Full House

By request.

Because the nest is still full . . .

The nest was clean

            And tidy, too.

There wasn’t much

            I had to do.

It stayed that way

            From dawn to dawn.

Had been like that

            Since the chicks had gone.

But it hadn’t always

            Been just so,

When chicks would come

            And chicks would go,

When clutter ruled

            When ‘mess’ was norm,

When noise began

            With the dewy morn.

I found myself,

            Each day, awash

In dirty dishes,

            Stinky socks.

Up to my knees

            In diapers, too

When days were full

            And the nest was, too.

When every evening

            Prayers were said,

And kisses, hugs

As they went to bed.

Then flopped, exhausted,

            In the chair,

And contemplated

            Life from there.

And though it seemed

            It’d never end.

Somehow it did,

As all things tend.

And the nest that never

            Took a bow,

Echoed with

            The silence now.

But then, one day

            The door swung wide,

And chicks and chicklets

            Stepped inside.

“We’re here to stay,

            If that’s okay.”

Once more, there’s action

            every day.

Once more I live

            With clutter, there,

And no bare spaces

            Anywhere.

And noise? Whoo-boy!

            You have to know,

That lungs’re the very first

            Things to grow.

The toys are spread

            From here to there.

And chicklets playing

            Everywhere.

And meals to make

            And clothes to mend

And schedules to

Draw and blend.

And, still, with all

            The noise and strain

And problems bouncing

            In my brain,

With things to do,

            And time to share,

And chicklets falling

            Down the stair.

That I would never

            Want at all,

The spotless house,

The quiet halls.

Exchange the action

            That resides

Or change the love

            That dwells inside.

I’ve learned you don’t need

            Silence, no.

When people come

            And people go.

There’s peace in every

            Busy day.

When chicks and chicklets

            Come your way.

With hugs and kisses

            You abound

And love is shining

            All around.

And never can your

            Life be dull,

‘Cause, once again

            The nest is full.

Bittermilk

Yummy deliciousness. Not.

Milk. That commodity touted as one of the world’s most perfect foods. So important to growing bones and teeth. Or so it was described in the 50’s.
Like other ranching families, the Stringams had their own milk production system.
Bossy.
Not an original name, but at least it gave her a slight distinctive edge over 53. And 175. And 92. And . . . you get the picture.
Bossy was gentle. Quiet. Dependable. Everything a milk cow should be. Her milk production was high. Higher than most dairy cows. For that reason, she had been a family fixture for many years.
She also had a problem. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Every morning Dad, or one of the hired men, would carry home a galvanized steel pail filled with warm, rich, frothy milk, compliments of Bossy. This milk was then poured through a straining cloth into another pail and ‘purified’, then poured into sterilized jars.
The jars of still-warm milk were distributed to the various households on the ranch. Bossy was truly a remarkable cow to fill the needs of so many.
In the evening, the same procedure was repeated, only the captured milk was poured through the separator and the resultant thick, rich cream used for such remarkable things as ice cream, cream puffs, pastries, and many other treats aptly designed to satisfy the sweet tooth of every child - and most of the adults - living there.
The milk from which the cream had been removed, or ‘blue’ (skim) milk was given to the pigs, who thought they were in heaven.
It was a prefect system. Not a drop wasted.
Then the milk . . . changed.
At first, Dad thought the cow had gotten into a patch of weeds. Not an unknown thing on any ranch. The result of such a change in diet usually reflected, quickly but briefly, in the milk.
Onions make for a really . . . interesting . . . milk flavour. But I digress . . .
For some time, the milk continued to taste strange. But the processes remained the same. The milk was distributed. Separated. Consumed.
Then the rebellions started. Small at first.
“Mom, this milk tastes icky (real word)!”
“You’re imagining things, dear. Drink it.”
“Mom, it stinks!”
“Drink!”
Then larger.
“Mom if I have to drink one more glass of that milk, I’m going to be sick!”
“You need the calcium! Now drink!”
Mom was not unaware that the milk was distinctly off. But she was very concerned about giving her growing family the nutrition they needed.
Occasionally, she would bring home a container of milk from the store.
Which disappeared. Magically.
And also coined another phrase. “I’m going to stop buying this milk! You kids just drink it!”
Ummmm . . .
Finally, Mom got to the point where, if anyone complained about the milk, she would taste it, smack her lips appreciatively and say, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
As time passed, she got more and more creative in trying to get the horrible stuff past our pre-adolescent taste buds. She put it into puddings. Soups. Desserts.
And still we whined.
Then that glorious day. Dad went out to milk . . . and found the cow dead.
Really dead.
Hardware disease. Not uncommon and distinctly nasty.
Poor Bossy.
Our celebrations could be heard in Lethbridge.
An autopsy revealed what the rest of us had suspected for three long years. That the cow had something seriously wrong.
She had, sometime while grazing, ingested a piece of metal and it had become lodged in her system, affecting her milk production. Eventually, it had worked its way through something important internally, and had been the cause of her death.
There was no grieving.
Dad bought a new cow. A healthy, young one. And the ‘milk distribution system’ resumed as though it had never been interrupted.
With one important change. Whenever any of us was given a glass of milk, we would sniff it suspiciously. Even forty-five years after the described events.
Old habits die hard.
Kind of like our cow.

There is a codicil.
Years later, when my family and I were attending my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my children and I performed a skit. They were seated around a picnic table and I poured each of them an imaginary glass of milk, which they then ‘drank’.
Clutching their throats, each then succumbed to the terrible poison that had been ingested. Gasping out their last breaths, one by one, they collapsed onto the grass beneath the table, twitched a few times, then lay still. I picked up one of the imaginary glasses, pretended to take a drink, smacked my lips and said, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
At which point my eldest brother leaped to his feet and shouted, “IT DID! IT TASTED THAT BAD!!!”
Spill this milk. Please.

Ranch Shoes

Blair and his first pair of shoes . . .

I bought myself a pair of shoes the other day. Very practical with a heavy sole and a solid leather upper.

Every once in a while I think I should consider a lighter pair – especially considering I live where it is very hot.  But this thought does not linger long. I have to have a solid pair of shoes.

Why?

Growing up on the ranch.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was a wee lad, my mother provided me with a vast array of foot wear.  I had a pair of flip flops, running shoes, rubber boots (gum boots to us but which some people call 'Irrigator Tony Lamas'), and cowboy boots.

First I tried my flip flops.  But I soon discovered that one could easily bruise one’s toe when walking across the graveled drive to the barn.  Plus the entire foot was exposed, inviting close contact with animal digestion products.

Ewww.

Flip flops were not desirable.

Next I tried my rubber boots. Hmm. Easy and quick to put on, plus they protected my toes from unwanted bruises and my feet from the aforementioned products of animal digestion abundantly scattered around the barn [even though we actively collected them and put them in the animal digestion products (manure) pile].  And rubber boots were great when it rained and I could walk across/through mud puddles.

An aside here: I did have to be careful in mud puddles because sometimes my boots stuck in the mud causing me to step out of said boot and into said mud with my foot.  Not a desirable plan.

However, I discovered that the most undesirable feature of gum boots was they offered little protection for my feet when I was around horses, who just happen to be very adept at picking up their feet and placing them on my foot with amazing and lightning-fast precision.

A thought: Missile guidance design engineers will never be able to craft a system that achieves the precise accuracy of a horse when they place their hoof on your foot, then, having nailed your foot, shift their weight from all their other hooves to the one that pinned your ……ahhhhhhhh ……..….. FOOT!

Also: I’m fairly certain the horse then says in horse talk to his friends, “Hey I nailed this poor little sucker this time!  Hey look at me, I can place all of my weight on the one hoof!  Bet you guys can’t do that.  Oh, hey look!  I think that his foot hurts so much he’s going to pass out!”

Moving on . . .

So gum boots were out. 

I finally determined that ultra-sturdy cowboy boots offered the best fortification.  My toes didn’t hurt near as much when the horse stepped on a foot that had been thus adorned.

Later I discovered work boots and that was even better.

But that is another story.

So please know that when I shop for shoes, I may look at the lighter, cooler one, but my toes tell me that they would rather be safe in something solid and sturdy.

Habits, unlike toes, are hard to break.

In the Ear

Or something similar...

It was a quiet afternoon at the Stringam Senior home in Lethbridge, Alberta.

Grampa was multi-tasking: reading the newspaper and keeping track of his small grandson, Dale.

Dale, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He had a grand new toy. A water pistol ‘guaranteed to provide your child with hours of safe, exciting fun’.

There was one draw-back.

To enjoy said hours of safe, exciting fun, one needed to have the ability to fill the gun with water.

Let’s face it. Without water, it was just a plain, old, boring shooter.

Sigh.

For some time, Dale had been doing his best. Pretending that this new toy did something other than look the part.

And that was when my Dad came onto the scene.

Grampa emerged from his newspaper long enough for cheerful greetings, a quick recap of the day’s notable events - ie. Where was mother and what are you doing here at home – and Dad was free to make his way to the kitchen.

There he found his small nephew struggling mightily to fill his new toy with the water that put the final guarantee on an afternoon of safe, exciting fun.

Always up for a bit of high-jinks, Dad obligingly helped out. Then, with a smile, he told his nephew to (and I quote) “Go and shoot Grandpa.”

Grinning gleefully, the little boy disappeared.

Dad lingered quietly in the kitchen.

Because that’s the best place to wait when there is going to be gun-play in the front room.

His patience was rewarded with the sound of little footsteps trotting across the floor, a pause and a large grunt from Grandpa.

“Euagh!”

Or something similar.

Dad crossed the dining room to witness the final result.

Dale, still with his gleeful grin and gun at the ready, was standing beside Grandpa’s chair.

Grandpa was wiping the side of his face with a shirtsleeve.

“Did he get you?” Dad asked the glaringly obvious question.

Grampa levelled a look at him. “Yes,” he said. “Right in the ear!”

Dad. Noted water-fighter extraordinaire.

Training up the new generation to excellence.

It’s a family thing.

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam on a more successful babysitting day.
With my eldest sister and brother.

Till We Meet Again

On May 28, 2015, we said good-bye.

We've told stories and laughed and cried.

Now we have the memories . . .

Post from June 15, 2014

Husband, father, rancher, veterinarian, brother, friend, uncle, cousin.

Jokester.

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.

At 89 years old, he is the last surviving sibling of a great progeny.

And he has made his mark in the world. (Oddly enough, his name is Mark. Apropos . . .)

He has served in numerous leadership roles in Church and community.

Been a voice for change in Provincial/Federal politics.

Lovingly supported his wife all her life and through her final illness.

Raised six kids, numerous grandkids and even more great-grandkids.
Built heritage clocks and other woodworking marvels.

Developed and refined his own award-winning genetic line of Hereford cattle.

Taught. Led. Supported. Pushed. Pulled. Guided. Built.

Worked.

But what do his progeny mostly remember this great man for?

His pranks.

Yep. Pranks.

This was the man who shaved his head into a ‘mohawk’ do, long before it was acceptable. And with red, curly hair, such a style was . . . noticeable.

Proof! Daddy's on the right...

Painted a large ‘48’ on the water tower at his Alma Mater in Guelph, Ontario.

Disassembled and re-assembled the headmaster’s car on the porch of the administration building.

Played the ‘wedding waltz’ when his youngest brother-in-law showed up with a girlfriend. And rigged a smoke bomb on the engine of said bother-in-law’s car at the end of that particular visit.

Served drinks in ‘dribble’ glasses.

Lit the bottom corner of a newspaper on fire when the reader was concentrating on reading the upper corner.

Used a syringe to squirt water through a nail hole, thus winning, once-and-for-all, the title of ‘water fighter extraordinaire’.

Also used a syringe to squirt skunk ‘essence’ through the keyholes of the 'Ag' students at Guelph Verterinary College. Can anyone say ‘stink’?

Floated a plastic ice cube with encased fly in guests’ drinks. 

Hid an unwrapped prophylactic in the headmaster's handkerchief, tucked into the man's tuxedo, to be revealed with notable results.

And other monkeyshines too numerous to mention here. But which will be the subjects of future posts . . .

The once-mighty rancher is frail now.

Still clear mentally, but moving slowly and with care.

And seldom venturing far from his comfortable chair and book shelf.

It would be painful to watch, if one were not buoyed by Dad’s own words. “I’ve had fun!”

Words followed by the familiar twinkle as he recounts past pranks.

And still looks forward to future ones.

During my last visit, a dear guest looked at her glass and said, “This isn’t one of those ‘dribble’ ones, is it?”

Daddy? Never change!

How I'll always remember him. Seated at his desk. Getting things done.
See you soon, Daddy!

Remembering

Remembering Dad.

This post is from from May, 2014

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

The best of times.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying.

Moving on . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. Not that I'm admitting anyway . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader.

I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line.

By whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation.

“Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much.

“Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant.

The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing.

Quiet talk and laughter around us.

Gentle chime of silverware on china.

Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu.

“Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match.

Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life.

Goodbye, Daddy

My Dad went home this morning at 3:20. Peacefully.

I know Mom was there and that, after more than a decade, they are finally together again.

He was - and is - the best Dad ever. 

I miss him already.

I hope you don't mind if I repost past stories of him for the next few days.

Remember this great man with me . . .

Mom and Dad.
Yes, they always dressed like that.

From June 6, 2011

Today is dedicated to Mark and Enes Stringam, my parents.

Mom and Dad were married 63 years ago today at the United Church in Brooks Alberta.

Reverend Dixon performed the ceremony, which was attended by family and friends.

But that was only the beginning.

The young couple immediately moved to the Stringam Ranch on the Alberta/Montana border.
Mom knew she was marrying the youngest son of a notable Southern Alberta ranching family. But what she didn't know, but quickly discovered, was that she had also married a clown. A joker. Tease. And all around goof.
The adventure had begun . . .

On their honeymoon, they chose to camp. Rustic. Earthy. Isolated.
All the perfect ingredients for a newly-married couple.
Then it rained.
And got cold.
Whatever clothing dad took off, mom put on.
Then they moved their tent into a nearby shelter, along with all of the other campers in the area.
Okay, so intimate, it wasn't.
Just at dawn, Dad, always an early riser, got up and made a beeline for the showers.
Mom awoke some time later to the loudly-belted strains of "'Cause some dirty dog put glue on the saddle!" (Still a family favorite.) Shaking her head, she turned over to complain to Dad about the rude person singing in the showers.
But Dad wasn't there.
It was about then that Mom realized just who was making all the noise.
And still she stayed married to him.

* * *

Once she was settled on the vast Stringam ranch, Mom quickly discovered that life wasn't so different from what she had known on the Berg Ranch near Brooks. There, she and her mother had the care and feeding of Mom's father and eight brothers.
Now, she had the similar responsibility for Dad (this new goofball husband), and six hired men.
It was a toss-up as to which group could eat more.
Fortunately, Mom soon proved that she was more than capable of satisfying any hungry person, or persons, who strayed into her kitchen.
She spent a lot of time in that kitchen.
And in her vast gardens, which supplied food for that kitchen.

* * *

There was a bell on the ranch.
A large bell, rung only at meal times and in case of dire emergency. A bell that could be heard, on clear days, at a distance of five miles.
Only authorized people were allowed to ring this bell.
And Mom wasn't, yet, authorized.
But she wanted to be.
The bell's cord draped temptingly through her kitchen window and over her sink. Teasing her with its proximity and, at the same time, its inaccessibility.
She glanced at it. Right there. Just a little pull. Only a tiny ring. No one would even notice . . .
Sigh.
Sometime later, while maneuvering a stack of dirty dishes towards the sink, she inadvertently caught the forbidden cord.
A loud 'clang' made her freeze instantly.
Oh-oh.
Moments later, the kitchen door burst open, revealing a very concerned Dad. "What is it? What's the matter?"
Mom looked at him, red-faced. "Nothing, dear. I just happened to catch the cord . . ."
"What's happened?" One of the hired men had come in just behind Dad.
"Is there a problem?" Someone hollered from the front door.
"Everyone okay in there?" Mom didn't even know where that voice came from.
Two more men bumped into those already assembled in the kitchen. "Someone need help?"
Mom could now hear the pounding of hoofs coming up the driveway.
Could she possibly just sink into the floor?
"False alarm, boys," Dad said, grinning at Mom's red face. "Let's get back to work."
The kitchen emptied out and Mom could hear Dad making explanations out in the yard.
Soon she was alone again.
Well, at least she knew that the bell worked. Sometimes a little excitement was a good thing.
She stared at the cord.

* * *

Dad spent a lot of time out riding. And when he wasn't riding, he was working somewhere in the barns or corrals. Or moving irrigation pipe. Or hauling hay or feed. Or doing one of the million or so things that went into ranching. And when he wasn't doing that, he was, as the area's only veterinarian, making vet calls.
To say that he was busy is a distinct understatement.
We kids saw him at mealtimes, or when we went out to the barnyard to get in his way . . . help, I mean.
Often, his duties would call him from the supper table and he wouldn't return until long after we were tucked in for the night.
He would quietly enter the house and tip-toe to his bedroom.
Then he would empty his pockets onto the carved-leather organizer on his dresser, before getting ready for bed. Coins, his jackknife, keys, instruments. Everything contained in those pockets would be dropped into the various different compartments.
They made a 'thumping' sound as they hit the leather. A soft but very distinct sound.
And it vibrated into every corner of the house.
Inevitably, I would wake to the sound of the creaking floor as Dad crept down the hall.
Then I would hear the tell-tale thump of his pockets' contents, hitting the organizer.
I would sigh happily and turn over.
Dad was home. All was well.

* * *

I don't know how they did it.
Mom and Dad had six children and numerous hired hands. Together, they still managed to organize and direct the various operations that went into running a ranch and household. Feeding, milking, planting, weeding, watering, harvesting, cleaning, sewing, repairing, overhauling, riding, fencing, driving, having babies, parenting, reading, cooking, canning, church responsibilities, veterinarian calls, Hereford club duties, neighborly visits and on and on and on. The only way they could have accomplished it all was to never sleep.
To say that I'm proud of them would be a vast understatement.
To say that I'm grateful, even more so.
Today is their day.
I love them.

A Very Short Trip

Ready for town . . .

We lived 70 miles from the nearest city. Thus, a 'trip to town' was more of an event.
Inevitably, I got car sick. Not a pleasant thing for anyone stuck in the vehicle with me.
And, being four, I sometimes confused being excited with being sick.
Let me explain . . .
On the ranch, the most exciting thing our Dad could say was, “Everyone get in the car, we've got to go to the town!”
It was equivalent to being told we were going to Disneyland.
All right, I admit it, sophisticated world travellers, we weren't.
We would then pile into the car (And I do mean 'pile'. Seatbelts hadn't been invented yet.) and head up the gravel road towards the great white lights of Lethbridge. The trip took an hour and a half. Or more, when Diane was one of the passengers.
Invariably, at some point between the ranch and the first town, Milk River, a small voice would pipe up from the back seat, “I'm sick!”
The car would slide quickly to the side of the road. Mom's door would fly open. Diane would pop magically to the top of the heap of humanity in the back seat and . . .
I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
Every trip.
Every time.
But then . . . something changed.
The little voice would speak up sooner.
And sooner.
Until the car wouldn't even have made it out of the driveway before the fateful words were heard.
Mom and Dad tried to puzzle it out. Why was Diane getting sick so quickly after getting into the car?
They must have figured something because they certainly came up with an effective solution.
On that fateful day, Dad announced that he had to make a trip into town.
With much talk and laughter, we kids piled (that word again) into the car.
Dad got in. His door closed.
A pause while he found the key and jammed it into the starter.
He turned the key.
The motor roared to life.
He reached for the gear shift.
“I'm sick!”
His hand hovered there for a split second. Then dropped down and shut off the key.
“Then, you'd better stay at home with your Mom.”
What?! No! I stared at him, horrified.
“Go on. Get out.”
The tears started.
I should mention here that my Dad is a real push-over for tears.
Any tears.
Except, obviously when his small daughter needs to be taught a lesson.
“Diane. Get out.”
“Daaaadddyyy!”
Suddenly, Mom was there, opening the car door.
“Nooooo!”
She carried me, by now crying bitterly into the house and set me down on a kitchen chair.
Over my sobs, I heard the car start up and pull out of the driveway.
They were really going to leave me! It was more than my little four-year-old heart could handle.
I lept off the chair, ran to my parent's room and crawled under the bed.
Now, I should point out here that, never before or since have I crawled under my parent's bed. Maybe because, never before or since has anything been that traumatic. But I digress . . .
I lay under there, sobbing for hours. (Or more probably five minutes – it's all the same when you're four.)
Suddenly, a banana appeared at the side of the bed. A fresh banana, with the peel still on, but just slightly opened to reveal the yumminess underneath.
It stayed there, just temptingly out of reach.
I looked at it. I love bananas.
And it really looked good.
I slid towards it. Just a little.
It stayed there.
A little more.
I could almost reach it.
More.
There! I could touch it.
And I was out from under the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
I looked up. Mom was sitting there on the floor, holding the banana.
I nodded and crawled into her lap. She held the banana for me to take a bite, then handed the rest to me and snuggled me tightly.
I munched my way through the treat, still sniffing occasionally.
Mom waited until I was done.
“Was it good?”
Nod. Sniff.
“Would you like something else?”
Nod.
She stood up, taking me with her and carried me into the kitchen.
Where she fed me a cookie.
Then another.
Why does everything look better on a full tummy?
Then she sat down. “Diane, in the car, were you really sick?”
I stopped chewing and looked at my cookie. Then I stared at her, wide-eyed.
“I don't think you were, were you?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“So why did you say you were?”
I looked at the cookie again, my mind working frantically.
“Were you excited about going to town?”
I nodded.
“Okay, I want you to think about this . . .”
Great. Thinking. My forte. Not.
“When we go in the car, I don't want you to say that you're sick. Unless you really are sick.”
I turned that over in my mind. I nodded.
“Can you remember that?”
Another nod. I started chewing again.
Mom smiled and stood up. “Good.”
And, oddly enough, that was all it took.
Never again did I pipe up from the back seat for anything less than genuine illness.
Or the potty, which Mom kept under her car seat.
But that is a whole other story.

Coyote Un-Sightings

Ray Tolley, my father-in-law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a man of integrity. Honest, forthright and industrious, he worked the land on his farm near Fort Macleod, Alberta with skill and patience, gleaning a good crop from the dry land every year but one until his death at the age of seventy.

FIL was a man of faith. Of deep thinking and wisdom.

He was also a man with a wicked sense of humour. Because, let’s face it, how could one have endured the hours he did sitting on a tractor, without one?

From using a ruler to measure ability (which was inevitably ‘nigh onto nothing’), to posing the conundrum, ‘which would you rather be – dumber than you look or look dumber than you are?’ to which the forgone conclusion was always, ‘How could you?’ (Yeah. Try to get out of that one . . .), FIL personified the image of weather-beaten farmer, tanned of face, hard of muscle and clever of tongue.

He had many sayings, most gleaned from family, neighbours and reading, but my personal favourite was when he’d come home and dramatically exclaim to his grandkids that, “I almost saw a coyote today!”

Inevitably, one or more of the younger kids who hadn’t heard this one before would get caught up in the conversation. “Really, Grandpa?” Then the reality of the statement would sink in. “Ummm . . . how do you almost see a coyote?”

The slow grin. The uh-oh look. The sure sign that someone had taken the bait and was about to be ‘had’.

Then, the punch line.

“If he’d been there, I’d have seen him!”

FIL left us over thirty years ago and, if he were still alive would be well past 100. But when one of his sayings crops up in a conversation, we know he’ll never truly be gone.

There it is!

Getting to Know You

The children’s organization in our church begins when the children are three.

Watching those little ones come into the room for the first time to join the older kids is quite a treat.

They look so tiny.

Enough background . . .

In an effort to get to know each of the children, a survey was distributed at the beginning of the year.

These are the answers my three-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter called GD3) supplied.

Primary Spotlight 2015

I came down to__[earth]__ from my Father above.
My home has __[five]__ people and __[1]__ animals to love.
I like to __[go on doughnut dates]__ with my family.
If you see someone with __[hazel]__ eyes and __[curly brown]__ hair, it could be me.
I like learning about __[the alphabet]__ when I go to school.
When I grow up, I want to be __[four years old]__ (I think that would be cool)
In my spare time, I think __[watching movies with mom]__ is fun.
And I like to eat __[cucumbers and marshmallows]__ when the day is done.
I like the color __[pink, purple and green]__ when I am making art.
On Sunday __[Sunbeams]__ is the class I go to
Singing __[Popcorn Popping]__ is one of my favorite things to do
On __[October 11]__ you can say “Happy Birthday” to me
Thanks for getting to know me!

Each week, one child is selected and the answers are read out one by one.

Then the other children in the room try to guess who the ‘spotlight’ is.

When GD3’s was read, things went something like this:

Teacher: I came down to earth from my Father above.

GD3 (loudly): Hey! I came down to earth too!

Teacher: My home has five people and one animal to love.

GD3 (more loudly): Hey! That’s the same as me!

Teacher: I like to go on doughnut dates with my family.

GD3 (louder yet): Hey! Doughnut dates! That’s what we do!

Teacher: If you see someone with hazel eyes and curly brown hair, it could be me.

GD3: Wow! I have hazel eyes! Look!

I think you can see where this is heading . . .

For every answer read, GD3 was deafeningly ecstatic that someone else liked/did/had the same things she did.

By the time the survey was done, every other person in the room had their hand up.

The first time, ever, that that had happened.

Primary. The most entertaining part of Sunday Church attendance.

P.S. I can see a future in theatre, but I do hope GD3 never tries to go into politics.

Shirttail

Ready to ride

I had been Dad's herdsman for two months. I knew everything about cattle. Their needs. Their peculiarities. Not.
But I loved the job.
Every morning, I would drag out whatever goofball horse I was currently riding, tack up, and be off to check the herd.
This is a bit more complex than the statement suggests.
Yes, I would ride around the field. (I'd like to point out here that the aforementioned 'field' was roughly the size of a small town.) And yes, riding around it was pure joy to anyone as horse-crazy as I. But I also had to be on the look-out for any cows getting ready to calve.
Having trouble calving.
Already calved.
And anything else remotely resembling cows, calves and all their antecedent and potentially fatal problems.
Thus, the most important of my duties was watching alertly for signs of a cow having trouble.
This wasn't always easy to spot. For one thing, a cow preparing to give birth will hide herself so completely that she cannot be found.
Even with GPS.
Cows are funny that way.
Any other bodily function, they are happy to share with anyone and everyone. If they can do it, you are welcome to watch.
But when they are in labor (yes, they do experience labor) they head for nearest secret spot. Very, very secret. So secret that . . . well, let me put it this way: Jimmy Hoffa was probably hidden by a calving cow.
I must confess, I missed some of them in my travels.
Most of them were fine and I would ride out the next day and spot yet another little red and white baby 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Some weren't, and those either required immediate help.
Or burial.
Ranching can be a brutal business.
On this particular bright and sunny spring day, I had just started my sweep. I was feeling particularly cheerful because the days were getting noticeably warmer and most of the snow was gone.
I directed my horse along the north side of the pasture, heading east. There were less trees there and movement was easy. Then I swung back, just inside the tree line.
There! A suspicious patch of red! I slid off my horse and investigated. Sure enough, a cow. An almost completely exhausted cow.
I circled her quietly, trying to see the business end of things.
Yes, definitely calving. As I watched, she strained.
But something was wrong. She had obviously been at this a while, but was making no visible progress.
I finally got a clear view of her back end. I could see a pink calf's nose.
And one little white hoof.
I must point out here that a calf normally presents with a little pink nose and two little white hooves. It's two front feet and head enter the world together, followed immediately by the rest of the body, a stubby white-tipped tail and two little rear hooves.
The appearance of one hoof means that the little guy is trying to come through with one foot and leg tucked behind him, forcing the shoulder to bulge.
Making him entirely the wrong shape to come via the normal entrance.
There are only two solutions: Push the calf back inside and quickly, very quickly, get your hand around that recalcitrant hoof and pull it forward.
Or find a vet for an immediate caesarian.
My dad was a vet and could easily have performed the needed surgery. But there was over a mile between him and my patient.
I considered my options for a very brief time, then decided on option two.
I jumped on my horse and proceeded to herd my uncomfortable mother-to-be towards the ranch buildings.
We made it halfway across the field.
She wasn't making any detours and the straightest route to the gate was over the last remaining snow bank. She tried to push through. She didn't get very far.
She sank into the drift with a groan and . . . stayed there.
I immediately slid off my horse again and approached.
By this point, the poor thing was oblivious to my presence. I had a very short time to do something and very few tools at my disposal to do it with.
I looked down at my shirt, a long-sleeved, button-up variety. It would have to do.
Placing a gentle hand on that little nose, I shoved the calf back inside it's mother.
Then I slid my hand in beside it and felt for that wayward hoof.
There it was! I cupped it in my hand and pulled it forward.
It slid easily.
I released my hold on the wet nose and it slid towards light and life once more. But this time, it was accompanied by two hooves.
I stripped off my shirt, tied the sleeves around each of those little feet and, bracing a boot against the mamma's backside, heaved.
The little, shivering, wet calf slid out.
Into my lap.
Ewww.
But any disgust or outright repugnance was immediately dispelled when the little guy (yes, it was a boy) shook his head and I heard those wet ears slap weakly against his head.
He was alive!
Belying the manner in which she had entered the snow bank, the mother immediately struggled to her feet and turned around to see her new baby.
Ignoring me completely, she started licking him.
He bleated softly and she 'mmmmm-ed' at him.
I was no longer needed. I took myself off for home.
And a bath.

There is a codicil.
My father raised only purebred Polled Hereford cattle. And each animal was required to have its own registration papers. I can still picture him seated at his desk, trying to come up with imaginative names that not only identified the animal, but also connected it in some way to its parents and to the Stringam Ranch.
The last part was easy. All names began with SSS.
The naming of my little calf posed no additional difficulty, either.
Daddy named him SSS Shirttail.
No explanations needed.

Making History

A whole new meaning to 'roasted grains'.

May 9, 1969. 6:45 am.
When most of the world still sleeps, or is just beginning to stir, the ranching families of Southern Alberta are already up and out.
Stock to feed, cows to milk.
Diving into the day’s first chores with unfettered enthusiasm. A smile - brought by the pure joy of work most satisfying - firmly fixed on weather-beaten faces.
Not.
“Spring!” Dad’s first words of the day, spoken with that aforementioned ‘unfettered enthusiasm’.
There he would be, the light from the hall behind him making him into the shadowy cut-out of some avenging God of Mischief, dressed in a white terry-cloth bathrobe and sent to ruin the final minutes of a good night’s sleep.
“Spring!” he would say again, in case we didn’t hear it the first time.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he would disappear. Evil summons completed.
Actually, I just made up that ‘puff of smoke bit’.
The evil summons?
Truth.
This morning began like any other.
A new spring sun just peeping over the horizon filling the clear, blue sky with breathtaking slices of pink and orange.
We humans blissfully ignorant.
Dad’s unfailingly cheerful, completely irritating voice calling happily down the stairs.
The summoned moaning and complaining and beginning to twitch in their beds.
The call came again.
The summoned were throwing off the heavy bonds of sleep by degrees.
Some were actually finding their voices. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet a third time.
The responses growing equally louder and more understandable, “Yeah, yeah!”
And then the final call. The one sure to either freeze the faithful in their beds, or galvanize them into movement.
“The elevators are on fire!”
I should mention here that the town of Milk River’s elevators stood directly behind us, across our pasture. A short few hundred yards away.
Within toasting distance.
The mere thought of them engulfed in flames struck terror into the hearts of every member of the Stringam family.
Certainly it did that day.
“Yeah, Dad, good one!” A pause. Then, “Dad’ll say anything to get us up!” Laughter.
Perhaps I was a bit more trusting than my brothers.
Perhaps the idea of something exciting happening in our sleepy little town was enough to draw me from my bed.
Whichever.
I scurried into my parent’s room, bounded across their bed and joined my mother at the window.
The entire horizon was a blaze of light.
Two of the six elevators were already burning and, as we watched, a third began to smoke.
Dad was out on the deck, his face a mixture of disbelief, excitement and dismay.
It was an interesting face.
By this time, our cries of . . . disbelief, excitement and dismay . . . had finally drawn my brothers to their window.
“Holy Smoke!”
Truer words were never spoken.
For a moment, fear washed over me.
Were we in any danger from the flames? Those elevators were awfully close.
Dad was quick to reassure.
The wind was favourable for us, pushing the fire, and its attendant sparks to the South, away from the Stringams.
Towards the Garbers, actually. And their barn.
But that is another story.
Chores were given a lick and a promise.
School was . . . poorly attended.
The time was spent watching the fire.
And the fire-fighters.
The entire population of town stood across the street, eyes locked on the incredible sight.
I found my Mom there and went to stand beside her.
“Good thing it’s spring,” I told her. “Harvest hasn’t started.”
My ignorance of the whole ‘grain storage’ thing was woeful.
“They’re right full of grain!” my Mom exclaimed.
As though to prove her statement, a long split appeared in one corner of the elevator nearest us. Followed immediately by a golden stream.
Then pieces of flaming elevator began to rain down.
The crowd gasped and stepped backwards.
Our Sheriff tried his best to keep us away.
Keep us safe.
He even went so far as to order all of the kids back to school.
We scampered to obey.
I'll let you believe that for a moment . . .
He couldn’t have driven us away with a stick. Maybe if he had pulled his gun . . . no not even then.
The elevators burned for days.

When the glow was finally out, the ruined grain was raked into piles and sold for a pittance, for cattle feed or whatever.
But to those of us who witnessed it, the fire would never be extinguished.
Even after the smell of roasting wood and grain finally washed away.
Even after new, modern elevators were built.
All one would have to say was, “Remember the elevator fire?”.
It was the most excitement our town has ever had. Before or since.
Okay, so ‘Thrill Central’ wasn't our town’s middle name.
Meanwhile, the Stringams were back to hearing, “Spring!” every morning.
Once or twice, Dad would try to inject a little excitement by shouting, “The elevators are on fire!”
But he was never believed.
Kind of like that first time.

Bread Mouse

My Mom. World's Best Bread Maker

I love bread.
Freshly baked or cooled. Whole wheat. White. Multi-grain. Potato. Sourdough. Soda. Banana. Rye. Leavened. Unleavened.
Have I mentioned that I love bread?
I could have lived on it.
Fortunately, my Mom made the best bread on the planet. And I knew this how . . .?
Okay, the best bread in my four-year-old world.
Twice a week, Mom would drag out her large, white ceramic bowl and start assembling the magical ingredients. She would add, then stir. Add, then stir. I especially loved it when she would make potato bread because it was so much fun watching her force the cooked, cooled potatoes through the colander.
Finally, the best part, when the mixture had turned into a ball of dough.
Then, Mom would punch and turn. Punch and turn.
And she would always give me a little piece to play with.
Dutifully, I would wash my hands, then reach, with eager fingers, for my piece.
I probably should mention that my little white ball of dough usually changed quite quickly to a little grey ball of dough. Obviously, four-year-old hand washing left much to be desired. And Mom must have noticed, because my tiny, little loaf never went into the oven . . .
In no time, six huge, beautifully golden-brown, perfectly shaped loaves emerged magically from the oven. And took their place of honour on the cupboard to cool.
And they smelled like Heaven. And I knew that how . . .?
Alright. Alright. They smelled like my four-year-old version of Heaven.
Sigh.
And they were just asking to be sliced and eaten with some freshly-churned butter.
Impatiently, I would follow my Mom around the kitchen, begging for a piece.
Now. While it was still warm.
And always, she would say, patiently, “In a minute, Diane. They have to cool a bit so they don't make you sick.”
Mom had told me many times about the little boy who had eaten a whole loaf of hot bread and who had to go to the hospital because the bread turned to a hard lump in his stomach.
And I believed her.
I did.
My stomach didn't, though, and it had to be re-convinced every time. “But Mom . . .”
Finally, she would sigh and relent, grabbing the big bread knife and carefully cutting through the crusty outside and into the wondrous middle.
Soon, I was sitting at the big kitchen table, happily munching my way through a large slice of fresh bread and butter.
This had to be done right.
I had tried on numerous occasions, to convince my Mom that crusts were simply to keep the yummy centre from drying out. But she had a thing about 'wasting food'. So, the crust was removed and quickly eaten, to get it out of the way. Then I could eagerly dive into the best part. The wonderfully soft centre.
It isn't possible to be happier.
I would lick my fingers carefully and then stab at any crumbs that might have fallen, collecting them on one fingertip. More licking.
When I had eaten everything possible, I would get to my feet and start following my Mom around the kitchen again. “Mo-om . . .”
The most I ever conned her out of were two pieces. Even if I didn't believe the 'little boy' story, Mom did.
But I outsmarted her. Sort of.
One afternoon, Mom had given my siblings and I our quota of fresh bread.
Then she, and they, all headed for the garden.
I was alone in the kitchen. With half a loaf of fresh bread.
My day had come.
I should probably point out, here, that I had tried, on numerous occasions, to slice fresh bread properly. Each attempt was a dismal failure.
I would start out all right, then the knife would turn one way or the other and I would end up, not with a slice, but a wedge. Which still tasted fine, just looked funny.
And made my Mom mad . . .
So, slicing was out.
I glanced around. The coast was still clear. How could I get that yummy bread from the cupboard into me?
I reached up and touched the soft, white centre. Pressed it, slightly. Watched it spring back so invitingly.
I pinched at it and managed to pull off a small piece.
Hmmm.
I stuck it into my mouth.
Mmmm.
I pinched off another piece. Bigger this time.
Better.
I dug at the loaf.
A really big piece.
Perfect.
And, quite suddenly, I realized that all I needed to get at the wonderful, soft, white interior, was two little hands.
And ten handy little fingers which I just happened to bring along with me.
In the next few minutes, I scooped out every crumb of soft, white goodness, leaving just the crusty, outside shell.

Okay. Now. How to hide the evidence.
I stared at the shell of a loaf. Huh. Maybe if I just turn it.
I flipped it over on its face.
Perfect! Mom will never know!
Have I mentioned that Mom always . . .
Okay, I'll move on . . .
The first thing Mom did when she came into the kitchen was tip the loaf back up.
Rats. Moms do those things. What's with that?
“What happened here?”
I stared at her mutely. How could I get out of this one . . .?
“It looks like we have a little mouse.”
Genius! Why didn't I think of that? I smiled and nodded. Yep. Mouse. Moms are so smart.
“Diane. Don't eat all the bread.”
I stared at her. What about the mouse?
She put her hand on my head. “It's not good for you to eat so much bread, Honey.”
Oh, yeah. The hospital thing.
“Promise me you won't do it again.”
I nodded, my eyes on the bread-shell on the cupboard.
“Good girl.”
I didn't get sick, like the little boy. But I also didn't ever dig at a loaf of bread again. I learned to eat the whole thing a slice at a time. By cutting it with a knife.
Like civilized people.
But there is a codicil . . .
Years later, after I married, I discovered that my husby came from a family of bread-lovers, just like me. Except that his family had fought, not for the soft, yummy centre, but for the crusty outside of his Mother's delicious bread.
Often, if one end crust had been taken, the other was cut off. If both ends were gone, the next logical choice was the top. Then the bottom.. Then the sides.
It wasn't unusual for my Mother-in-law to find a bread centre, lying naked on the cutting board.
Why couldn't I have been raised in that family?
Everyone would have been happy.

Getting 'Dress'ed

And yes, that's me. Far right. Second row. Dressed in my best.

A Dress?!
Mom wanted me to wear a dress? To school?
I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

Mom and Dad were planning a trip. A long trip.
I was five. Anything more than an hour was a long trip.
I was being farmed out at my cousin Jody's place for the duration.
And during that time, my grade one class was to have its first, ever school pictures taken.
Way, way beyond exciting.
Then, the bad news. Mom expected me to dress up for this photo op. And I do mean 'dress'.
My life was over.
She dropped me and my little suitcase off at Uncle Jay and Aunt Jesse's and waved happily as she drove out of the yard.
A little too happily.
Sigh.
Jody grabbed my hand and dragged me to her room. From then until bedtime, we were a blur of activity.
In the morning, as per instructions, I dragged out the hated dress and laid it on the bed.
We regarded each other.
Then I glanced down at the small bag where I had stuffed my play clothes the night before. My little 'snap' shirt and jeans. So much more comfortable.
And really not that dirty.
And, best of all, my Mom would never know.
I smiled. My decision was made.
Have I mentioned that a great many of my decisions really weren't what you would call thought through? And that, somehow, Mom always found out?
She was magic.
I wadded up my dress and shoved it back into my suitcase. Then I happily pulled on my shirt and jeans and snapped them up.
I was ready.
Aunt Jesse smiled at us when we presented ourselves for breakfast. Jody in her pretty little dress.
And me.
"Didn't your Mom send any clothes for picture day?"
I shook my head and mutely indicated what I was wearing.
Aunt Jesse frowned at me doubtfully, then finally shrugged and put another pancake on my plate.
Soon we were on the bus and all thought of itchy, restricting dresses was driven from my mind.
Grade One, with Miss Woronoski, was always wonderful, but this day was especially exciting as we anticipated our first, ever, class photos.
Okay, I know it sounds mundane. But we were five.
Everything's exciting when you're five . . .
The time came. Miss Woronoski lined us up for the parade down the hall to the 'photo' room. She arranged us neatly on chairs. The photographer told us to smile. The flash went.
Then, one by one, each of us sat in the lone chair to one side, to have our individual pictures taken. It was more excitement than my five year old self could handle.
And then, it was over. Our little faces had been captured. Immortalized for all time.
Along with what we had chosen to wear.
Some weeks later, our teacher handed out our pictures. I pulled mine out and stared at it. Look! It's me! And there we all were! My whole class.
Pictures were definitely things of beauty!
I tossed it to my Mom as I climbed into the car. "Pictures, Mom!"
She set it aside till we reached home.
By then I had forgotten all about it.
Later, my Mom called me into the kitchen. She was holding my small, brown envelope in one hand, and my pictures in the other.
"Diane, what happened here?"
I glanced down at the pictures and smiled. "Pictures, Mom." Okay, so quick, I wasn't.
"Yes, but what happened to the dress I sent for you to wear?"
I froze. My mind shuttling around frantically for an answer to her question. "Ummm . . ."
"Did you wear your play clothes to school on picture day?"
"Well . . ."
"Diane, I told you to wear your pretty dress!"
I stared at her, my eyes narrowed. How did you know?! Aunt Jesse told you, didn't she?!
Mom waved the picture. "Look at all of your friends in their nice clothes."
I glanced down. Then up at her again.
"Didn't you want to look nice?"
But I did look nice! My favorite shirt. My favorite jeans. I frowned. What was the problem?
Mom sighed. "Never mind."
I smiled and went off happily to play.

It's nearly 55 years since that day. A short time ago, my husband took me to see Tosca, performed by the Metropolitan Opera.
It was an exciting evening. One we had been anticipating for a very long time.
Grant was standing at the door, dressed in his finest. He looked at me. "Ready to go?"
I nodded.
He looked down. "Maybe you will want to wear something other than jeans and a shirt?"
Oh.
Right.
Some things never change . . .

Snow Boots

The Member of the Legislative Assembly of Alberta for the electoral district of Cardston needed to make sure he received his mail. Daily.

My Uncle Bryce, Dad’s next older brother like to play tricks on Dad.

And my Dad couldn’t get his boots off.

These statements go together. I know; it doesn’t appear to make sense to me either.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Brothers.

For three terms, my grandfather, George L. Stringam served as the MLA for Cardston, living, at the time, in the village of Glenwood – a small, sleepy little town about 34 Km (21 Mi) away. In the year 1930, Glenwood was a fairly progressive place, with many modern conveniences. One of which was the daily delivery of the mail.

As the MLA, Grandpa needed that mail.

His son, Bryce was assigned the task of retrieval.

Now a bit of background: Although motor vehicles were quite common in Glenwood in 1930, the heavy winter snows usually curtailed their use except under certain circumstances. The retrieval of the mail was important. Let’s just say it wasn’t important enough to drag out the car.

Thus the seven or eight blocks to the Post Office had to be covered either on foot, or by some horse-drawn conveyance.

Eschewing the former in favour of the latter, Bryce hitched up a single horse to the small stone boat and prepared to drive across town. Then he invited his youngest brother to join him on the adventure. Seven-year-old Mark happily climbed aboard.

Now, remember where I said that Bryce like to play tricks on his small brother? That would come into play here . . .

Bryce instructed Dad to sit at the very rear of the sled, facing backwards, to avoid getting a faceful of snow. Dad did as he was told and discovered, as Bryce got the rig underway, that it was true. The snow blew past him without any of it getting into unwanted places. Bryce appeared to have his little brother’s comfort in mind.

Appearances can be misleading.

After they had proceeded a few blocks, Bryce steered the horse off the packed main part of the street and into the drifts at the side.

The resulting cloud of snow came over the sides of the boat and straight down onto the small boy happily swinging his rubber-booted feet at the back.

Filling those boots instantly with snow.

Now it wasn’t a very cold day, and the trip was short, so Dad really wasn’t that uncomfortable.

Until they got home.

It was then he discovered that, not only were his boots as full of snow as they could possibly get, but said snow was jammed so hard that the small boy was quite unable to remove them without larger, stronger help.

Dad shuffled into the house and sat there on the floor while a rather shame-faced Bryce quite literally pried the boots off his little brother’s feet.

The good news?

Bryce was right. Dad didn’t get snow in his face.