Jam Test

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.
It categorizes you.
Marks your place in the family.
Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.
It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)
It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.
I'm talking about jam.
Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.
More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.
It is the family 'Maginot Line'.
You can be on one side or the other.
Both of which are tasty.
Or so I'm made to understand.
But wander over to the other side only in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.
My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.
His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.
Oops.
I mean - raspberry.
And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.
Mine.
Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.
And prefers apple jelly.
We don't talk about him.
Moving on . . .
Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.
I should point out here that it is a grueling test.
The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.
And I do mean breathlessly.
If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been know to pass out cold.
I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.
But I digress . . .
The prospective member of the family makes a choice.
And my side cheers.
It's true.
Every single one has chosen raspberry.
Until our last son-in-law.
Who chose . . . poorly.
I maintain that he was coached.
Money might even have changed hands.
So the score now stands at : strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.
And one son who will not be mentioned.
Now for the next generation.
Our eldest grandchildren are ready.
Time to make a choice . . .

Close Brush

Du-dum. Du-dum. Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-du-du-duuhhh!

He’d been away at work.

Ten days on.

And now he was home for his four days off.

The kids were in bed and he and his wife were preparing for a similar eventuality.

He was brushing his teeth.

His toothbrush was lying, conveniently, at the edge of the sink.

He grabbed it and shoved it under the water from the tap.

Then added a small strip of toothpaste.

And proceeded with the business portion of the endeavour.

At first, the pleasant taste of mint suffused his tongue.

Then . . . something different.

Floral?

Was he tasting something floral?

The scent wafted up through his nostrils.

Okay, this was like no toothpaste he had ever experienced.

He pulled the brush from his moth and looked at his wife. “This tastes funny. Why would I taste floral?”

His wife clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot.”

He slowly lowered his brush into the sink, his eyes now riveted on her. “What did you forget?”

“William got hold of your toothbrush and was dipping it in the laundry detergent cup. I left your brush beside the sink so I’d remember to rinse it out!”

And . . . we’re home.

Close Encounter With Stupidity

When Dad was talking.

I was listening . . .

Every. Square. Foot.

The annual production sale at the Stringam ranch was the highlight of our year.

It’s when we had the most visitors.

The most traffic.

The most income.

And the most work. Both before and after.

Before, we had the cattle and the ranch to prepare and beautify.

After, we had the deliveries.

Our family hauled cattle to nearly every square foot of North America.

Every. Square. Foot.

It was a slow, exacting task.

Driving the length and breadth of this continent in a truck, hauling a boatload of bawling cattle. Mapping out places to stop each night so the animals could be released, fed and watered.

Then loading them up the next morning to continue the journey.

Yep. Slow and exacting.

And it wasn’t without its own adventures - due to oversight, wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, misfortune.

Stupidity.

Or all of the above.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad were trucking cattle through Alberta.

They had only been on the road a few hours.

And were, ironically enough, just passing an auction market where a cattle sale was ongoing.

A truck pulled out.

Pickup. With the tailgate down.

This will become significant . . .

Spotting the slow-moving vehicle, Dad pulled into the other lane to give it a wide berth.

For several seconds, the two of them occupied close quarters.

Dad and his heavy rig in one lane.

The man and his pickup in the other.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the pickup decided to pull over.

Directly in front of Dad.

The collision was immediate.

And inevitable.

Remember when I mentioned the pickup’s tailgate?

Well, that comes into play here.

Dad hit that tailgate going sixty miles per hour.

Both vehicles jammed to a halt.

Then the drivers, both unharmed, got out to inspect the damage.

The grill of Dad’s truck had been caved in, rupturing the radiator and radically displacing the fan and other important features.

Interestingly enough, though, the gate had slid with surgical precision between the headlights and the running lights of the truck, leaving all four intact.

So the front of the truck had been crushed.

But without cracking a single light.

Okay, well, it was interesting to us . . .

Dad scratched his head and looked at the driver of the pickup. “Why did you pull over in front of me?” he asked.

“Oh, I was sure you could stop,” was the reply.

Dad blinked.

The man repeated the statement to his insurance company.

Who also blinked.

And paid.

Dad was involved in two automobile accidents in his life.

Both resulting in considerable vehicular damage.

And neither of which was his fault.

I wish I could say the same about me.

Sigh.

Meeting the Neighbours

Stories with Dad . . .

See?

It seemed like a good idea.

Movie night in town.

A bit romantic.

A bit relaxing.

And a much-needed break from two tiny children.

Mom and Dad piled into the car and headed out.

Unbeknownst (Ooo! Good word!) to them their neighbour to the west also thought it was a good night for a break. The difference was that she and her friends decided to take their break at the local bar.

And they had begun a bit earlier. In fact, they were taking last call, just as my parents were starting out.

Their two worlds collided, quite literally at the town bridge.
Oh, and you should probably know: DUI hadn't been invented yet.

Milk River, the town, nestles closely to Milk River, the river. On February 28, 1952, there was only one bridge spanning the foaming torrent - okay, the frozen-over, snow-covered mass of ice.

This bridge was sturdy - iron bolted to iron bolted to concrete – and built to withstand all sorts of abuse.

Good thing, too.

There was only one problem. It was a narrow bridge. One car at a time, thank you very much.

Mom and Dad were approaching from the south.

Carlights ahead told them that someone else was approaching from the north.

No problem. Dad slowed his vehicle.

The car opposite did the same.

As Dad was much closer, he took that as a sign that he should continue.

He drove onto the bridge.

Then realized that the car coming toward them, was still coming toward them.

The two of them met at the far side.

And not in a good way.

The driver of the other car, in a warm, invincible glow derived from her time spent with friends at the local bar, decided that, though it had never happened before or since, two cars would fit nicely on the bridge.

She was wrong.

Her car hit the bridge support hard enough to shake up her passengers.

Surgically remove a wheel.

And knock out her own front teeth.

The car then spun around and neatly caved in the side of Mom and Dad’s car.

Dad quickly determined that Mom was uninjured, then jumped out and ran over to the other vehicle.

The driver’s face was so swollen and bleeding from her forcible connection with the steering wheel that Dad didn't even recognize his neighbour. Now panicked, he ran to the theatre a quarter of a mile away to use their phone, quickly calling the police.

Then he ran back.

I should mention, here, that the road across that bridge is a major Canadian route. Part of the Alaska Highway. On a quiet evening in 1952, the fact that it was completely blocked didn't even raise an eyebrow.

In fact, no one noticed.

Okay, major route is only a subjective term.

Back to my story . . .

Mom and Dad did what they could for the passengers of the other car.

The police arrived and alternately helped and pried.

Finally clearing the road for any possible future travellers.

The passengers received medical care.

And everyone limped home, surprisingly (except for the missing teeth) uninjured.

Mom and Dad missed their movie.

But that was okay.
They were unscathed.

And reality is far more exciting.

Gift Horse

There’s an old saying, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’.

Now you should know that horses, as they get older, show it mostly in their teeth.

The older the horse, the more outward sloped the teeth.

I’ll talk more about this later . . .

We once received a gift horse.

Okay, well, it was a yellow Chevette.

But it was a gift.

And had several 'horses'.

The car was . . . old.

Rust spots bloomed like a garden.

The doors hardly closed. Or if they did, hardly stayed closed.

Or you couldn't get them open.

The internal organs alternately belched or squealed.

There was, literally, no back floor on the driver’s side.

And pieces quite frequently dropped off, made scraping sounds on the pavement, or detached altogether, only to be run over by the vehicle that had lost them.

Case-in-point: The muffler. It dropped to the ground during an early-morning commute and the car lurched suddenly up on one side as the wheels ran over it.

The car had one thing going for it. It had a new engine – put there by our good friends, the former owners. People who then made the magnanimous gesture of presenting it to us.

I'm quite sure you are wondering why they would do such a thing. (Because they had finished school and had made the recent move to newer, or at least less rusty.)

And why we would go on driving our 'testament to rust'? (We were still poor college students with four kids and little means of support.Who needed all the help we could get.)

So ‘Rusty Yeller’ made the daily commute to college with my Husby.

Often, they would sit in traffic, cars around them humming or growling happily.

While this car made its convincing impression of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Without the cuteness.

Or magic.

This went on for several months.

Finally, my Husby neared graduation. He would soon have a Master’s degree under his belt.

It was time to move up a peg on the whole ‘commuter’ scale by selling the car.

We weren’t asking much.

Just pay for the ad and the car is yours . . .

No bites.

We tried to give it away.

Still no takers.

Finally, Husby took to leaving it parked at the college with the keys in it, hoping to entice some desperate, or at least near-sighted, student into taking it for a spin.

A long spin.

Nothing.

Oh, come on! Vehicle theft had reached near epidemic proportions on that campus!

Obviously, the students were a bit . . . judicious . . . with their choices. Choosing cars that were, oh I don't know . . . road-worthy? 

Not the car, but you get the idea . . .

Sigh.

We finally got rid of the car.

Traded it on a push, pull or drag sale.

I think we even got $500.00!

So, back to the gift-horse scenario.

And the looking of said horse in the mouth.

In the usual sense, it means that one shouldn’t start to find the faults in a gift.

In our case, we did look.

Saw the new engine. 

And ignored the rust spots and obvious problems which later proved . . . rather important.

My lesson? Don’t bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Let the rust and disease put you off right from the beginning.

The Idiot Sundae

This . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

And finally, this.

Dad loved telling this story. Of his first day as a father . . .

He had just left his newborn daughter and her mother sleeping happily at the hospital.

The newly-minted father stepped out into the sunshine and grinned.

He needed to celebrate.

He stood there for a moment.

Then it hit him. What better way to celebrate then with a dish of ice cream at the Spudnut Shop?

Soon he was standing in the familiar café, studying the menu on the wall.

Hmm . . . he’d always wanted to try the Idiot Sundae.

He took a deep breath and grinned.

Perfect!

He stepped to the counter and placed his order.

“Just take a seat, sir,” the soda jerk said. “We’ll bring it right out.”

He did.

And they did.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the Idiot Sundae was a concoction of twenty large scoops of various flavours of ice cream. With all of the fixings.

All. Of. The. Fixings.

And one spoon.

The . . . platter . . . was brought out.

And slid carefully onto the table in front of him.

Heaven.

Another grin as he picked up the spoon.

And started working his way through the melting mound of deliciousness.

He did well.

One scoop after another disappeared.

Finally, there were only three scoops left.

He stared at them.

Three scoops.

He groaned.

He.

Just.

Couldn’t.

Do.

It.

He dropped the spoon in defeat.

So close.

So very close.

And today, almost 65 years later, he remembers those three scoops left melting in the dish.

And wonders.

Was he an idiot for leaving them?

Or just an idiot for ordering in the first place.

You decide . . .

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.

ESSENCE

I'm so excited!

My bestselling ebook has become my newest print book!
ESSENCE, hits the shelves today!!!
"Todd's dad, a famous scientist specializing in Animal Behaviour and Genetics has perfected an Essence that changes anyone who ingests it. Which animal would you choose?

 And what could possibly go wrong?"

A perfect read for the teenagers in your world!

Essence 

Order today! You know you want to . . .

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.