Summer of '64

The summer I turned nine was supposed to be the most exciting of my life. And it was. 
For all of the wrong reasons . . .
1. The bridge.
Just a few yards down the road from our ranch gates, across the south fork of the Milk River, stood an aged iron bridge, painted black. It had great metal arches over it and many intricate bends and joints that invited exploration and/or concealment. On a hot summer afternoon, one could climb under the bridge, swing on the rope which dangled temptingly and drop down into the cool water below.
We kids on the ranch thought it was our playground.
Very early in the spring of 1964, great machines and earth-movers began to assemble next to our beloved bridge.
And a large crew of men accompanied them.
For days, we watched from what dad deemed a 'safe distance'. (Actually, to him, a safe distance was Del Bonita, fifteen miles away.)
Of course, if I'd realized then that this crew was actually there to replace our great and marvelous playground, I probably wouldn't have been quite so enthusiastic.
As it was, this was almost more excitement than my nine-year-old self could handle.
Life just didn't get any better.
2. The movie crew.
Dad announced that he had some really exciting news.
A movie crew was coming to the ranch to film. 
Movie crew?
Suddenly everyone began to act strangely. The hired men actually polished their boots. And availed themselves of the showers and laundry services.
My older sister spent hours in front of the mirror, trying new 'looks' and fashions.
My brothers practiced lines from westerns.
Mom, ever practical, began bringing in truckloads of food.
The ranch was suddenly antiseptically clean. (Well, not quite, but you get the picture . . .)
I got in everyone's way. Okay, this was normal, but I didn't want you to think I wasn't proactive. 
The expected day grew closer. And closer.
I stopped sleeping. Well, actually, Mom stopped sleeping, but I did feel sorry for her.
The anticipation was palpable.
The day arrived. 
The movie crew didn't. We never did find out exactly why . . .
But everyone's stretched nerves and feelings of anticipation were not wasted. The movie crew might not have shown up. 
But something else did.
3. The flood.
Dad had been keeping an eye on our river as it . . . grew.
Finally, it became clear that our quiet little trickle had officially turned into . . . something huge and brown and scary that threatened everything in its path.
Including us.
And several of the bridge-building machines that had been sitting placidly in the shallow river beneath the bridge.
But I didn't think about them.
My motto has always been 'panic first, think afterwards'. And it has served me well.
Banished to the balcony overlooking our back yard, I alternately cried or moaned as Dad, my two brothers and assorted hired men struggled with shovels and mud.
The normally milky, now chocolate-brown, river crept nearer and nearer.

It topped the high cliff bank.
It started flowing across the lower pasture.
Higher. Higher.
Finally, it reached our yard and began lapping at the tiny bulwark of sand bags. The barricade that had seemed so huge only moments before.
Dad and his crew worked frantically, trying to reinforce what now looked like a pathetic little mud pie, against all that water.
All day, they worked.
And finally, the waters peaked. Then slowly began to recede.
We lost part of our yard. A small part.
The bridge crew had some equipment damaged, but nothing that couldn't be repaired or replaced.
Unfortunately, the same wasn't true for the rest of Alberta and Montana, wherever the Milk River flowed. Communities suffered millions of dollars in damages and at least 30 people lost their lives. In fact, the June, 1964 flood remains in the history books as one of the greatest disasters ever to hit Montana.

But the waters receded.
Back on the ranch, everything wasn't as pristine as it had once been, but was soon put to rights.
Our new bridge was finished and the old one demolished and hauled away. The crew left.
We kids scampered around on the cement marvel for a short while, but soon discovered that its smooth surfaces provided few hiding places and absolutely nowhere to hang a rope.
It was abandoned.
Often, our family would stand on the house balcony and watch the river as it curved gently around the ranch.
Once more, it was the calm, quiet flow that watered our stock and our crops, cooled us on hot days, and supported us in our floundering efforts to swim. Once more, it was the color of the sediment that gave it its milky hue and its name.
Eventually, I even lost my fear of it.
Yes, for me, the summer of 1964 was an exciting, memorable time.
Sometimes, I wish I could forget it.

Our yard. And rubberneckers.

Closer view. Our yard.
Usually there is a road (and a cliff)
between us and the river.

Brooder House. It survived.

Old bridge, new bridge

and very, very wet equipment

Our Lady

Age and/or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.

The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"
A little background . . .

Or multiple riders.
That worked as well . . .

Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . tail . . . of the herd) and could keep the entire herd going.
With or without human guidance.
So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher. All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns. If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat.
Less, if said heartbeat is slow.
Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was sitting in her saddle.
Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under and her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.
For a moment.
Then he, or she, would discover that the hardest thing about learning to ride was the prairie.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath.
Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many other Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup. To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim: tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco: another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds.
Steamboat: an enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gait that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth.
The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings.
Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on. These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching. Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes. And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true.
We had Lady.
She of the very, very apt name.

Feisty little Rebel

The Amazing Shammy.

Ditto.

Which of these things is not like the others . . .

My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With King Prancer. Another early ride.

Heavy Wishes

Let's see you squeeze out of that...

I found myself a genie.

Inside a bottle, too.

His master’d had a master Chef who’s rated ‘Cordon Bleu’.

Now, this may sound quite harmless,

In fact, it could be nice.

I know I’ve dreamed of such a cook in my life, once or twice.

But decades of indulgence,

And little of restraint,

And even genies can succumb to lures that’d try a saint.

It’s simple mathematics.

If it don’t come out, it stays.

And somehow settles on the hips and on the stomach, lays.

And so it was with Genie.

I guess he’s just like me.

I'd rather eat those past-e-ries and, Oh! Do you have brie?

So, now, I hold the bottle,

I’m ready for my wish,

But years of gross indulgence have made things rather squished.

Good thing the bottle’s pliable.

Good thing the walls are thin.

Bad thing that Mr. Genie weighed much less when he went in.

But I am so resourceful,

I won’t even need a fork,

I’ll simply squeeze the bottle – he will exit - like a cork.

Treasure. And Vegetables.

The Old Garage.
Look out below . . .

Under the floor of the old garage was a dark, mysterious, magical stronghold. A place of adventure. Of devious deeds and dead bodies long kept hidden. Where pirates, coming down the Milk River in ships, hid their treasures. And their secrets.

A place of adventure. Of wonder.

And vegetables.

Accessed only through a solid, well-camouflaged wooden door, this place was known only to the best and brightest . . . and bravest . . . that the ranch had to offer.

Me.

Okay, I admit that I had to wait until one of my larger, stronger minions actually grasped the great iron ring and pulled the door up on its protesting hinges to grant me entry, but from that point . . . I. Was. In. Charge.

Yes, okay, so they also had to reach up to the single hanging bulb and pull the string because it was too far up for me, but from then on . . .

Geeze.

I spent hours there.

Or at least as long as it took my mom to collect her baskets of vegetables and start back up the stairs.

At that point, I would abandon whatever scheme I had launched and scamper up behind her.

I could conquer worlds. Defeat any foe. Accept any challenge.
I just had a bit of a problem with being left in the dark.
The heavy door would be lowered into place with a theatrical thud, and the hideout's secrets would once more be hidden.
Entombed. Quietly, patiently waiting until the next time the sunlight briefly, piteously exposed them.
I loved the root cellar. I loved its mystery. 
Its possibilities.
But I should probably mention here that the south fork of the Milk River never, ever could have floated anything larger than a rowboat.
Well, except, maybe during the flood of '64. But a pirate raid then would, of necessity, have to be brief.
And very, very fast.
So, my stone-walled, dirt-floored stronghold probably never concealed a treasure. Or a body.
I think a cat got mistakenly shut in once for a few hours, but as it emerged unconcerned and completely unscathed, I don't think that counts.
I don't know if that particular root cellar still exists. It had been years since I was back there. But my memories of it are still sharp and clear.
The damp, cool air. The 'heavy' feel of the stone walls and dirt floor. The . . . fuzzy-looking boards that formed the staircase.
But most especially the smells. Earth. Fresh vegetables. Wet, aged wood. Things growing. Things crumbling back into earth.

There is a addendum.
My husband and I have spent many hours travelling on the underground in London, England. It is a remarkably run, efficient system.
But in the deepest tunnels, we met with an unexpected bonus.
Stepping off the escalator, I took a deep breath.
Earth. Old timbers. The natural smells of molder and decay.
I smiled.
It smelled like memories.

The True Story

A guest post by Blair Stringam

Shammy. And humanoids.

Did you ever think about something that you did in the past and wonder “what was I thinking?”

If you have then we understand each other.

If you haven't then I guess you have your ducks all in a row.

I don’t.

My sister has told this story to you before, but I need to set the record straight . . .

When I was a wee lad of 5 years, summer on the ranch was a daily adventure. There were lots of places to explore, frogs to catch at the river, horses to ride, chickens to watch (they were very strange) and barns to explore. 

But one thing I was not allowed to do. Accompany my two older sisters on trail rides. 

The epitome of fun. The ultimate in summer adventures.

For everyone  but me.

And so I pestered.

I pestered until one day they finally relented and allowed me to follow them. And even more exciting? My sisters decided that we were not only going on a trail ride but we were going to have a picnic as well. I was beyond ecstatic.

I was to ride my horse Shammy, a very fat, very quiet, very gentle welsh pony that dad had given to me on my 3^rd birthday.

We saddled our horses. Well, my sisters saddled the horses. I couldn't reach up high enough to pull the cinch tight.

We climbed aboard and headed out across the river with my sisters leading the way. Just after we crossed, we picked up a cattle trail that followed, first the river, then a fence line up a steep embankment. 

I should note here: When fences follow steep embankments there are often high and low spots. Now, placing fence posts in the high and low spots is not a problem in itself, but when you string tight wires between said posts, it tends to pull the lower ones out of the ground. There are clever things that ranchers do to try to stop this but sometimes the posts have minds of their own.

Illustration by Blair.

Back to my story . . .

One of the posts in the fence we were following had pulled out of the ground and was hanging over the trail.

Chris rode by and ducked under the post. I watched her do this. Then Diane rode by and ducked under the post. I watched her do that as well.

Then I rode up to the post.

And didn't.

I don't know why.

It hit me (or I hit it) square on my forehead and I was peeled off the back of my horse.  I landed in a heap and began to cry.

I was mad and I was not going to be consoled even though my sisters were being very kind and soothing. Then (I think in desperation) Chris finally said, “Look at Shammy.  She thinks you are being silly.” 

I looked up at Shammy, who was standing just a few feet ahead.

She was looking back at me with a very puzzled expression on her face.

I was suddenly embarrassed and stopped crying immediately. A cowboy has to tough when he is around his horse.

I climbed back up, hoping that Shammy wouldn’t remember my moment of weakness.

We resumed our trail ride, had our picnic and went home.

Another note: Maybe Shammy didn't remember, but my sisters obviously did. 

It was a long time before I was allowed to go on a trail ride again.

Company Manners

The dinner was exquisite.

Every preparation completed.

Pressed, linen tablecloth. Pristine, individual napkins. The finest china and crystal.

Polished silverware.

And that’s where everything came to grief.

But I am getting ahead of myself . . .

My Dad’s eldest sister, Emily was hostess-ing a dinner party.

For her good friend and fellow teacher, Miss Duff.

It was to be a fairly formal affair, designed to impress her friend with the fact that Emily belonged to an excellent family of good breeding and proper deportment.

For a woman who taught proper deportment every day in her Home Economics classes, this was of vital importance.

Unfortunately, she made one mistake.

She invited said family.

All was ready.

Everything laid out in faultless order.

Emily glowed with pride as she surveyed her impeccable arrangements.

Perfect.

The invited guest and the family members assembled.

Amidst quiet exclamations over the exquisite settings and appetizing platters of choice food, everyone took their places.

My Dad, then fifteen, glanced down.

In keeping with the impression she was trying to convey, Emily had given each person their own polished and shining butter knife.

Maybe I should mention here that this wasn’t the usual tradition. No. In the Stringam household, one communal butter plate and a single knife were the norm.

Back to my story . . .

Dad picked up the knife. Made a show of studying it carefully.

Then held it aloft. “Erm . . . Emily?”

She looked at him.

“What is this for?”

All of her meticulous preparation and her attempts to appear elegant and refined were gone in an instant.

She put everything she had into the glare she levelled at her youngest brother.

Who simply grinned.

Just a note: If you are planning on hosting a party. And hoping for a chance to show your guests how refined and decorous your family is . . .

Don’t invite your family.

I Miss You, Mom

Daughter. Wife. Mother. Friend. Parent. Confident.
Co-conspirator.
I have lots of stories about my Mom.
Favourite stories.
And in my mind, the woman at the center of each of them is still vibrantly alive and busy.
If I walk into the next room, I will hear her tell me, "I'm going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!"
Or if I open the fridge, "What's wrong with that milk?! There's nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!"
Or better yet, "Don't eat that! It's for Christmas!"
When I look out the window, she'll be out there in the garden, hoeing or harvesting. Hauling around her paint sprayer to put on just 'one more coat'. Sprinting to the top of a corral fence because some bull objected to her presence there.
Hauling feed to cattle, pigs, chickens and dogs.
Turning around, I'll see her seated at the kitchen table, writing a short story or poem. Or occasionally snatching a few minutes to read an article in the Reader's Digest.
Or studying the scriptures and preparing Sunday School lessons.
I can see her cooking and baking endlessly in her scrupulously clean kitchen as she prepares feasts for an endless stream of children and hired men.
Or straining the socially acceptable language barriers as she copes with a recalcitrant sewing machine while making yet another article of clothing for one of her six children.
'Accidentally' ringing the ranch bell.
Hitting a home run to the delight of some and the dismay of others.
I can see her skating across the ice, spinning and dipping and coming to a breathless halt.
Kissing countless booboos and rescuing heedless children from hair-raising escapades.
Taking smiles and meals to someone who needs exactly those things. In that order.
Knitting and crocheting for everyone except herself.
In fact, spending every moment of every day in service to others.
And happy to do it.
All I have to do is turn around - or pick up the phone - and she'll be there.

Then reality pays a short visit.

My brother, brushing.

Brother and Sister-in-Law, trimming and sweeping.

Scrubbing.

All dressed.

She's there.
In my mind.
Busy. Happy. Healthy.
Someday, I'll see her again. Someday.
I miss you, Mom.
Happy Mother's Day!

Home Run

The mighty Ball Player/Cheer leader.

At the Stringam ranch, size definitely mattered.
Average was never good enough.
The buildings were oversized. The land was oversized. The animals were oversized.
Well, at least that's how everything looked to me.
I was four.
One thing that was larger than normal was the barnyard and I know that because . . . well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
The game of preference among the ranch residents was baseball.
On summer evenings, once all of the animals had been properly tucked in for the night, the hired men would challenge each other - and any one else who could swing a bat - to a game of pick-up.
In the barnyard. (Remember what I said about size . . .?)
I was always parked safely atop the fence behind home plate and charged with the solemn duty of being the sole member of the audience.
They told me it was because I was the best at cheering. But I knew differently. It was because they feared my 'heavy hitter' status.
Well, if they wanted me to cheer. Cheering was what they would get.
Enthusiasm, I had.
Unfortunately, staying power, I didn't.
Inevitably, something would distract me. A cat. Dog. Butterfly. Imagined cat, dog or butterfly. Clouds. Grass. Wind.
And quite often, the game went far past my all-important bedtime - which, I might point out, came while the sun was still high in the sky and which was a terrible waste of daylight, in my opinion.
But I digress . . .
Once a summer, we had a most magical Saturday. When the haying is finished and the evening chores are still hours away.
Time for the annual Saturday afternoon baseball game.
Even my mom left her evening meal preparations and myriad other duties and joined us. (I should point out here that Mom was probably the best hitter of the lot - a fact that rather irked most of the hired men.)
My Mom, Dad and brother, George, were playing on a team with two of the men. My elder brother Jerry, sister Chris and four other men made up the other side.
I was, once more, on the fence.
Figuratively and literally.
The game was pretty much tied up.
Whatever that meant.
Al was up to bat and there was a strange gleam in his eye.
Not that I could see it. On the fence. Remember?
He nailed that ball and it sailed straight and fast, over the heads of our intrepid outfielders, and towards the barn. The new barn. With brand new windows.
One of which did not survive what happened next.
Everyone gasped and winced when the tinkle of breaking glass reached us a split second later.
Our only ball disappeared inside.
Time was called as everyone scrambled toward the barn.
Al was left at home plate, still clutching the bat, a look of horror on his face.
For the next half-hour, we searched for that ball.
The shattered window bore mute evidence of it's passing. But it was not to be found.
Directly inside the row of windows was a corridor which ran in front of the tie-stalls and allowed for feeding. On one side of this corridor, the outer wall, on the other, solid, wood planks reaching to a height of about five feet and forming the front of the stalls. Then there were the stalls themselves. Then another, wider corridor. And on the other side of that space, the tack rooms.
Every square inch of the tack rooms, stalls and in fact, the whole lower floor of the barn were minutely searched.
No ball.
And chore time was fast approaching.
And people were talking about Al's hit as having been 'over the fence'. There were several long faces as the members of the opposite side acknowledged that Al's team had just drawn into the lead by one run.
Those people frantically began sifting through the hay in the mangers. The straw on the floor.
Still no ball.
"If we don't find it soon," my dad said, "we'll have to quit. We have to do the chores before it gets dark."
Redoubled efforts.
Still no ball.
Then Al, he of the mighty swing, walked over to the broken window to inspect the damage more closely.
"Well, here it is!" he said.
The rest of us turned to look. Sure enough, he was holding our baseball.
"Where was it?" Dad asked.
"Here. On the windowsill."
"What?" Everyone clustered around.
"Yeah. It was sitting here on the windowsill."
"But how could that be?" Mom asked. "It went through the window like a shot. We all saw it."
"I dunno. I just found it sitting here on the windowsill."
"Well, that is strange."
They probably figured out instantly what had happened, but I had climbed on one of the horses and missed the dénouement.
Fairly typical for someone with my short attention span.
The game went on and the incident was relegated to an amusing side note in a (with the exception of the broken window) very fun afternoon.
It was years before I figured out exactly what had actually happened.
I'll leave you to figure it out . . .

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.