Spare-ly There

So much to do during Spare.

Spare.

The best part of the school day. The period with no instruction when one catches  up on things.

Gossip.

Flirting.

Sleep.

Okay, I admit it, if one was so inclined, one could even catch up on school work.

Pfff . . .

In Junior high, Spare was always supervised.

Nominally.

For the supervising teacher, it was also a time to catch up on things.

Reading.

Marking papers.

Sleep.

The class would steadily grow noisier and more unruly.

Until things reached a certain pitch.

The teacher would look up. “Okay class. Settle down!”

And the whole process would start over.

One time, the teacher had just lifted her head.

But before she could utter the fateful, silencing words, another teacher (obviously misled by the noise level), appeared in the doorway.

“Who’s babysitting you guys!” she demanded.

Loudly.

Then realized that her friend and fellow teacher was properly seated at the ‘supervisory’ post.

Oops.

As we got older, supervision became more and more . . . Slapdash? Haphazard? Cursory? Superficial?

I’m going to go with Non-existent.

We were required to police ourselves.

It wasn’t too bad.

By this point, there were several of my classmates who actually wanted to finish their homework.

Weird.

They would effectively shush us if we got too noisy.

Kill-joys.

But we had nothing on my Dad’s class.

Oh, they weren’t noisy.

Or unruly.

Just . . . creative.

Case in point:

A girl in Spare was reading the newspaper.

For those of you in the virtual world who are unfamiliar with the word ’newspaper’, it was a collection of news and advertising, published daily or weekly, and printed on very large sheets of paper. Google it . . .

The girl was engrossed in an article in the top right-hand corner.

Her absorption left the entire bottom half of the paper unguarded.

Normally, not cause for concern.

But, remember – Dad was in the room.

As she read, he approached quietly.

And, squatting down beside her, lit the bottom left corner of her paper on fire.

Yes.

On fire.

So . . . creative, he definitely was.

Cautious?

Not so much.

The girl soon realized that something was amiss.

She glanced down.

Her paper was rapidly being consumed.

She blew on the flames a couple of times.

Dropped the paper and stomped them out.

Then leveled her best glare at the guilty party.
Because, let's face it, everyone knew who it was . . .

Spare.

The best part of the school day.

For so many reasons.

Troll. And Gruffs.

For three wonderful years, we lived in a perfect house.

Oh, don't get me wrong, all of our homes have been wonderful.

And very comfortable.

But this particular house was all of those things.

And a little bit more.

Because it had a stairway that was perfect for playing 'Troll Under the Bridge'.

It's a real game.

You can look it up. It will be found somewhere under 'Tolley: Favourite Games'.

True story.

Okay, my Husby made it up.

But it was still fun.

The stairway in our house consisted of a short upper set of six thickly-carpeted steps.

Ending at a wide, also-carpeted landing.

Then a 180 degree turn before descending the last six steps to the basement.

A beautiful hunting/trapping/escaping set up.

Which was very well used.

My Husby would pretend he was a troll and lay on the stairs.

His head just poking above the top stair.

All of his little Billy Goats Gruff could try to run past him along the upper hallway.

Screaming and giggling wildly.

One by one, he would nab them and demand to know who they were.

One by one they would answer, “I'm a Billy Goat Gruff!”

Whereupon (good word) he would shout, “No Billy Goats on my bridge!” and set them behind him on the landing/prison.

Then, as he hunted for more victims, the entrapped would escape back up the stairs, still screaming and giggling.

And join once more with their fellow little goats in teasing and tantalizing the troll.

This went on for some time.

Usually until Dad got played out.

Then, one day, we moved from that house.

Subsequent (Ooo, another good word!) houses had similar, but not quite as perfect designs for playing Troll Under the Bridge.

The family made do.

Move forward 20 years . . .

Our present house is entirely unsuitable for the game.

It is a bungalow with one long, very dangerous, grandma-nightmare-inducing stairway.

We have put a gate at the top, which is rigidly patrolled whenever grandchildren come over to play.

A great disappointment to grandchildren who have been raised on stories of Troll Under the Bridge, as fondly told by their parents.

But in our front room, we have a large hassock. (Ottoman, pouffe, footstool.)

Leather covered.

Padded top.

And it stands in front of our couch.

With a two-foot space between.

Hmmmm . . .

A few pool noodles strapped together with a bit of duct tape.

Voila!

A bridge.

Propped between the couch and the hassock, the scene for the new and improved Troll Under the Bridge.

Which the next generation of Tolleys has taken to with great enthusiasm.

With just as much noise and exuberance as their parents.

There are a couple of subtle differences, though.

1. The grandkids are a bit craftier than their parents had been.

Our nearly-four-year-old grandson, when seized and questioned by the troll, answered readily, “I'm a troll.”

My Husby/Troll blinked.

This was a first.

But, since trolls are allowed on the bridge, the boy was allowed a free pass.

Smarty pants.

2. The troll gets played out rather quickly.

He is, after all, an older troll now, with lots of grey hair and a few creaking joints.

Usually, he is finished long before the shrieking hoards are even close to admitting defeat.

And after they leave, he collapses on the couch and takes a nap.

Ah, the price of joy.

Sear Pressure

Note the pressure 'bob'. It's there for a reason . . .

During their early years on the ranch, my parents sponsored several German immigrants.

They all proved to be wonderful, industrious, conscientious people.

Eager to work and to become 'Canadians'.

One of the girls, Erica, was helping Mom in the house when my next older brother was born.

She proved to be invaluable with the household chores and cooking, but struggled at learning English.

Mom knew a little German, however, so they managed to muddle through.

On a few occasions, though, the language barrier proved to be just that.

A barrier.

Erica was fascinated with the pressure cooker.

That miraculous appliance that could cook food in a fraction of the time.

The microwave of the 50s.

Apparently, though they were widely used in Canada, they hadn't caught on in Erica's part of Germany.

Mom had tried to school Erica on the proper use of this amazing new contraption.

She had managed to get through steps one through four.

1. Food and a small amount of water is placed inside
2. Seal adjusted
3. Lid screwed on and, most importantly,
4. Pressure bob applied.
5. I should point out, here, that those are the easy steps.

Then comes the actual cooking part.

And this was where Erica always came to grief.

She couldn't seem to grasp that, if the rings are up on the pressure bob, the kettle is full of . . . pressure.

Up to this point, Mom had always been there to divert disaster.

But on this particular day, Mom was still in town running errands.

Erica decided to cook dinner on her own.

What a glorious opportunity to try out the fabulous new invention!

All went well.
The pressure cooker . . . pressure cooked.

Other pots alternately steamed and bubbled.

Dinner was nearly ready.

Erica pulled the large pressure cooker off the stove and gave it a quick dunk under a cold stream of water.

Then she wrenched off the lid.

Oops.

The lid and released steam hit her. Full. In. The. Face.

And beets flew everywhere.

Erica screamed and blindly ran outside.

Dad heard her screaming and come running. There he found the poor girl, confused and in obvious pain.

Her nose was bleeding profusely and she had obviously been scalded.

He got her into the bathroom, where he started her soaking her face in cold water.

When Mom came home a short time later, she bundled Erica into the girl's bedroom and applied teabags to the exposed areas. They proved to be quite soothing and she was able to rest.

Then Mom was able to start on the kitchen which was giving a good impression of a slaughter house.

Beets were everywhere.

Mom even found one on top of the knick-knack shelf in the far corner.

Remarkably, miraculously, Erica healed without a mark.

But Mom was taking no further chances.

Though the pressure cooker remained in plain sight, the pressure bob, the little gizmo that made everything dangerous, was hidden in a very secret place.

Never store the gun and the bullets in the same cupboard.

Boy Day

And they look so innocent . . .

1. It had been a tough day.

2. We had three boys.

Those are my excuses . . .

The day had started out slowly.

Mark had sleep-walked and nearly mistook the closet for the bathroom.

Caught just in time.

Because I am superwoman.

Shortly thereafter (oooh, good word), Mark and Erik had staged an argument/battle over the TV remote.

I should explain, here, that the word 'remote' was largely optimistic at this point.

There was a device.

Attached to our VCR by a long cable.

Thus, 'remote'.

Moving on . . .

Our two oldest boys were fighting over it.

Mom won.

By banishing them to opposite sides of the family room.

Neither of which was close enough to the TV to allow access to said remote.

They were watching 'Black Hole'.

Again.

It was the only approximately 'family' movie that our newly fledged VCR rental outlet had.

Both of them could quote it by this time.

They began to discuss whether they should do what Mark wanted--watch it again--or flip over to the TV for the daily episode of Sesame Street. Erik's idea.

More arguing.

Won by Mom again, when she suggested, rather forcefully that the time had come for them to go outside and bother their father.

Whereupon (another good word) they found themselves in the great outdoors.

For a while, they sat and pouted.

Then their little brother, Duffy, who had the sense to follow their father when he first left the house, discovered the mud puddle.

A short time later, there was a timid tap at the front door.

I opened it.

There was a figure standing there.

Vaguely human in shape.

Roughly the size of my third son.

Several scrubbings later, I realized that it was, indeed, Duffy.

Whose brothers had doused him, quite literally, in his own discovery.

The culprits were discovered, some time later, hiding in the basement of the house their dad was building.

Still giggling.

I dragged them into the house.

To apologize.

And to eat lunch.

Was it really only noon?

They immediately began to argue over who got the yellow cup.

And where each of them would sit.

I settled it again.

No one got the yellow cup and neither of them got to sit remotely close to where they wanted. In fact, they were lucky to be sitting at all!

As they finally started scooping up Mac and Cheese, I told them, “I think I'm going to take the three of you in to the 'used kids' store and trade you in on girls!”

My second son looked at me, round-eyed. “Can you do that?”

I laughed. “No,” I reassured him.

“Oh.” He went back to scooping.

But sometimes, I wish . . .

The Bear Out There

Most of the stories told at a family reunion are of the belly-laugh variety.

Occasionally . . .

My cousin’s son-in-law worked with his dad, a contractor.

Said SIL and a friend were scouting out an area in the remote woods, looking to build a new oilwell site.

Friend was carrying a bow and arrow.

SIL was carrying a rifle.

They were walking through the Great Canadian Woods. They brought the weapons for protection.

Spoiler: They would need them.

As they were hiking, they suddenly smelled something very dead.

The two men stopped. Obviously, they were near a bear’s cache.

Should they back up?

Change course?

They chose to keep following the path, thinking they would simply by-pass the cache.

It didn’t work that way.

Ahead of them, waiting in the bushes, was a very large, very real grizzly.

With a very real attitude.

The bear went for the man with the bow, who immediately commenced running.

SIL fired three shots. Emptying his gun.

With little effect.

In fact, the only thing it did was cause the bear to change course.

From his friend.

To him.

Suddenly, he was staring into the teeth of a large omnivore and all he had to defend himself was an empty gun.

In one panicked movement, and almost without thinking, he shoved his gun, barrel first, down the bear’s throat. Right up to the scope.

It was at that moment the bear keeled over.

Dead.

At least one of the shots had finally found its mark.

The two men called Fish and Wildlife to report the tragic incident.

And received a lecture entitled: Grizzly Hunting is Really, Really Against the Law.

Something, in other circumstances, they totally agreed with. They didn't want to shoot the bear. If there had been an alternative, they definitely would have taken it.

Fish and Wildlife officers came out and surveyed the area, mapping the men’s tracks through the snow.

Studying the bear’s.

Examining the bite marks on the gun and scope.

And concluded, finally, the men were telling the truth.

The men were then informed that they were free to take the bear and have it stuffed. But once it was done, they weren’t allowed to keep it and, instead must turn it over to the government.

They learned something from this experience.

If one’s job necessitates walking through the more remote parts of the Great Canadian Woods, always, always take a Fish and Wildlife officer.

Preferably one you can outrun . . .

Comics to Wine

Life on a ranch in the 1950s was a world unto itself.

A place where a family could grow together, leaning on each other.

Quiet. Peaceful.

Isolated.

A place where the world seldom intruded.

Except for that . . . erm . . . exception . . .

Three brothers were growing up on their family farm.

Just down the road from a Hutterite colony.

Both settlements were rather remote.

But it’s hard to say which was the most un-worldly.

The three teen boys had comic books.

Something the Hutterite boys wanted.

The Hutterite boys had access to homemade wine.

Something the brothers wanted.

The two groups made a bargain. Comic books for wine.

The only obstacle to the conclusion of their mutual agreement was the actual . . . conclusion.

Because neither family approved.

Go figure . . .

They finally worked it out.

The brothers would leave their offering of comic books at a pre-appointed spot in a nearby field.

The Hutterite boys would retrieve said books and leave, in their place, a bottle of the colony’s finest.

This went on for some time.

To the mutual satisfaction of all parties.

Reading and drinking were continuing apace.

Then, that eye-opening event.

When the boy’s dad brought home a bottle of wine.

From the same colony--but carried in through the front door and in full sight of all who lived there.

Huh. Weird.

The boys were given a glass.

And discovered that the colony’s best they had been receiving really wasn’t.

The best, that is.

Hmmm . . . who do you complain to when your ultra-clandestine deal goes awry?

Exactly.

Hard Boiled

Newlywed.

That wonderful time when two people are starting out.

And learning so much.

For good or bad . . .

June was a happy bride.

Determined to do everything right.

Unfortunately, her mother had also insisted on doing everything right.

Particularly in the cooking department.

By herself.

So June remained untaught.

Willing and eager. But untaught.

Then: Marriage.

And the aforementioned DER (Doing Everything Right).

June asked her new husband what he would like for breakfast.

Pleased, he told her just something simple. A couple of boiled eggs.

“O-kay,” June said doubtfully, wondering frantically how to make a boiled egg.

Determined, she went into the kitchen. Put the eggs in a pot.

Added water.

Good so far.

Now. How long to boil them?

Most cakes take 30 to 45 minutes.

She’d go for the longer time, just to be sure.

And she did.

45 minutes later, she proudly presented her new Husby with her version of The Boiled Egg.

Now, at this point, these eggs would be suitable for such things as:

Tennis.

Golf.

Baseball.

Perhaps lobbing into enemy territory.

What did Husby do?

He ate them.

With a smile on his face.

Newlywed.

That wonderful time when two people are starting out.

And learning so much.

For good or bad . . .

Friends

I've spent the weekend with my Berg cousins and their families.

We had a glorious time.

Catching up.

Eating.

Swapping stories.

Just a tiny bit of Heaven on earth.

The next few days may or may not feature some of those stories . . .

Friends are important.

They provide words of encouragement when you most need it.

Suffer along with you during dark times.

Laugh when events call for it.

Sometimes all at once.

Umm . . . maybe I should explain . . .

Roundup.

That exciting time when cowpokes and horses are pushing herds of cows from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’.

If this was a math equation it would be something like: If eight cowpokes on eight horses were pushing 400 head of cows from pasture A to pasture B, how many opportunities would there be for accidents/hi-jinks?

Answer: Yes.

Roy and his crew were pushing cows along their usual route.

A route which included at least 1 (one) muddy-watered, swiftly-moving river.

All sorts of things can happen in a river.

It’s wet. And muddy.

And did I mention swiftly-moving?

Fortunately, most of the cattle had crossed safely.

Then there was that 1 (one).

Who foundered. (ie. Stopped going across and started going down.)

One of the hands roped her and, together with said rope and strong language, towed her to safety on the far side.

This is where Roy stepped in.

Because he . . . stepped in. And loosened the lasso off of the animal.

I should probably mention here that cows aren’t noted for their brains.

But are noted for their sharp and pointy horns.

Did she get to her feet and kiss and profusely thank her rescuers?

Ummm . . . no.

Instead, she lowered her head, sighted on the nearest two-footed person (ie. Roy) and proceeded toward him.

At a run.

In an instant, Roy was high-stepping just ahead of those horns.

Now, remember where I mentioned friends at the beginning of this story?

And how they are always there for you?

That applies here.

Because as Roy was hot-footing it around trees and across muddy river banks and shouting for help in several languages, his friends were right there for him.

Laughing.

Friends. Those people who are yours just when you need it the most.

Rum Running for Teetotalers

The Smuggler - and her get-away vehicle.

Before she . . . got away.

Mom was a teetotaler.

I thought I should mention that. It explains so much . . .

Dad had surprised Mom with the trip of a lifetime.

Okay, in the 60’s it was the trip of a lifetime.

Driving down along the scenic 101 through Washington, Oregon, California and into Mexico.

They were going to be gone for weeks.

She was just a bit excited.

They set out.

Visiting every landmark, great and small.

Every roadside exhibit.

Every tree, post and rock along the entire route.

Dad loved to see . . . things.

When they had finally finished with Sea World in San Diego, time was growing short.

They had one day to make a hop into Mexico.

Tijuana was all they would have time for.

They set out.

Crossed the border into Mexico.

And had a day of shopping the family-run stalls and businesses on the streets of Old Mexico.

Mom was in her element.

The sheer amount of purchasable ‘stuff’ was mind numbing.

She set to work with a will.

Picking up such treasures as: Velvet paintings.

Items of leather work.

Jewellery.

And some lovely bottles, encased in clever, hand-woven reed containers.

Happily, she piled her purchases into the back seat of the car and the two of them set off on the long road back to Canada.

Crossing the border from Mexico to the US was a simple matter of declaring that, yes, they had done some shopping and spent ‘X’ amount of dollars/pesos, and no, they weren’t transporting any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

They continued on.

Back through California, Oregon and Washington.

Seeing whatever sites Dad had missed on their first pass.

There weren’t many.

Finally, they reached the border, again declaring how much they had spent and that they weren’t carrying any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

The last few miles to the ranch were covered quickly.

Mom had children to see.

And gifts to bestow.

Their homecoming was noisy and enthusiastic.

Mom handed out her purchases.

Brought all the way from Mexico.

Across two borders.

She had purchased one thing for herself.

The three little bottles in their fancy, hand-woven cases.

She arranged them proudly on the mantle above the fireplace.

One larger.

Two smaller.

Perfect.

For many months, they sat there.

In their place of honor.

Then one of my brothers happened to pick one up as he was dusting.

It was full of liquid.

“Mom! What’s in this bottle?”

“Liquid.”

“What kind of liquid?”

“Well . . . just water, I suppose.”

“Huh.” He twisted off the cap.

Let’s just say that, if it was water, the water in Mexico is vastly different than anything that flows in Canada.

“Mom. I hate to tell you this, but this isn’t water!”

Mom appeared. “It isn’t?”

“Umm . . . no.”

“Well what is it then?”

“I think you have three bottles of tequila here.”

Okay, remember the part where I mentioned ‘teetotaler’?

That would apply here.

 “What’s tequila?”

 “It’s a very strong alcoholic drink. From Mexico. With a worm in the bottom.”

“Oh.”

The ‘liquid’ was duly poured out, worm and all, and good old 100 proof ranch sulphur water poured back in.

Mom went back to the kitchen and my brother went back to his dusting.

All was well.

But I can’t help but think about my teetotaling Mom bringing her three bottles of tequila across, not one, but two borders.

It’s always the ones you don’t suspect . . .

I'm visiting with Mom's family this weekend. The Bergs.

The most welcoming group of people ever to walk the earth.

I anticipate much story telling and a lot of love and support.

I may not be back tomorrow.

But know I will be happy, basking in the light of kith and kin!

 

Grandma and Grandpa Berg. About 1958 or 1959.

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.