Singing While We Camp

'Slithery-Dee'

With grandchildren

Our family was camping.

With our good friends, the Boyd family.

Something we have done every year.

For the past 28 years.

Rain or shine.

Usually rain.

It involves work.

Setting up trailers and tents for nearly thirty people inevitably includes some sort of exertion.

 1.  There is the usual ‘tarp wars’.

Won by whichever family can set up the best, tightest, most wrinkle-free campsite covering.

 2.  The leveling of the tents/trailers.

Highly important if some members of the tribe are susceptible to the headache inevitably brought on by sleeping with one’s head tilted below one’s feet.

 3.  And the choosing of the ‘Boydolley’ camp song.

This is very important. It has to be the most aggravating, annoying, ‘stick in your head’ song imaginable.

We’ve had such treasures as: ‘Oh, How I Love to Stand’.

And: ‘Hi! My Name is Joe!’

Plus the ever-popular: ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Non-Alcoholic Beverage on the Wall’.

And who can forget: ‘Jon Jonson’?

Seriously, who can forget it . . .?

And then there was the year that the Grandkids were finally old enough to get involved.

And vote.

What did they choose?

What classic would take its rightful place in history?

Was it something momentous?

Heart-warming?

No.

It was ‘Slithery Dee’.

The classic song featuring a monster that comes out of the sea and eats everyone.

Perfect camp fare.

For a family camped beside a lake.

Moving on . . .

There were various versions.

Depending largely on the age and capability of the singer.

Megan, the eldest could sing it quite well, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”

Right behind her was Kyra, “Oh, Swivery-Dee!”

And then there was the youngest talker, Odin, “Oh, Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee!”

They sang it by the hour.

And I do mean By. The. Hour.

Until . . . THE EVENT.

It was early afternoon.

Lunch had just finished.

Grandma (me) was lying on the bed in our tent trailer, telling stories to as many of the grandkids as would lie there and listen.

At nearest count – several.

Then they asked to sing ‘Slithery-Dee’.

Sigh.

I complied.

We were just getting through the first verse, wherein (good word) Megan had been eaten, when we were interrupted.

I should tell you, here, that our little tent trailer consists of a central square block.

With three wings/beds.

Each wing is covered by the main canvas, which hooks under said wing.

Canvas that can be . . . un-hooked.

Without the person, or persons, on the wing knowing anything about it.

Back to my story . . .

Where were we?

Oh, yes.

End of the first verse.

Unbeknownst (another good word!) to us, my Husby had unhooked the canvas immediately below us.

Just as we started to sing, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”, a hand and arm reached up through the wall of the trailer and grabbed the nearest grandchild.

Who promptly screamed.

Inciting an immediate riot.

Grandma and grandchildren boiled out of the trailer like angry bees.

Realizing what had happened, we started to laugh.

Then we fed Grandpa.
To Slithery Dee.

Books in the Pants

You have your solutions.

Best Friend (hereinafter known as BF) has hers . . .

BF likes books.

And/or music.

Both of which she has downloaded to her iPad.

Good so far.

She also has household chores and duties.

Which take little or no actual—you know—thinking.

The one could definitely go with the other.

How to combine the two—books/tunes, together with mindless household chores.

Hmmm . . .

I should mention, here, that BF is also frugal.

Yes, there are other gadgets she could purchase.

But they cost.

Right?

Back to her dilemma.

Wait! She has pants! And a trusty little set of plug-in headphones!

Slip the ol’ iPad into the front of said pants, plug in the headphones and voila! Instant holder/deliverer of words/music.

Okay, yes, it looked a little funny.

And one or two people who called at the house notably had to keep their eyes from below her belt line.

But that was all to the good anyways . . .

Happily, this went on for some time.

Well, happily for her.

Her Husby was—less than enthusiastic. 

Finally, in an attempt to curb iPad-in-the-pants-itis (real term) he bought her a set of cordless headphones.

Now books and/or tunes get listened to.

And no one is walking around with a large square stuck in the front of their jodhpurs. 

It’s a good thing.

P.S. Could it have been called a 'Chastity Pad'? Just wondering . . .

Siblings

Three little boys were playing around the cul-de-sac here in Camper’s Village.

All three were armed with swords—or variations on a theme.

Their play had ranged through the trees, behind the neighbour’s RV, past the water spigot, through the bathrooms, over the garbage receptacles and ‘not too far now, Amos!’ into the woods that surrounded us.

Over gravelled street, flagged guy rope, thickly-needled path and grassy knoll.

It was this last in which they came to grief.

The three had just achieved their goal—the very tiptop of the evil king’s castle—and were ready to proclaim their justly-deserved triumph when one bumped the other (who knows how these things start?) and the smallest one fell backward onto his little sturdily-covered bottom.

He landed on the ground with a thump and a gasped out ‘****!’.

His startled mother provided comfort and then hurried instruction pertaining to appropriate language for appropriate moments.

A short time later, three small squirrels, brother or sisters or a combination of the two were playing in the trees in the cul-de-sac here in Camper’s Village.

All three were armed with shrill voices—or variations on a theme.

Their play ranged through said trees, our campsite, the neighbour’s campsite, the common area, and at least one stand of thick forest grass.

Over outhouse, parked cars, two sleeping dogs, three picnic tables, one startled camper and up the largest tree.

It was this last in which they came to grief.

The three had just achieved their goal—the very tiptop of the greatest tree—and were loudly proclaiming their triumph when one bumped the other (who knows how these things start?) and the smallest one fell backward onto his furry tail.

He landed on the ground with a thump and a gasped out ‘****!’.

His mother appeared in a nearby tree and chittered at him loudly, noises we campers assumed were words of comfort and hurried instruction pertaining to appropriate language for appropriate moments.

This happened exactly as presented here. Both stories.

Doesn’t it just prove the point: In some ways, we’re—all of us—exactly alike?

Night Terror

This post is a departure for me.
I don't often make political statements or comment on world situations.
I choose instead to dwell in the past.
It's peaceful there.
But last night, I had an experience . . .

I’ve always thought that I lived in a safe, peaceful world.
As much as anyone could at a time when acts of terror are delivered up with our morning coffee.
Let’s face it, when one lives miles from the nearest town and many more miles from the nearest city, the chances of world-attention-grabbing incidents are few.
But last night, I had a soupçon of what the rest of the world is enduring . . .
We are on holiday.
Suffice it to say we are deep in the Canadian north woods.
A place of few ‘civilized’ comforts.
Where an early-morning discussion of a group of Ravens or the scramble and squabble of a family of squirrels through the trees is much more likely than the reality of a newspaper or an early-morning commute.
We have been here over a week.
And in that period have witnessed—several times—the glorious and awe-inspiring fury of a summer storm, but only caught the barest whiff of the latest heinous world-wide assaults.
It has been wonderful to be able, just for a time, to let the world and its pain pass by us.
Last night, we said good-night to our neighbors and ducked inside our dependable little tent.
The usual night sounds lulled us and we settled peacefully into sleep.
Then, at 3:00 AM, I was jerked suddenly from my slumber.
Someone was screaming.
A hoarse male voice.
Screaming.
Then I heard the sounds of others.
Also shouting.
At one point, they began to chant.
Then more screaming.
And, the most terrifying of all, the pounding of dozens—could it be hundreds?— of feet on the ground.
Were they growing closer?
Okay, in this morning light, I know now that it was probably a drunken group of holidayers, maybe watching a drinking game or contest of some sort.
But at the time, in the dark of a moonless night, when one is snatched from a deep sleep to unfamiliar surroundings, the sound was terrifying.
Maybe it was because of the real and constant danger that seems to be closing in on us in these dark days.
Maybe it was my own vivid imagination.
But for a while, I felt what millions of people the world over feel every single day.
Terror.
Helplessness.
Waiting for the inevitable juggernaut of twisted power to overtake and crush us.
Unlike those peoples, I awoke in my peaceful little world.
Unscathed.
Secure.
But, just for a moment, I had a glimpse.
And my heart is now truly theirs.

Hat Trick

Horse trading.

A term that doesn’t necessarily include horses.

My Father-In-Law, Ray Tolley, hereinafter known as FIL, was a master at the Art.

How do you get to be a master?

Continue and see my young apprentice . . .

FIL, when he left the farm, always wore a fedora. A smart, jaunty fedora.

His old one was getting . . . less than smart.

And a degree off jaunty.

He was in need of a new hat.

A fact that coincided with a 1960 trip into Montana with his wife and kids.

While they shopped elsewhere, FIL went into the local millinery (hat shop) and looked around.

Several possibilities immediately presented themselves.

And quickly narrowed to one.

Choice made, FIL happily carted it over to the salesman.

“This is the one I’d like,” he said.

Or words to that effect.

I wan’t there, so I’m Making It Up As I Go.

Back to my story . . .

“That’s is a fine hat, sir.” (More MIUAIG.)

“Yes. Can we make a deal?”

The salesman looked at the hat and went into his spiel. “This is one of our finest Field hats, sir. Brushed fur felt with a silk-like finish. Notice the new, open telescope shape with narrow sport brim and upper welt edge.” He pointed to the hatband. “Included is the rayon and cotton grosgrain band, with single-wing side bow and feather.” He turned the hat over. “A reeded, roan leather, cushioned sweatband and rayon, acetate lining.” He looked at FIL. “It comes in the two-tone iodeon green, and two-tone brown as well as this gray.”

See how good my imagination is? And how much you can find out on Google?

Ahem . . .

“No, I’m just interested in the grey. How much?”

“Ah. You can see that it is marked with today’s special price of $7.64.”

“Okay. Let me ask you something.” FIL took off his well-cared-for but distinctly used hat. “How much would you give me on a trade?”

A few minutes later, FIL emerged from the store wearing his smart and jaunty new hat.

MIL looked at it. “Nice. How much?”

“Well, here’s the thing. The original price was over seven dollars.”

She sucked in a breath. “Seven?!”

“Yes. But I didn’t pay that.”

She stared at him. She was used to Dad. “Okay. How much.”

“Well, you see, I traded him my old hat for this one.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He gave me $2.00 for it.”

MIL shook her head. “Why on earth would he give you $2.00 for that old hat?”

“Well, I told him that was how we did it in Canada. And he didn’t want to be outdone by some milliner in Canada. So he sold the new hat to me for $5.00 and took my old hat in trade.”

Horse trading.

It doesn’t always include horses.

But it is always entertaining.

Building Dreams

Happiness

Shortly after we were married, Husby took a job as foreman at a housing plant.

Building pre-fabricated homes.

He was good at it.

And it was two minutes from where we lived.

He was home for lunch every day.

As well as for breakfast and dinner.

For his new bride, life was perfect.

For the man actually going out to work . . .

The job was very stressful.

Many bosses - several without any knowledge of building.

Any knowledge.

He carried on.

For two years.

He had a family to feed.

But the stress started to tell.

He developed health issues.

And stopped sleeping.

That's when he started making noises about going to school.

Husby had been in school when we started dating, but felt he had to quit to take a job after we were married.

Now, he realized that he had made a mistake and wanted to correct it.

I was unconvinced.

How would we provide for ourselves if we had no income?

So he continued working.

Growing more and more unhappy.

And sleeping less and less.

One time, he suddenly snorted, sat up on the edge of the bed and started getting dressed.

“Honey, where are you going?” I asked. “It's 4 AM.”

He jumped and looked around. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

He pulled off his shirt, lay back down, and was instantly snoring.

Is there a term for sleep-dressing?

Probably . . . sleep-dressing.

Moving on . . .

One night, around 3 AM, I was sleeping quietly.

Suddenly, Husby shot up in bed, grabbed me by the collar of my pyjamas, pulled me to a sitting position in the bed and shouted, “You hold the ladder! I'll nail the soffit!”

My sleep-fogged brain vaguely discerned that these were 'house-building' terms.

“Honey, you're dreaming,” I said, rather shakily. “Go back to sleep.”

He wasn't to be deterred.

He shook me slightly. “Okay?!”

“Okay!” I said.

“Good.” He dropped me and flopped back onto the bed.

Seconds later, I could hear his soft snore.

He had been asleep the whole time.

I, however, would probably never sleep again.

I was finally convinced. Stark, heart-racing trauma will do that to you.

Husby went back to school.

He studied History, Arts and Anthropology.

Finally achieving a doctorate.

His health instantly improved.

As did his sleeping habits.

Going back to school was a good decision.

Though with two tiny babies and a wife to feed, it had seemed anything but.

He no longer sleep-dressed.

Or roughed up his wife.

And you can bet that the installation of any soffit was in broad daylight.

With a much more willing assistant.

Oh, and real soffit.

Life. Lived.

No electricity.

No running water.

No comforts of home.

No home.

So why do we drag ourselves off to the great Canadian woods for weeks every summer?

Why do we leave behind our creature comforts for the rustic ‘pleasures’ of the grand outdoors?

Family.

Friends.

Plenty of fresh, pine-stuffed air.

Call of the birds through the trees.

Scamper of the squirrels, ditto.

Children playing ‘Kick the Can’ or Capture the Flag’.

Or laughing as they run along the sandy beach of the land-locked and pristine lake.

Sandcastles. 

Sunshine.

Warm, crackling, comfortable fire.

Talk and laughter.

Smoky meals.

More talk as the light fades and the stars come out.

Snap of cards by the light of the Coleman lantern.

No appointments.

No pressures.

No hurry.

Just life.

Lived.

Grandson's picture of a butterfly. Yeah, I can't see it either. But I'm quite sure it's there...

View from my bedroom window.

Cozy little campsite, all wrapped up and ready for anything.

Great Man of the Mountain. Relaxing by the first fire.

Games with Grandpa.

Badgered

Yes.

No.

The Stringam ranch sprawled out over many, many miles.

And took many hands to cover.

My Dad was twelve and had happily, and of necessity, joined the ranks of the ranch-employed aboard the first horse he could truly call his own.

The recently-broke and still fairly green, Queenie.

His pride and joy.

His first assignment was to keep an eye on the bulls.

I should point out, here, that the bulls were kept in the South pasture.

A vast, open field which went on forever.

With an outer fence that also went on forever.

Back to my story . . .

This fence had to be constantly patrolled.

On the other side of it were the Community Pastures.

Filled with . . . community cattle.

All female.

And none pregnant.

A state which their owners wished to preserve.

So someone had to explain to the bulls that any form of interaction was distinctly discouraged.

Hourly.

This was Dad's job. Make sure that the fence was doing its job.

Keeping the heifers on the one side . . .

And the bulls on the other.

But bulls are, after all, bulls.

And when the siren song goes off in their vicinity, they must answer.

With voice and/or action.

Usually action.

What's a paltry five lines of tightly-stretched barbed wire when love is calling to you from the other side?

They would ignore it as if it wasn't there.

And that's where Dad came in.

At a gallop.

Chase the bulls back.

Fix the fence.

He got pretty good at his job.

One day, he was riding along the fence.

Everything was unusually calm.

Then, something moved.

A brown head poked up out of the great sea of grass.

A brown head with darker brown stripes.

Badger.

Dad had never seen a badger close up.

He turned Queenie towards it.

It turned away from them and started off across the prairie.

They followed.

It ran faster.

They pursued faster.

After a few minutes of this, the badger had had enough . . . umm . . . badgering.

He turned and attacked.

Well. Hissed.

At this point, Queenie decided she was finished with this adventure.

Dad could go it alone.

She piled him, forceably, into the prairie dust.

And left him there.

Dad screamed and jumped to his feet, certain that his beloved horse had landed him on the badger.

Or near enough that the badger would soon be on him.

He pictured teeth and claws.

And ravening. He wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded nasty.

He looked frantically around.

Nothing.

The badger had disappeared completely.

He took a deep breath of relief, then recovered his horse and continued with his job.

Dad decided, then and there, that the only four-footed animals he and Queenie would chase would be the big ones with hooves.

And horns.

They were safer.

Mowed

There was a lot of grass on the Utopian Stringam homestead.

A lot.

And I mean the kind that doesn’t go up in smoke.

Or shouldn’t.

Anyways . . .

It needed to be mowed. Regularly.

Something I watched my older sister and brothers do millions of times.

Okay, it seemed like millions.

Have you gotten the idea I envied them?

Well, I did. 

Even though our mower wasn’t one of those swanky ride-on types that would have been . . . you know . . . fun, but was, instead the good old push type. Electric.

With a fifty-foot cord.

When I was nine, dad handed me the . . . umm . . . plugin, and told me to get to work.

My day had come!

His only advice: Avoid anything sharp and cutty, generally anything under the mower.

Oh, and start near the plug and work out from there.

I was a bit nervous, but for the first two passes, I did well.

Really well.

Then I forgot rule two.

Which led to forgetting rule one.

Sigh.

I decided I needed to backtrack.

An interesting thing about electric cords: They aren’t intuitive.

And never leap out of the way.

And when things sharp and cutty pass over them, they . . . erm . . . cut.

With varied and interesting results.

First, the mower quits.

Immediately.

And no amount of flipping the switch is going to turn that sucker back on.

Second, the two ends of the cord, one of which is spitting sparks, lie in the grass.

Another interesting note: If you take the two ends and try to force them together without first unplugging the live one, all sorts of pyrotechnics erupt. And the two ends don’t magically re-attach. Just FYI.

I survived. (I know you were concerned.) I then went to my father in tears and he accompanied me back to the scene of the crime and effected necessary repairs.

Tears forgotten, I was soon ‘back in the saddle again’.

Lessons learned.

Use Your Words is a writing challenge. 

Participating bloggers pick 4 - 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. 

That's the challenge. Here's a fun twist: no one who's participating knows who got their words and in what directions the writer will take them until the day and time that we all simultaneously publish our work.

This month, my words came from: My Brain on Kids. http://mybrainonkids.net                         

Work, Nervous, Nine, Utopian, Swanky

Fun? There's more...

Here are the other participants:

Baking In A Tornado http://www.bakinginatornado.com/2016/07/use-your-words-cocktails-hawks-and.html

Southern Belle Charm                    http://www.southernbellecharm.com                       

Not That Sarah Michelle                 http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com                   

Spatulas on Parade http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/2016/07/spiced-banana-honey-roasted-pecan-cake.html                       

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy            http://dinoheromommy.com/   

My Brain on Kids                           http://mybrainonkids.net

The Bergham Chronicles                  http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com

Never Ever Give Up Hope                http://batteredhope.blogspot.com

Confessions of a part time working mom     http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/   

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver     http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html 

Molly Ritterbeck                              http://mollyritterbeck.com/   

Juicebox Confession                         http://juiceboxconfession.com/

Climaxed                                         http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com     

When I Grow Up                             http://kimberlyyavorski.com/whenigrowup/    

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                      http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/      

Daddy's Blackleg

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggers.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.
But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots

Sizzle Fizzled

 “Our life needs more ‘sizzle’,”

Said Husby. To me.

And I wondered just what in the world could he mean?

So I went to the lexicon,

Searched the word there.

I admit that the things that I found made me stare.

It said ‘sizzle’s a hissing sound,

Water—hot steel.

Which happens whenever I’m making a meal.

It also suggested

To burn up or sear.

Sounds to me like a branding iron on a calf’s rear.

Or the hissing sound made

When burning or frying.

That happened last night. He thought something was dying.

And lastly, to seethe

With deep anger: resent.

Now I’m really unsure just what my Husby meant.

So to my dear friends,

Use a whisper. (Don’t shout.)

Can you tell me what life with more ‘sizzle’s’ about?

Once a month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a poetry challenge:
"Here's a topic. Write!"
July's challenge?
SIZZLE
What did you think of my attempt?

To see what her other challengers did with the topic, go to:
Baking in a Tornado:  http://www.bakinginatornado.com/201...

Measurements of Merriment: http://measurementsofmerriment.blogspot.com/...
The Bergham Chronicles: http://lberghamchronicles.blogspot.com/...
Spatulas On Parade: http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/...

Cluttered Genius: http://www.clutteredgenius.com/summer-lovin/You'll be glad you did!

A Date With Dad

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

I was on a date with my Dad.

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 . . .

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. I think . . .) 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, so 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."

“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, buttered, 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. In the best of ways.

In the Dirt

Dad on Shaker.
This really has nothing to do with the story. I just like the picture!

Ranching is always an adventure.

Sometimes a tad . . .  uncomfortable.

But always entertaining.

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a pair of coupled calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

Flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.

His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. An adventure.

You get the picture . . .