to give us the necessary legal document.
Pffff . . .
We even provided the statement, already spelled out. All she had to do was sign.
She refused.
Sigh.
For sure, Barnum and Bailey didn't have such complications . . .
We were still puzzling over this difficulty when we got on the bus and sat in front of one of the grade 12 girls. We talked and talked, but no solutions were forthcoming.
The girl leaned over the seat and asked one of us to retrieve a pen she had dropped. I complied, still talking.
She reached out her hand to take the pen.
I paused, looking at her. At her . . . fully-grown hand.
That knew how to write in script.
That couldn't help but fool our teacher.
I smiled.
Later, we skipped happily off the bus, content in the knowledge that the two of us were smarter than our teacher. Than anyone. Than the whole world.
We duly presented the paper, properly signed, to Mrs. Ratcliff. She scanned it.
“Huh. I thought Jody's mom wasn't due home for a few more days.”
“Oh, she's back!” we assured her.
She nodded.
We bounced happily from the room. We had succeeded.
Our fair was underway.
We ran all the way downtown and had a marvelous time blowing our combined $.75 on penny candies and trinkets.
Then, clutching our paper bags of magic, we ran all the way back.
Our fair was a success. We conducted games and races and magnanimously handed out prizes, happily certain we were idolized by every child on the playground.
That everyone wished they were us.
Then, just as the bell rang, Kathy ran up to tell us that we were wanted.
In the principal's office.
We looked at each other. What could possibly have gone wrong? Our plan had been so fool proof.
Slowly, we trudged towards our doom.
“Jody, is your mother home?” The principal was staring at us from under bushy, frowning brows.
I stared at my feet, frozen to the spot.
Jody, just slightly braver than me, managed to shake her head.
“So, where did this note come from?” He waved our masterpiece.
“Ummm . . . Mom signed it before she left?”
The principal shook his head. “I don't think so.”
Sigh. We were caught.
“A girl on Diane's bus signed it.”
“Ah.”
I peeped up at him. Was that a good 'ah'? A 'very clever girls' ah?
He was still frowning.
Obviously not.
I looked at the closet door behind his chair.
Where I knew the strap was kept.
If he made one step towards that closet, I was going to head for the hills.
And I knew where those hills were . . .
He folded his hands together.
“Do you girls know what you did wrong?”
We nodded.
“Do you?”
We nodded again, with a little less certainty.
“This is what is called 'fraud'.”
Fraud? I'd never heard of the word.
“It's like lying.”
Ah. Lying. Now that I knew a lot about . . . from watching my siblings . . . not because I . . . oh, never mind.
“Deceiving someone.”
Another long word I'd never heard of.
“Lying.”
Okay, back on familiar ground.
“You got someone else to sign your mom's name. That is lying. Fraud.”
But she was an adult! my mind screamed. She was big. She could write script.
“You can't have someone else sign in place of your parent unless they are your guardian. Was this girl on the bus your guardian?”
Guardian? I was at sea again, and for someone who had never seen the sea, that was pretty lost. Ummm . . . I'm going to go with 'no'?
“No.”
I was right!
“So what you did was wrong.”
Rats!
Again, my eyes were drawn to that closet door. Not the strap! Not the strap!
He leaned back in his chair.
“I'm going to have to speak to your parents about this.”
I stared at him. Parents? Maybe the strap would be a good idea.
“They will have to take it up with you.”
I thought of my dad finding out. The strap was looking better and better.
“Now I want you to go back to your class and think about this.”
We nodded.
“And never . . . ever . . . bring in a permission form signed by anyone but your parents. And never . . .” his eyes drilled through us . . . “lie to anyone again.”
Again we nodded. Wide-eyed.
Then we escaped.
We were right. The school talked about our fair for weeks afterwards.
They, and we, just didn't remember it for the right reasons.

Age Perks

I’m old.

He’s a little older.

We’re happy.

When we married, nearly 39 years ago, I looked into his hazel eyes and thought, “All I want to do is grow old with you.”

It’s happened.

We’ve had triumphs: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work accomplishments. Good health. Peace and freedom.

We’ve had tragedies: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work setbacks. Health problems. Disharmony and shackles.

But we’ve shouldered on. Through good times and bad.

Just in case you are thinking, “Oh, my word, is she going to wade through an exposition of My Wonderful Life?” let me reassure you.

You’re not far wrong.

Because this is my usual long-winded way of getting to a story . . .

I’ve hit the wonderyears that we affectionately call mid-life.

Where nothing in my physical self seems to behave the way it used to.

The way it should.

My nights are spent vacillating between shedding and/or cocooning in my blankets. At times, both. As some parts freeze and others parboil.

Sigh.

Last night, I discovered one of the joys of growing older with someone else.

You have to know that Husby and I used to leap happily into bed without doing much more than donning PJs, scrubbing teeth and saying prayers.

Now, our evening routine is a litany of age-defying/life-augmenting practices. Ending with my careful application of wrinkle-reducing face creams and his donning of his sleep-apnea mask.

I must admit – we are quite a sight. Darth Vader meets Slime-Faced girl.

I see a horror movie in there somewhere.

Back to my story . . .

Last night, the-play-that-has-consumed-our-lives-since-January opened (more about that in a later post) and I was particularly keyed up.

Awake at 3 AM. Music from the play blasting through my mind. Blankets on. Blankets off. Turn to one side. Turn to the other. Blankets on. Blankets off. Face up. Face down.

You’ve totally been there.

Meanwhile, Husby was peacefully snoozing. His machine breathing quietly.

He rolled over to face me, and my poor overheated self was suddenly enveloped in a soft, cooling breeze.

I looked up at the window, but it was as it had been. Not really doing its part to alleviate anyone’s (ie. my) discomfort.

I turned back to Husby. Then I held out a hand in front of his face.

Ah! The lovely little breeze was emanating from the exhaust port in his mask.

I laid back, smiling, and let the cool air get in its wondrous work.

Soon, I was comfortable and cocooned once more.

You have to know that growing older definitely has its drawbacks.

But growing older with someone else yields definite perks.

Plan accordingly.

Fools and Children

Me and everyone on the ranch who was smarter than me.
(except Dad who was taking the picture. . .)

I was nine! I made it! I could do anything!I was supergirl!
As you may have guessed, nine years old was an important time in my family.
The time when one was moved up to the next level of responsibility.
Now I could do all of the cool things that my older brothers and sister could do. Things I'd been waiting years to do.
Wonderful 'adult' things like . . . mowing the lawn.
Odd, isn't it, how exciting and attractive something looks when someone else is doing it?
And how not-exciting and not-attractive it is when suddenly, it is your responsibility?
By the second time, the thrill of mowing our acres and acres of lawn had begun to pall.
In fact, I hated it.
Maybe if there were such a thing as a riding mower, I could have retained my enthusiasm.
But the fact was that we only had a small, electric mower. And you had to push that little cretin every square foot of the way.
Oh, and watch out for the cord, but I am getting ahead of myself.
My instructions were very specific. Always start at or near the plug-in. Then work away from it in rows.
And rows and rows and rows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorry! Got caught up in the memory . . .
Needless to say, my mind didn't stay focused on what I was doing.
In fact, it rather wandered. A bit.
One bright, sunny summer afternoon, when my horse and I could have been a small dot on the horizon, I was, once more, pushing that wretched mower.
But it wasn't all bad. Part of me - the thinking part - was off riding. Suddenly, I was rudely made aware of just why we are supposed to keep our minds at least in the vicinity of what we are doing.

The mower . . . quit.
Just like that.
Dead.
There were some tell-tale sparks in the lawn, if one cared to look, but other than that, the stupid thing had just suddenly become lifeless.
I narrowed my eyes and began my investigation.
Aha! A cord. That just . . . ended. Snapped off as though it had been . . . cut. I searched around for the other end. There it was! Lying in the grass! Now how do you suppose . . .
The truth hit me like one of Dad's yearling bulls. I had done the unspeakable. The unpardonable.
I HAD MOWED THE CORD.
Soon, if Dad found out, I was going to be as dead as this mower.
I had to fix it.
I grabbed the two ends. Maybe if I just put them back together, they will magically join . . .
I sometimes wonder just how many guardian angels I wore out during my growing up years on the ranch. I think I went through them at an alarming rate.
But they were good at what they did.
There was an enormous explosion and a First-of-July amount of sparklers.
I dropped those two ends like they were hot.
Which they probably were.
And headed for my dad.
He just shook his head and followed me to the scene of the crime. Then he unplugged the live end of the cord (funny that I didn't think of that) and with a few quick strokes and some electrician's tape, mended everything.
Good as new.
I sat there in the un-mown grass and watched him work.
He got to his feet. "Okay, Diane, back to work. And watch the cord a bit more carefully."
I stared up at him.
After that traumatic experience he was going to make me get 'back on the horse'? (Something I would loved to have done, in reality.)
He smiled and turned away.
He was! He actually meant for me to start mowing again!
I looked at the couple of swaths I had completed.
Then at the millions of swaths left to do.
I reached out and tentatively flipped the switch. My trusty little cohort hummed into life.
Sigh.
I started pushing.
Okay. Careful of the cord. Always keep it between you and the plug-in. Be watchful. Be wary . . .
Oooh! Look at that hill. Soon my pony and I will be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And yet another guardian angel sighs as he is called into service.

Not Your Average Grandma

It really wasn’t meant to be an insult.

I thought she’d be flattered.

I was wrong.

My eldest daughter, then aged 22 months, and I were manoeuvring

our stroller through the doctor’s waiting room.

It wasn’t crowded, but a few people had decided to stand, rather than sit.

A very few.

Okay, one woman was standing in the aisle apparently trying to decide if she was staying or leaving.

That’s okay with me; I’ve done the same thing more times than I care to count.

After a moment, she realized that we were behind her, waiting to pass.

“Excuse me!” she said and moved to one side.

“No worries!” I said.

Because that’s what I always say. It’s not original, I know, but it gets the job done.

Moving on . . .

At that moment, my aforementioned daughter looked up and saw this woman. Her little face broke into a sunshine sort of smile. “Gramma!” she crowed, holding out little, soft arms.

The woman stared at her, aghast.

It’s an expressive word – aghast.

It describes the look on the well-bred, perfectly-groomed face . . . ummm . . . perfectly

Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more shocked.

My own smile . . . slipped a bit.

The woman’s head drew back and her upper lip curled slightly. She took in a large, indignant breath. “I AM NOT A GRANDMA!” she said.

Loudly.

Very.

Everyone in the office turned to look at us.

I felt my face grow hot.

Trying to salvage something from the unfortunate exchange, I stuttered out an, “I’m so sorry. She has a very pretty young grandma!”

I didn’t know what else to say.

The woman gave an indignant sniff and marched out of the waiting room.

“Gramma!” my daughter wailed, arms still reaching.

Another sniff as the door was firmly shut.

Crimson with embarrassment, I sank into the nearest chair and bent over my daughter.

To the woman in the doctor’s office: You really were lovely and beautifully dressed and groomed. I’m not quite sure why my daughter’s affectionate greeting hurt you so badly. Although I’m fairly certain you were very near to my own mother in years, I don’t think it was a comment on your age. It must have been your resemblance to one of the kindest, most beautiful women I’ve ever known.

I wish you could have taken it for the extraordinary compliment it was . . .

Bubble Trouble

My brother and me.
I'm the criminal on the right.

Okay. I confess. I stole something. Once.

I have no defense. I did it. I'm guilty.
I was four. Is that an excuse . . .?
Mom and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping. A very exciting time for both of us. 
Well, for me, at any rate. 
We had driven in from the ranch in the family's late-model Chrysler (Dad always drove a Chrysler), which was an adventure in itself.There were no seatbelts. They hadn't been invented yet. Apparently no one had yet seen the wisdom in fastening small, easily-launched bodies into a safe place while hurtling down sketchy gravel roads at 60 miles per hour in a two ton vehicle.
My mom used to hold out her arm when she applied the brakes.
I was safe.
We pulled up to the curb across the street from the grocery store and proceeded inside.
The check-out desk, usually manned by a woman, stood in the center of the store, surrounded by the magical world of the grocery.
Directly behind the desk was a bank of cubicles, in which one could find the most amazing things of all . . . the penny candies.
It was there that I would park myself, after the cart got too full to hold me.
I admit it was difficult to leave the treasures that my mom had been adding to the cart. Treasures like canned peas. Baked beans. Tinned salmon.
The all-important Spam.
But I found comfort in just looking at the myriad possibilities behind that main desk.
A whole family of chocolate. Straws of sweet, flavoured powder. Licorice and JuJubes formed into the most amazing shapes. Wax figures which could be nipped and sucked dry of their wonderful, sweet juices. Lick-M-Aid. Lollipops. Suckers. Bubble gum in two sizes of colourful balls. The choices were truly endless to a four-year-old.
And my mom's purse offered the gateway to this bounty.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran to her. "Mom? Can I have a bubblegum?"
"Not today, dear."
What? What had she said? Had she really used those three words? I stared at her, aghast. Did she realize that her small utterance had shattered my hopes and dreams. Had barred me forever from the bliss that all of that candy represented?

My life was officially over.

At four.
It couldn't be.
"But Moooom!"
"Not today, dear. I don't want you to be eating any candy before dinner."
What kind of excuse was that?
"Just one?" I turned. My eye was caught by the bin full of bright orange bubble gums. The big ones with the little, rough bumps on the surface.
And the total deliciousness inside.
I pointed. "Just a bubble gum? I'll eat my dinner. I promise."
A smile from my long-suffering parent. "No, dear. Not today."
Huh. I pouted for a moment. Then smiled. Well, we'll just see about that.
Mom brought her purchases to the desk and she and the woman behind it were distracted as they added and bagged.
I would just take one gum. No one would ever know. My hand crept into the bin of orange bubble gums, wrapped itself around one tempting morsel and popped it into my mouth.
Ha. Mission accomplished.
I began the wonderfully arduous task of breaking down the hard, candy shell.
Mom finished paying for her groceries and was following the young boy carrying them to our car.
I fell in happily behind her.
The boy set the bags in the trunk, smiled at my mom and me and left.
Mom opened the door for me and I jumped inside. Still chewing.
She got in. And took a deep breath.
Then her head whipped around and she skewered me with a gimlet gaze. "Diane! What do I smell?!"
I froze. How did she know? The gum was in my mouth, completely hidden. I decided then. Moms were definitely magic.
Clever prevarication was in order.
"Ummm. Nothing."
"Diane, did you steal a bubblegum?"
I stared at her. Moms could see through cheeks!
"No."
"Diane!"
My head drooped. "Yes."
She sighed. "Diane, you know that stealing is wrong, don't you."
I lifted my head. Tears were already starting to pool. "Yes."
"What should we do about it?"
Tears started to slide down my cheeks. "I don't know."
Mom opened her purse and reached inside. Then she handed me a penny. "You will have to go back inside and pay for it."
I stared at her in horror. Go inside? Face my victim? Confess my guilt?
"I - I don't want to."
"But you have to."
I sat there, my four-year-old brain working frantically to find another solution.
Any other solution.
Finally, I sighed. Mom was right. I would have to go inside and pay for my ill-gotten bubblegum. I opened the door and got out.
For a moment, I stood there on the curb, wiping my cheeks and staring across the street at the grocery store. Which, incidentally, had assumed gigantic proportions since Mom and I had left.
Suddenly the orange deliciousness in my mouth didn't taste very good. I spit it out into the gutter and looked down at it. It still had bits of the hard candy shell embedded in the softer gum. I hadn't even broken it in.
I sighed and looked at Mom through the window of the car.
She nodded towards the store.
I started across the widest street ever known to man, feet dragging.

At long last, I reached the store and went up the steps.

The door jingled happily. The woman behind the desk turned and looked at me. I approached slowly and tried twice to produce a voice. Finally, "I forgot to pay for a bubblegum," I said, sliding the penny across the counter towards her.
She nodded and looked at me gravely.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "You know it's not right to steal, don't you?"
I nodded.
"Don't do it again."
I shook my head.
"Thank-you for being honest."
Another nod and I was free. I ran back to the car.
Mom didn't lecture. She knew I had learned my lesson.
I still love gum balls. Especially the orange ones with the little rough bumps. But every time I chew one, I remember being four years old.
And learning about being honest.