Snow Forecast

George and Me.
One of us was smart . . . and the other has her hair in curlers.

I never was a particularly timid child.
In fact, if one were searching for words to describe me, 'timid' probably wouldn't have even been considered.
Boisterous. Cheerful. Loud. Noisy.
These all would have been correct.
But timid?
No.
And yet, there were certain times when 'timid', even fearful could have been used with complete accuracy.
Let me explain . . .
It was the fifties.
We had a TV.
And one channel which came on the air at 10:00 in the morning and left the air at midnight.
I often watched as 'Oh, Canada' played in the morning. Because I had already been watching the Indian Head test pattern for half an hour, waiting for Friendly Giant.
I never got to hear the playing of 'God Save the Queen' at midnight. Because, let's face it, I was four. By that point in time, I had been in slumberland for hours.
Moving on . . .
When the TV station was off-the-air, we had 'snow'.
And not the good kind.
White, yes, but that is where all similarity ended.
It was static-y.
And, when your brother turned the volume up loud . . .
Scary.
Said brother discovered this early. (He says he had been watching when I discovered it.
Let's just say I've erased that memory.)
And he used it often.
If he was playing in the living room and didn't want any Diane type company, he would turn on the TV, confirm quickly that there really was nothing on, and turn up the volume.
Whereupon (good word) I would run, shrieking, from the room.
Heh. Heh. Heh.
Mom couldn't get after him because he hadn't said or done anything to me, personally.
Simple.
Genius.
Fool-proof.
And the room was cleared for another half-hour of uninterrupted fun.
Until Diane forgot everything that had just happened and ventured, again, into the front room.
TV. Volume. Repeat.
So you see where the word 'timid' comes in.
Unfortunately, the word 'brainiac' never applied.

Mother of the Year

The only surviving picture of Andrew

Ranching is wonderful.
Most of the time.
You get to spend your days outdoors, working in the pure, sage-stuffed air.
See the heat shimmer on the tops of hills.
Watch the prairie grass bend in the breeze.
You witness births and new life. See groups of calves, and sometimes their mothers, cavort and snort and play.
And see the milk cow try to run with the deer.
You can bury your face in your pony's thick, warm winter coat and just breathe in his 'horsey' smell.
You have long, wonderful talks with family members as you ride to or from.
And while you're working together.
It's a peaceful and serene existence.
And the scenery breath-taking.
But occasionally, it gets pretty gritty.
There are disasters.
Pain.
Death.
But even these can result in something beautiful.
Let me explain . . .
As occasionally happens, a young heifer (cow that hasn't yet produced a calf) was inadvertantly 'exposed' to a bull.
She caught. (Became pregnant)
But something went wrong.
Perhaps because she was so young. Perhaps because she had some physical and undetected abnormality.
Whatever the reason, she was dying and there was nothing that could be done to save her.
And her calf was just days away from being born.
My Dad had to make a quick decision.
He decided to take the calf early and then put the suffering mother out of her misery.
Fortunately, in times like these, a trained veterinarian can work very, very quickly.
One life saved.
Another let go.
And we had a new little bull calf.
An extremely healthy and active little bull calf.
I called him Andrew.
Because.
But Andrew didn't have a mama.
Normally, this doesn't present too much of a problem.
You simply adopt the calf onto another mama.
It isn't easy, but it's worth the effort.
Unfortunately, there were no 'mamas' available.
Bottle feeding was indicated.
Now any of you who have bottle fed a puppy or kitten or other young animal know that it's a time-consuming and constant thing.
Not so with calves.
They only need to be fed three or four times a day.
Fairly simple to work around.
And fun for the kids.
So we dug out our bottle and formula and gave our little man his first feeding.
He sucked strongly. A good sign.
On to the next hurdle.
Finding him a place to bunk.
Firmly rejecting our son's offer of his room, we decided on the corral.
There was only one problem.
The corral already had an occupant.
Old Bluey.
Bluey was an older appaloosa mare, gentle and slow.
Her mottled black and grey hair gave her a distinct 'blue' colour.
Thus the name.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Back to the problem . . .
We decided that Bluey probably didn't propose much of a threat to our little Andrew.
We carried the calf into the pen and set him down.
He stood there for a moment.
Blinking.
Then he spied Bluey.
Bawling loudly, he headed towards her.
She stared at this little apparition.
And moved away.
He kept on coming.
Again she moved.
This went on for some time.
Finally, deciding that Andrew would be all right, we left them together.
A few hours later, I took a new bottle of formula to our little orphan.
And received the surprise of my life.
There stood Bluey, with the calf beside her nursing loudly.
Nursing?
I should point out here that a horse is generally considerably taller than a cow.
Certainly, Bluey was taller than Andrew's mother had been.
In fact, to simply reach the mare's udder Andrew had to stretch as far as he possibly could.
But he was doing it.
And Bluey was letting him.
It was a miracle.
Another thing I should mention is that a calf is a lot rougher while nursing than a colt. Calves get very 'enthusiastic'. And if the milk slows down, they butt their head into the cow's udder.
Not so with colts. They are quite gentle. Even mannerly about their feeding.
I probably needn't point out that Andrew was a calf.
And an extremely enthusiastic one.
I watched as he butted his head into Bluey's udder. I could almost feel her wince.
She raised her leg and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she lowered her leg and let him nurse again.
It truly was an amazing sight.
Throughout the summer, between bottle feedings, Bluey nursed Andrew.
Once, we left the calf in the corral and took Bluey out to bring in the herd, intending to capture them in that same corral.
As we drew close with the herd, someone opened the gate.
Little Andrew came running out, searching for his 'mother'.
And bawling loudly.
Bluey nickered back at him anxiously and he quickly found her and took up a position at her side, following along happily.
Eventually, in the fall, all the calves were weaned, taken from their mothers and put into the feedlot together.
For a day or two, there was a lot of bawling and angst.
Then they discovered the feed troughs.
And discovered, too that they had very short memories.
Peace was restored.
Bluey, too, resumed her peaceful life as though it had never been interrupted.
There is an addendum . . .
I checked Bluey's udder once while she was with her little adopted boy.
She had no milk.
None.
She had done all of that 'Mothering' with an empty udder.
The pain must have been exquisite.
But she did it.
Cheerfully.
Yep. Definitely a gold medal performance.

Work Hazards

Which is more hazardous to your health?
This?

Or this?

Two little ten-year-old girls had been given an assignment.

Then left alone to do it.

Mischief happens . . .

My family was raised on a large cattle ranch.

Dealing with cows (and the myriad tasks that follow them) was our daily life.

And when our annual sale/production day approached, work increased as not only the cattle, but the entire ranch must be presented in their best light.

My little sister, hereinafter called ‘Anita’, and her friend, Jo-Ellen, had been given the assignment to sweep out the sale barn - a large building built for the sole purpose of exhibiting cattle, one-by-one, to scores of people seated in the bleachers.

Said people were then expected to ‘bid’ on said animals.

On sale day, that building was the hub of all activity.

And, incidentally, sale day was the most exciting day of our entire year.

Moving on . . .

These two little girls had already had a busy morning. You have to know that we were a family of firm non-smokers. The only cigarettes and/or other smoking paraphernalia that ever came onto the ranch, came in visitor’s vehicles. These two little girls had spotted a packet of cigars in a prospective buyer’s car.  They had stolen borrowed liberated two cigars from it.

I know. What were they thinking?

And now, in sole possession of the sale barn, they neglected their duties to take turns pretending to be either ‘auctioneer’ or ‘buyer’. The one would take a seat at the high auctioneer’s booth while the other would light her cigar, sit on the bleachers, and ‘bid’.

Anita was the first ‘buyer’. She puffed at her cigar in her best ‘I’ve-watched-them-and-I-know-how-it’s-done’ manner, and nodded at the auctioneer at salient times. Then they switched places and Jo-Ellen assumed the buyer’s duties, cigar and all.

After a while, the two of them decided they had better get to work. Sweeping.

They pushed a load of straw and dirt out into the barnyard.

And that’s when Anita lost what little remained of her breakfast.

Oh, man she was sick.

And then the same thing happened to Jo-Ellen.

The two of them crawled up into the bleachers and collapsed. For several minutes, they sat there, wondering what on earth had happened that both of them became so sick.

So suddenly.

They concluded, finally, that it must have something to do with sweeping.

And/or buying/selling.

Either activity is obviously hazardous to one’s health.

Just FYI.

The ring-leader . . .

Eating Snake

It'll get you!

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour.
Just saying . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.

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Prodded Into Obedience

Shop class was for learning.

Woodcrafting, metal work, welding, automotive.

These were the things that should occupy the young men’s minds.

Was food mentioned in there anywhere?

No. Because (as in the library), in the Fort Macleod high school shop class, food was forbidden.

Did that stop them from trying to sneak food in?

Pfff. These were young men.

The mere fact that they weren’t supposed to, simply made it a challenge.

Some of them were good at it.

Some weren’t.

Monty was in the latter group . . .

The boys had just come in from their ten-minute break between classes.

Monty had bought himself a fudgecicle during said break.

And he wasn’t finished with it yet.

Deftly, sneakily, he ducked down behind one of the workbenches to continue enjoying.

The teacher came in and looked around. “Where’s Monty?” he mouthed silently to the assembled lads.

No one answered, but enough eyes turned toward the boy’s hiding spot that the teacher spotted him easily. He leaned down.

The bench Monty was hiding behind stood up on legs that held it several inches off the floor.

Teacher smiled a slow smile.

Now, I should mention here that this teacher moonlighted in the evenings and on weekends as a rancher.

He drove a pickup truck.

Equipped with the modern conveniences of ranching.

And that truck was parked directly outside the shop-room door.

Silently, he went out, quickly returning with what we ranchers affectionately call a ‘stock prod’.

It is a long, metal stick, filled with batteries, and equipped with two metal prongs on one end. The whole contraption is specifically designed to give a jolt to notoriously thick-skinned cows when working with them in tight spaces.

The boys watched, a little uncertainly, as their teacher carried it in.

A stock prod gives a harmless zap to heavy-hided cattle.

Thin-skinned humans don’t fare as well.

But Teacher didn’t, as they feared, simply jab their chum in the rear.

Nope.

He slid the prod under the bench next to his student and waved it slowly back and forth.

Monty looked down.

Huh. What was that? The rod moved away. Then closer.

And Monty, ever vigilant, grabbed it.

With a yelp, he sprang to his feet, fudgecicle forgotten.

“Monty,” teacher said.

The boy looked at him.

“No eating during shop class.”

Lesson learned.

Orange You Glad She Missed Us?

Contraband!

Mervin stared at the tell-tale pile of orange peels.

Then, at the  large, strictly-forbidden, freshly-peeled, plump and juicy orange in his hand.

He and his friends could all hear the sound of the approaching librarian.

Their nemesis was only two book stacks away.

Death was certain.

What to do?

What to do . . .?

In Fort Macleod in the early seventies, the new library of the equally-new local high school was under the watchful gaze of Mrs. (Eagle Eyes) Mason.

A crack-a-jack librarian who could, quite literally, spot evil-doing across the room and through twenty stacks of books.

Watching her in action was a thing of beauty . . . erm . . . if one wasn’t the culprit.

Something would trigger her radar.

The glasses would be whipped from her face.

And she would peer, narrow-eyed, around the room – inevitably zeroing in on the virtually invisible culprit.

Ugh.

Call it a gift.

Her cardinal rule?

Never, ever bring food into the library.

Food attracts silver fish. (Google it – I had to . . .)

And silver fish eat the glue in books.

And soon, every book would be destroyed.

And children would then grow-up in complete and utter ignorance.

Yes, her rules were simple.

Her logic? Unerring.

Her reach? Vast.

And still, the students tried to, in her words, ‘get away with it’.

Case in point . . . Mervin.

And the telltale orange.

Though he and his friends were literally at the very furthest point from the librarian that the library afforded, the instant he had cracked the outside of his handful of citrus deliciousness, the fragrance had wafted straight to those sensitive nostrils.

The glasses had come off. “Who’s eating an orange in the library?!”

And the footsteps of doom had started.

And drawn ever closer.

Mervin’s friends stared at him.

Mervin stared at the evidence.

Finally, desperately, he shoved the peels in his pocket.

Then, opening his mouth, shoved in the large, juicy orange.

Whole.

I am not making this up.

Not only did he get that entire fruit inside.

He then  . . . closed his mouth.

Just as Mrs. Mason rounded the corner.

“Who here is eating an orange?” she demanded.

His friends had been staring at Mervin in amazement. They turned to the librarian.

There was a chorus of ‘Not me’s!’ From everyone except, of course, Mervin.

Mrs. Mason peered at them suspiciously, then turning, continued her hunt.

The boys looked back at their friend.

Who had spit his orange into his hand and was calmly starting to eat it.

Looking for somewhere to hide things?

A place you know will be safe and secure?

Undetectable?

If you really don’t care of its inevitably moist condition.

Call your big-mouthed friend.

Rolling Ball of Death

Warning: Use with caution...

“Gramma! Can we make some popcorn?”

Words so innocently uttered.

So casually agreed to . . .

Some of our grandchildren were over for the evening.

A movie was indicated. And what’s a movie without popcorn?

We are a popcorn family. We have a large, ‘theatre’ popper.

Fully capable of keeping up with the masses.

Gramma enjoys making it.

The kids enjoy watching.

Everyone enjoys eating.

It’s a perfect world.

But, sometimes, even perfection has its drawbacks . . .

The machine was in full pop. Kernels sizzling and swelling in the ‘cooker’.

Spilling out in a fluffy, white, delicious tide over the side and into the ‘hopper’.

Then . . . a tiny problem.

The twin lids over the cooker are merely metal flaps. Designed to hold in the hot, rocketing little explosive devices that are popcorn kernels. And to flip up as needed to let the deliciousness out.

One of these flaps got jammed open.

Little molten balls of death were spewing everywhere.

I had quickly ushered the assembled grandkids away.

And was approaching the machine, set on repairing the problem.

And that’s when it got me.

A sneaky little smoking-hot kernel.

And the term, ‘smoking hot’ is, in this case . . . not good.

It hit me above the collarbone, then proceeded to roll into my collar and from there, down under my shirt and into my bra.

Where it stayed as I tried, madly, to reach it.

The dance I performed is classic.

The blisters I have are noteworthy.

After things had calmed down, and noting my woebegone (Ooh! Good word!) expression, Husby decided to cheer me up with a story of someone who had it far worse than me . . .

It was in high school shop class.

Husby and his fellow classmates were being taken, carefully, through the basics of welding.

“Remember, boys,” the teacher said in. “Never, ever, weld over your head!”

Now the consequences of such an action should have been obvious. 

Right

And they were obvious. Except to Monty.

A few days later, he was happily welding.

Directly over his head.

Now I probably don’t have to explain that the temperatures of metal and binding substances used during welding reach temperatures of over 2500 (F) degrees. 1371 (C)

Ummm . . . hot. Really, really hot.

A piece of slag dripped from his project and down the open collar of his shirt.

Where it formed a small ball of death and proceeded to roll - consuming skin, hair and anything else it encountered - down the boy’s body.

Lodging somewhere way too near his groin.

Wrong

Screaming, dancing and frantically shedding clothes, Monty finally retrieved the little purveyor-of-death and spilled it out onto the floor.

While his classmates, teen-aged boys all, laughed at his discomfort.

He and his appendages survived.

Though they sported some rather impressive scars.

Husby was right.

Suddenly my little popcorn kernel took on a whole diminished perspective.

I have seven little blisters.

I’m glad I wasn’t around to count Monty’s.

Not-So-Disposable

Mom was Frugal.

Notice the capital ‘F’.

She was raised during the Great Depression and squeezed every nickel till the Queen’s eyes bugged out.

She knew how to ‘make do’.

‘Make it last’.

‘Make it over’.

Or simply not buy it in the first place.

I’m not complaining.

Well, maybe I am. Just a bit. Because sometimes, her frugal ways were just . . . annoying.

Earth-conscious, but annoying.

Case in point:

When contemplating a large party-type event, (ie. Auction-Day BBQs, Extended-family dinners, entire community group let’s-do-lunches, etc.) she would purchase ‘disposable’ plates, glasses and cutlery.

For convenience.

Then, being Mom, she would then wash every single stick of cutlery and every glass. If she could have figured out how to clean those paper plates, she would have.

And, when I say, ‘she’, I mean us kids—the actual dish-washers.

For minutes hours after a party, we could be found, elbow-deep in hot, soapy water, washing thin, plastic cups and various and sundry knives, forks and spoons. Along with the also-theoretically-disposable foil serving ware.

The one would be stored in the other in one of Mom’s crowded cupboards, ready for the next party.

Dad would watch our industry with a sceptical eye. “Why are you washing the disposable stuff?” he would ask.

“Because there’s plenty of wear left,” Mom would reply.

“But it’s disposable. To save you work after a party. Why buy disposable if you never intend to . . . umm . . . dispose?”

“If it gets broken or lost, I don’t worry.”

“Okay . . .” Dad would look at us.

And we would look at him.

And the conversation would end.

The reason I bring this up is that yesterday was Pi(e) night.

Probably one of the biggest of the Tolley holidays.

Sixty-six pies were made.

Sixty of them consumed by friends and family in a great, two-hour-long gorge.

Mmmmm . . .

I was cleaning up.

Sorting disposable paper plates into one recyclable bin.

And plastic cutlery and cups into another.

I picked up a stray fork.

And carried to it the bin.

Then, just for a moment, I was struck by the almost uncontrollable urge to fill a sink with hot, soapy water.

Mom lives on . . .

Pies under construction.

Sidewalk (Un)Safety

Me.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.
The one . . . umm . . . in town.
It was a whole different lifestyle for me.
I had a tricycle. A hand-me-down from three siblings before me.
Red.
Sturdy.
With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.
Which I did.
Often.
I was the master of the universe!
I could go anywhere!
As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.
The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.
There were dragons there.
Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.
It was so much better.
So, back on the tricycle.
I rode it endlessly.
Doing laps of our block.
The different homes there were categorized according to points of interest and/or what foodstuffs could be procured on the premises.
Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend, Laurie, lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.
It was paradise.
For me, anyway.
I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their driveway on her trusty steed.
At least they were kind.
And polite.
All of this is just my long-winded way of saying there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.
Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel street in search of anything else?
It just didn't make sense.
So I stayed on my sidewalk.
And was safe . . .
There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.
Occasionally, it was used for vehicles. Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.
And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.
I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.
On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.
Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.
I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.
For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.
But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.
Okay, well, it was bigger.
I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.
I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.
In fact, they barely had mirrors.
Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.
Or my tricycle.
It could have been a disaster.
I pulled into the alley entrance,
And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.
Closer. Closer.
Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.
I did so.
The truck kept backing.
Backing.
There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle, folding it in two.
Huh. There's something you don't see every day.
The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.
He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.
I watched him go.
Then looked at my tricycle.
Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.
Sigh.
Dad would fix it.
I ran home.
Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.
Brighter red.
And two little tassells instead of one.
And I think he made it a little bigger.
Dads could do anything.
Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.
Conquering worlds.
Staying safe.

My rocketship.

Finding Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.
1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.
2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.
Oh, and . . .
3.      They're still gentlemen.
I was herdsman for my Dad. Had been for two years.
It was a simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.
My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.
Much like a mother hen.
On horseback.
The perfect job.
The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the fields. Seismic crews more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.
The difficult part was in riding past them. 
It made me feel rather . . . conspicuous.
Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.
On this particular day, in full view of about ten pairs of eyes, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sigh.
I smiled, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.
I wasted no time in heading to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.
It didn't happen.
By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.
And with nothing to do but watch me.
Perfect.
I dismounted and opened the gate.
Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.
I led my horse through.
“Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned.
One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.
I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him. “Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”
I handed him the post and stepped back.
He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.
It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.
I should point out here that a barbed wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire - one top and one bottom - on the lead post. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on said post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.
The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.
With the swat of one hand.
His manhood was now on the line.
He pushed, while trying not to appear that he was pushing.
Still no progress.
He began to get red-faced.
He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.
Still a gap of two or three inches.
A mile in 'gate' terms.
I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.
He did so.
And was still an inch out.
Oh, man.
He had offered to help me.
And he couldn't.
I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.
I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”
And gave him my biggest smile.
Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.
A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.
It was fastened.
I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.
At least I wasn't around to witness it.
But I will always be grateful.
He was a true gentlemen who personified my favourite expression, Nothing so strong as gentleness. Nothing so gentle as real strength.

You never know when you'll run into a true gentleman. Best to keep your eyes open.

The Knose Knows

The nose is okay. The teeth . . .

Okay, yes, I had been told never to do it.

In fact, I had been threatened with certain death punishment if I did do it.

But it was my favourite indoor thing to do!

I was four. I admit it, my world was small.

My family was living in the ranch house on the Stringam ranch.

Two bedrooms downstairs.

And . . . umm . . . two bedrooms up? (I think. Counting past four made my mind crazy. And it was dark and scary up there.)

I had my own room on the ground floor.

I had recently graduated from my little ‘kitty’ bed to my own giant, iron bed.

My giant, iron bouncy bed.

You can probably see where this is going . . .

During the night, bouncy iron beds are good for sleeping.

During the day, they make perfect trampolines.

Yeah. My mom didn’t get it, either.

She would come into my room.

Kiss me awake.

Make the bed.

And leave.

Probably the part where she ‘left’ was her biggest mistake.

Or making the bed.

It’s a toss-up.

There was this remarkably smooth surface.

That was incredibly bouncy.

It was a no-brainer. Literally.

So I did.

Bounce, that is.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

First, on my knees.

Then, graduating to my feet.

Oh, you can really catch air when you use all of you!

This is fun!

“Diane! Are you jumping on the bed?”

Stopping. “Umm . . . no!”

“Don’t jump on the bed! You’ll get hurt!”

I looked around at my lovely, soft friend. Pffff! How could I possibly get hurt?

Boing. Boing.

“Diane!”

How did she know?!

Boing.

“Diane!”

Man, that woman could see through walls!

I sat there for a moment.

Then I heard the kitchen door close.

Mom had stepped outside for some reason.

My time had come!!!

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boiing. Booiing. Booiinng. Booiinngg!

Okay, now I was really flying!

You remember when I mentioned that mine was an iron bed?

Well, this is where that fact comes into play.

And FYI? If noses and iron come into contact?

Noses lose.

CRUNCH!

It took a moment for me to realize that something had happened.

Because something had definitely happened.

“Ahhhhhh!!! Moooooommmm!!!!” I can’t quite produce it here. Think of something high-pitched and piercing. Like an air raid siren.

Mom ran into the room and wrapped her erring daughter in warm, loving, Kleenex-bearing arms.

My little nose was shattered at the point of contact. The bridge.

I sported two very black eyes and a sore snout for many, many days.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson.

And I did. Sort of.

After my wounds had healed, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I still jumped on the bed.

But I hung onto the iron headboard.

That way, it couldn't leap out at me unexpectedly.

Because they do that.

I'm happy to report that today, over 56 years later, I no longer jump on beds. The ceiling is simply too close for comfort.

But I do jump on trampolines.

Oddly enough, whenever I do, my nose hurts.

It remembers.

Waiting For It

When I was four, my parents had a TV.

A wonderful, marvellous creation that stood on its own four legs in one corner of the living room.

And, if one waited, showed the most magical, amazing programs. Like Friendly Giant.

If one waited.

After breakfast, I would hurry to the living room—and the TV therein—and look to see if something had appeared.

Usually, nothing had.

Let’s face it. I lived on a ranch. Breakfast was E.A.R.L.Y.

And the TV stations didn’t wake up until long after morning chores were done.

Wussies.

I would stare at the dark screen for a while, quietly willing something to happen.

Then begin playing.

During those early hours, play often consisted of something that kept me close to said TV.

Or following Mom around, asking when Friendly Giant would be on.

Once in a while, the genius woman would say, “Soon,” park her repetitive and annoying daughter in front of the set, and turn it on.

The Indian Head test pattern would show its familiar face. So to speak.

And keep me entertained for some time.

Did you know that, if you stare at it long enough, it . . . changes?

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Eventually, ‘O, Canada’ would start and, immediately after that, I would see tiny little figures and ‘that big boot’.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My day had officially begun.

Moving forward a generation . . .

No longer did one ever stare at a blank screen or a test pattern.

For my eldest son, it was a matter of watching some lessor show whilst waiting for Sesame Street to come on.

Because the programs just kept on coming.

Another generation forward . . .

Yesterday, my granddaughter (Hereinafter known as Little Girl—or LG for short—was sitting in her parents’ bedroom.

Looking up at the big screen TV on the wall.

The conversation went something like this:

LG: “Mo-om! I’m done watching that. I want to watch this, now!”

Daughter: “Well, here’s the remote. Choose which one you want.”

LG: “It’s taking too long.”

Me: “Sigh.”

Poo-gestion Prevention

Okay, this is as gritty as I get . . .

We were having dinner with our good friends.

Lots of talk. Tons of laughter.

And some eating fit in there somewhere.

You know the drill . . .

The talk turned from our kids (our favourite topic) to dogs.

Another favourite.

Our friend, I’ll call her Tammy, mentioned with a shudder, that their miniature schnauzer (hereinafter known as Ruby), sometimes would . . . umm . . . eat those droppings she should have left far behind.

Yes, this was during dinner – now you know why there was more talk and laughter than eating.

Moving on . . .

Tammy had read, recently, that this usually indicated a lack of potassium.

And that the best treatment was to feed her dog a bit of banana.

Did you know that dogs like banana?

Well they do.

Ruby snapped it up like manna from heaven.

And the . . . umm . . . unfortunate tendency . . . disappeared.

Ta-daa!

Tammy’s husby - I’ll call him Gord - spoke up.

“You know,” he said. “I knew it would work!”

We all looked at him.

“Yeah. I’ve been eating bananas forever . . .”

We waited for the punch line.

“. . . and I’ve never once been tempted to eat my droppings!”

Banana. Tasty prevent-er of so many things . . .

Generational Lava

“Gaahh! Mom! You’re standing in the lava!”

Mom and Dad had taken us kids to see the movie ‘Krakatoa, East of Java’.
(Okay, yes, I know that the title is geographically incorrect, but that was what it was called.)

It had scared me to death. All my young, six-year-old mind could think of after that was trying to get away from the slowly-flowing river of death.

And my favourite game became the daring deathwalk over precariously-placed pillows across the lava lake that was the front room.

I was at it again.

And Mom wasn’t cooperating.

“Oops! Sorry!” Mom jumped lightly onto the closest pillow.

Whew! That was close! I didn’t have a lot of Moms to spare. I’d sure hate to lose this one.

For hours, my brother and I made up scenarios that necessitated leaping back and forth across the pillows and landing, temporarily safe, on the couch or coffee table.

It was fun.

And, nimble kids that we were, we never got burned even once.

Fast forward a few years . . .

My kids were downstairs playing.

I went to check on them.

They had pillows placed at strategic intervals across the family room floor.

“Careful, Mom! Don’t step in the lava!”

Now where did they get that idea?

The déjà vu was frightening.

And, moving forward again - a lot of years . . .

Yesterday, my daughter and I were visiting in the front room, seated comfortably in recliners.

Her daughter and another granddaughter were playing.

They had been through the toy box.

And had graduated to hiding under piles of cushions on the couch.

Giggling.

A few minutes went by.

“Careful!” the three-year-old said.

I turned to see what they were doing.

They had set the cushions out across the floor in a line and were hopping back and forth along them.

“Stay on the bridge!” the three-year-old cautioned. “Don’t get hurt!”

The two-year old jumped off the last cushion and onto the floor.

“Gaahh!” my daughter and I said together. “You’re stepping in the lava!”

Okay, now I see where it comes from . . .

A Little Corn-y

I can only dream.

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this in the middle of winter?

Because it’s the middle of winter.

Moving on . . .

For over forty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

And did.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating.

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.