Putting the 'Party' in Party Line

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word! thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

And gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things informative. Mis-informative. 

And entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

Street Miracles

Okay. Yes. This is our preferred mode of travel.

I invented the paving machine.

And I did it with the power of my mind.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In 1964-1965, our family moved to the great metropolis of Lethbridge.

My father was running two ranching operations at the time and he thought it would be easier from a central location.

So, for one glorious year, us kids discovered the joys--and differences--of city living.

Milk delivered right to the door in handy-dandy little bottles.

Ditto cream, cheese, etc.

Weird-tasting water. Let’s face it, who in their right mind would choose chlorine over sulphur?!

Riding the city bus.

Neighbours near enough to hear/see everything your family said/did.

And a whole new crop of friends.

It was a fun year.

Educational.

And over too soon.

Oddly enough, with all of this ‘new stuff’ what I struggled most with were the streets.

Yeah, I know. Strange.

The streets around our new house were gravel.

I was used to good old dirt.

Dirt that didn’t flip you and your bicycle sideways unexpectedly. Scraping flesh off of knees and legs and nether regions.

I learned to curse trying to stay upright in that gravel.

Okay, I will admit that said cursing consisted of ‘stupid gravel!’ and ‘Moooom!’, but that was getting out there. For me.

And then, the day I changed everything.

I was sitting on my bike on the sidewalk, having just pulled myself and said bike onto terra firma from the stupid, rotten (it had been a rough day) gravel street. I was glaring at said street.

Then, in my mind, I pictured a great machine that would simply drive across the treacherous coating of rocks and dirt and death, and coat it in a hard, delightfully smooth, totally bike-welcoming surface.

One a little friendlier to life and limb.

Imagine my surprise when, the very next day, such a machine was spotted one street over from mine.

DOING EXACTLY WHAT I HAD PICTURED IN MY MIND!!!

All of the kids in the neighbourhood pulled their bikes as close as possible to the behemoth and just watched.

It was a miracle!

As soon as the machine and the accompanying out-rollers had moved on, we were riding our bikes on the fabulous new, delightfully smooth road.

I can still remember the heat rising up from the black surface.

The machine continued around the block until it had completely covered all of the streets with the same impermeable, biking-conducive material.

Paradise!

I know you’ve probably witnessed the same miracle yourself.

So, when you are driving on smooth, seamless roads.

You can thank me.

Send money . . .

Life on the Ranch

The new barn

My big brother and me.

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated halfway between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

The Ranch

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of 2012. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

78

Today, I'm sitting in a warm blanket of nostalgia . . .

My dad had an extensive record collection. 78s.
Instrumentals. Country. Easy listening. Nonsense.
Thick, heavy records that could easily double at frisbees.
If we had thought of it.
Which we didn't.
We kids would paw through those records in search of our favourites.
I had two.
I listened to them endlessly.
Endlessly.
Till I moved on to the Monkees, which is a whole other story.
Dad upgraded his collection and his stereo system. Replacing all of his 78 recordings with new LPs.
All but my favourites.
Sigh.
I've searched for them ever since in many, many antique stores. Thumbing through the 78s they have on offer for those two little songs. Or even one of them. I'd be satisfied with that.
But always, I've been disappointed.
I was telling my granddaughters about my favourite songs yesterday and describing the archaic 78 records that played them.
Yeah. They didn't believe me.
Then I went to my new friend, Google.
And guess what?!
They are there!
Both of them.
I offer them to you now, exactly as I used to listen to them.
When I was four.
And the world wasn't a scary place . . .

First: Horace the Horse

Then: Smokey the Bear

And, because we loved him too, my favourite Spike Jones:
New Years Resolution

Picture me, a little girl with white, candy-fluff hair, singing along.
My mom's in the kitchen making something grand.
Daddy's in his chair, work boots off and feet up, reading the newspaper and waiting for supper.
That's where I'm going to spend my day!

For Sale by Owner

Want to win a copy of this delightful book?

Details at the end of the post . . .

Who knew a bit of real estate could spark such a heated contest?

Single mom McKenzie, determined to escape her high-powered, painful life behind, decides to return to her small town life and buy the home she grew up in. There is only one problem. There is a firm offer on it.

By Jared, who happens to be a young, attractive, widower and single dad.

Sparks of attraction turn to sparks of animosity as the two try to outmaneuver each other in the real estate deal of their lives.

Winner gets the house of his/her dreams with room to breathe and grow.

Loser gets  . . . to keep on looking.

Will a growing attraction seal the deal?

Or simply make everything worse?

For Sale by Owner is a sweet, clean, romantic, holiday story that will warm you as surely as a cup of rich hot chocolate held between mittened hands and warm cookies straight from the oven (Recipes included!).

A tale of small sacrifices and lost love found and prayers answered. With a little bit of family drama thrown in for Christmas spice.

Looking for a sweet Christmas read for the holidays? Look in the real estate section: For Sale by Owner.

I was given a copy of this delightful book to read and review. I was not compensated in any way for said review. Darn.

Marlene Bateman Sullivan was born in Salt Lake City, Utah and grew up in Sandy, Utah.  She graduated from the University of Utah with a Bachelor's degree in English. She is married to Kelly R. Sullivan and they live in North Salt Lake, Utah with their two dogs and four cats. Marlene has been published extensively in magazines and newspapers and wrote the best-selling romance/suspense novel, Light on Fire Island. She has written three other mysteries; Motive for Murder, A Death in the Family, and Crooked House.

Marlene has also written a number of LDS, non-fiction books:  Latter-day Saint Heroes and Heroines, And There Were Angels Among Them, Visit’s from Beyond the Veil, By the Ministering of Angels, Brigham’s Boys, Heroes of Faith, Gaze into Heaven; Near-death Experiences in Early Church History, and The Magnificent World of Spirits; Eyewitness Accounts of Where We Go When We Die. 

For Sale by Owner is available at Deseret Book and Seagull Book and can also be purchased online at:

Amazon: https://goo.gl/5a60QZ

Seagull Book; https://goo.gl/yQboNh

GoodReads;  https://goo.gl/ksPihN

Website: www.marlenebateman.info

Want to win a copy of For Sale by Owner? 

(Ebook or hard copy.) 

Simply leave a comment!

Patience

It started innocently enough.

Me and newly-minted four-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter known as Please-Be-Patient-With-Me-I’m-Learning. Or PBPWMIL, for short) discussing the pros and cons (mostly cons) of taking something that doesn’t belong to you.

“But I wanted it,” she affirmed.

“I know, Sweetheart. But you can’t take something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I should probably mention here that I am speaking to a little girl with snapping dark eyes, shining dark hair, and smeared chocolate from nose to ears to chin. Not to mention the chocolate wrappers strewn about her small person.

Yep. Caught red-handed.

Or chocolate-chinned.

“How would you feel if little brother took something that was yours?”

“I would take it back!”

“Would you be sad that he had it?”

“Yeah. So I would take it back!”

“So should I take the chocolate back that you took from me?”

She frowned at that logic for a moment.

I presumed I was getting my point across.

A little note: Never assume anything when speaking to a recently graduate of Being Three.

She looked at me, wide eyes earnest and opened her little red bow of a mouth.

Here it comes, I thought. I finally got through to her!

“But I wanted it.”

Sigh. We’d come full circle.

“Okay, let’s start again,” I said. “Sweetheart how would you feel if someone took something that belonged to you?”

She stared at me. Then, “I can’t answer right now. My brain is empty.”

We’re considering encouraging her to run for political office.

Tell-Tale Sneeze

“Norma. Watching you sneak around like that is just really . . . creepy.”

She looked at me. “For your information, I am not sneaking!” She lifted her nose into the air with attitude. “I’m tiptoeing.”

Should I say it? My sister is, for want of a better word, bulky. Yeah, I’m going in. “Well, when you do it, it’s creepy.”

This time, I got a glare.

I grinned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to trap our ghost!”

I should probably mention to any first-timers out there that my sister and I have a ghost. Well—our house has a ghost. Or some sort of resident.

One that smells nice.

I introduced you to him or her (I’m going with her) here.

I felt my eyebrows go up. When I’m talking to my sister, they do it a lot. “How are you planning to trap our ghost?”

“I’ve figured out what she (my sister agrees on the sex of our secret inhabitant) has a weakness for. And I’m going to bait a trap with it.”

My eyebrows went higher. “And the tiptoeing?”

She looked at me. “I’m trying to keep her from finding out about it until it’s too late.”

“Norma, do you honestly believe that our ghost can’t see everything you’re doing right now?”

She thought about that for a moment. Then, “I’m going to go with no. For one thing . . .” she stepped into the tell-tale spot “. . . I can’t smell her perfume.”

“Oh.” I thought about that one. Maybe she had a point. “Ummm . . . so what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to put down this handful of hay.” She held up some dull green grass.

Okay. Eyebrows again. “Hay?”

“Yes. And when she sniffs it, she’ll sneeze. Then I’ll have her!”

“Norma. When you sniff hay, you sneeze.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I don’t.”

She just kept looking at me. “And?”

“Norma,” I said patiently. “Not everyone is allergic to hay. And besides, she’s a ghost. Ghosts don’t sneeze.

“But when I wave it . . .” Norma did so. And sneezed violently.

It echoed weirdly around the room.

I suddenly felt something go creepy-crawly down my back. “Norma,” I said quietly. “Do that again.”

She waved the hay. And sneezed.

This time, the echo was a little behind.

And a little to the right.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado gives her blogosphere friends a challenge to Use Your Words.

Each blogger is given words from another blogger.

It's totally fun.

This month, my words are:
creepy ~ crawly ~ hay ~ sneeze ~ attitude
They were submitted by Karen at: Baking In A Tornado
See what the others did with their words!
Baking In A Tornado
Southern Belle Charm
Not That Sarah Michelle
Spatulas on Parade
The Bergham Chronicles
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy
Confessions of a part time working mom
Never Ever Give Up Hope
Climaxed
On the Border

Gone Bogging

How peaceful it all looks.
So deceptive . . .

The 'tree field' on the ranch was just that.

A field.

With trees.

Distinguished from all of the other fields by their lack of said trees.

Because it had trees, it also offered cover. An ideal place for spring calving.

I was Dad's herdsman. It was my duty to oversee the spring calving and make sure that all calves . . . and their mothers . . . survived.

Normally, things went well.

Occasionally, they did not.

But that is another story . . .

Usually, when I rode out to check the cows, I rode.

On a horse. One of a selection of brain-dead, bone-headed ex-racehorses, I will admit.

But on this day, I was in a hurry.

So I fired up Dad's one-ton truck - the one with the dual rear wheels - and headed out to the field.

I should explain, here, that the tree field had trees because it was situated next to an irrigation canal. A wide trench that meandered through the country side. In the spring, the gates are opened and water from the Old Man River diverted into the various canals for irrigating the dry land farms and ranches throughout Southern Alberta. An effective system.

But the canals were getting old.

And water seeped from them into the adjacent land.

Great if your land was close by and needed water.

Which the tree field was.

And did.

Thus – trees.

But the land could also become quite saturated.

And boggy.

Particularly in the clearing in the centre of the trees.

We thought it was very entertaining.

One could stomp on the seemingly dry ground and the land all around would quiver.

Cool.

There was enough dry soil on top to hold up a cow.

Or my horses.

But remember, I was in the truck.

Considerably heavier than any horse or cow.

Back to my story . . .

I innocently drove out to check the herd.

The first pass, the one on the higher ground near the road, went well.

But there were no cows near the road, either.

Sigh.

I moved into the trees for a second pass.

Starting at the far east side of the field, I worked my way west.

Stopping now and then to walk into the trees to investigate a barely-seen patch of red hide.

I reached the far west side and started to turn.

It was then that I realized that I . . . and my truck . . . were sinking.

Here's something you don't see every day. A truck, sinking out of sight in the middle of a dry land ranch in Southern Alberta.

I had two options.

1. Holler for one of my parents.
2. Mat that gas pedal and pray.

My parents were my parents. They lived to get me out of scrapes.

Right?

Ahem.

But both of them were at the ranch a mile away to the West.

I was on my own.

I went with my second option.

Mud and water sprayed from those dual tires as the truck struggled for purchase.

For a few, heart-stopping moments, it looked as though the bog would win.

Then, slowly, the truck started to climb up out of the hole.

Finally, I was flying along atop the bog.

I kept the gas pedal to the floor until I was through the tree line and solidly back on dry ground.

Then I stopped the truck and simply breathed.

I left the truck and walked (I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.) back to inspect the ruts I had left.

They were three feet deep and rapidly filling with water.

My brother told me later that I was a heartbeat away from losing the truck entirely.

“And the only thing that would have salvaged the situation would have been to call in a cherry-picker.”

I don't have to tell you that the 'cherry-picker' he is talking about had nothing to do with picking cherries.

And everything to do with being expensive.

Thank goodness for gas pedals.

And prayer.

A little side note here: The provincial government has updated all of the canals, lining them so they are much more efficient and less--for want of a better word--leaky. On a recent visit, I couldn't find the tree field. When the water supply dried up, so did the trees.

It was a sad, sad moment.

My steed.

Falling Again

I discovered ‘Fall’ when I was ten,

Yes, Autumn happened long before,

I just began to notice then.

Sit back, I’d like to tell you more…

To make us culturally aware,

Our Mom would haul us once a week,

To Mrs. Sproad of the greying hair,

For music lessons. So to speak.

Each time, I’d sweat my half an hour,

On piano bench. With tongue in teeth,

When brother sat, I got to scour

The farm. From barns to distant heath.

With collie, Princess, by my side,

I wandered out wher’er I could.

Through grasses long and leaves all dried,

Just two of us there in the woods.

The sounds, the smells I can’t forget,

The crisp and spicy odors pleased,

If I could, I’d be there yet,

Running through the crunchy leaves.

With Princess and her ringing bark,

My trustworthy companion, she,

A furry, friendly matriarch

Who now is just a memory.

So now each time I smell those smells,

Or find myself knee deep in leaves,

The memories, I can’t dispel,

The magic. On my heart it breathes.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a challenge to her fellow poetically-minded bloggers.
Here's a theme.
Write.
This month's theme? Fall.
For me, another opportunity to go back to one of my fondest memories...

Here's what our other poets have concocted:
Karen of Baking in a Tornado: Fall Poetry
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Fall or Autumn, Which one do we call ya?
Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Falling Into You
Candice of Measurements of Merriment: Witchy Women

A Good Cow Pony

Daddy at 6 on Peggy.
Another good cow pony.

A good cow pony is more than just transportation in the ranching world.

It is partner, confidante, shelter, and yes, even protector.
Dad's horse had been superbly trained.
By him.
Calving season is a rather exciting time of the year. For at least a couple of reasons.
Because new babies are appearing in the fields. And new baby calves are cute.
But also because you are getting up close and personal with warm, furry creatures who outweigh you by several hundreds of pounds.
See? Exciting. In an unpredictable/ohmygoodness sort of way.
Most cows on the Stringam ranch calved between January and March.
Without ceremony or fanfare.
In the field.
Calves were tagged and given their newborn shots within a few feet of where they were born.
I should mention here that Hereford cows are docile and easily managed.
Except when they have a newborn calf nearby.
You've heard the stories about getting between she-bears and their babies?
Well, Hereford cows would kill to have that reputation.
Hmm . . . Actually, they would have to kill to get that reputation.
Just thought I'd point that out.
Because it really has nothing to do with this story.
Moving on . . .
Hereford cows may not be the black-leather-clad, chain-toting members of the bovine family, but they can still be rather aggressive when their babies are in danger.
Or when they think their babies may be in danger.
As when people are around.
My Dad found this out the exciting way.
He had come across a newborn calf, lying 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Dismounting, he straddled the calf and prepared to vaccinate.
And that's when Mama noticed him.
Suddenly, a thousand pounds of red and white indignation were breathing down his neck.
And I do mean down his neck.
I know this will sound funny, but when a cow is threatening, the best place to be in the wide-open prairie is 'under' one's well-trained horse.
Really.
You crawl under your horse and no cow will come near.
Hastily, Dad pulled himself and his captive under his horse and continued with his work.
The cow snorted and fidgeted, circling around, trying to find the flaw in this scenario.
The horse kept one eye on her. All the while turning to keep his hind quarters directed towards the irate bundle of hair and aggression.
This worked for a few moments.
But finally, even the presence of a larger, stronger, and infinitely smarter creature didn't deter.
She charged.
Remember where I mentioned that the horse kept his hind quarters towards the cow?
That's because that is a horse's 'dangerous' end. (Brings a whole new mean to calling someone a horse's a##, doesn't it?)
Ahem . . .
Always loaded.
And ready to fire.
He let fly.
With both barrels.
He caught the cow in the head.
In mid-charge.
Now a cow's head is composed mostly of bone.
They can be hurt.
But it takes a lot.
This kick merely stopped the cow for a moment.
She shook her head, confused.
Then looked around.
What had she been doing?
About that time, Dad finished with the calf and let it go.
It trotted over to its mother and the two of them hurried towards the nearest far-away place.
Dad stood up and gave his horse a pat.
“Good boy.”
Then mounted up and continued his ride.
Another rather mundane day in the life of a good cow-pony.
What would we do without them?

Thanks-Giving

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada. What am I thankful for? 

This will start you out. It started me out . . .

My home town!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.
Crime hadn't been invented yet.
It was, literally, a different world.
Our doors were never, ever locked.
Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each-other's yards and homes and refrigerators.
Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning and doing other 'Mom' stuff.
She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.
Canned soup was something new and wonderful. Always served with yummy homemade bread sandwiches.
At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.
Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.
The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.
At ten cents each.
Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the centre of the store.
Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar, because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hofer's desk was full of them.
We had our own cobbler, Mr. Szabo, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion great hunks of leather into real shoes with his little hammer.
A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera that magically developed its own pictures while you waited.
Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.
With five cents left over.
Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.
But happy.
The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row. Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.
All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.
Most of it was made on this continent.
Our clothes were mostly cotton.
Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.
Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.
And absolutely everyone attended church.
Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family, but any and all extended family members and shoe-horn the entire mob into any available space.
At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the centre of the intersection of Main and First streets.
The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season.
The arrival of Santa in Mr. Madge's special North Pole plane, a much anticipated event.
And, once again, everyone went to church.
Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.
We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.
One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.
Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').
There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.
In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in cubs, scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.
Mom always made treats.
Yummy ones.
We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.
And all of them were wonderful people and terrific cooks.
Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .
Sports events were exactly that.
Events.
Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.
Basketball was huge.
The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.
Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks, or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.
The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.
'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.
The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.
Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.
And everyone knew everyone else.
Their address, phone number (Jody's phone number was 6), family members.
Even pets.
It was a wonderful way to grow up.
Like an enormous, caring family . . .
I loved growing up in Milk River.
It was a perfect life.
But that 'small-town' life is largely vanished everywhere now.
Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.
Friendly neighbourhoods.
Caring neighbours.
But the absolute freedom of those days is gone.
Replaced by something . . . darker.
More suspicious.
It's a great pity.
So now it's your turn. What are you thankful for?

Sweglish

Bergs. My best people.

Marrying into a family is a happy, joyous proposition.

It can also be daunting and just a bit scary.

Even when everyone is on the same page—linguistically speaking.

Aunt June joined the Berg family way back in the sixties.

A city girl, she had a lot to learn about her future husband’s ranching family.

That had nothing to do with . . . ummm . . . ranching.

His parents had immigrated to Canada from Sweden.

He and his siblings were first-generation Canadians.

And Swedish terms largely peppered the family’s daily speak.

So to speak.

Such terms as (forgive me, but I’m going to write these words as they sound, which will probably horrify my Swedish relatives.) Hell. Ringadongen. Shurkfasta. And the ever popular Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken.

And these were just the words she encountered on her first visit.

Perhaps some explanation is in order . . .

Approaching the house, Uncle Leif and his future bride were met at the door by my MorMor, (Mother’s Mother) and invited in. “Just hang your coats here in the shurkfasta,” she told them.

Okay. That wasn’t too hard to figure out. Coats. Hang.

This may not be so bad.

They walked from said shurkfasta into the large kitchen, where one of the boys was trying to save a step and attempting to pour milk from the crock into a glass.

“No! Hell with the pitcher! Hell with the pitcher!” MorMor said.

Admittedly, future Aunt June’s ears pricked up at that one. But she soon figured that too. Pour.

She even figured out from the conversation about wrangling cows that a ringadongen was a coulee.

Smart girl.

But the one term that stumped her was ‘Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken?!”

Said with just a touch of wonder and amazement.

And even a bit of head shaking.

Let’s see if we can figure this one out.

Someone was doing something amazing.

And MorMor was watching.

And she said: that phrase.

Okay. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.

Let’s see what you come up with . . .

Aunt June happily joined the family.

And learned to appreciate, and even participate in the occasional lapses into Sweglish.

It was a very special price to pay for happiness.

Genderly Confused

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

Enes, my Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-believe.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats. Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie. And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting. Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up and the game began.

Mom was picked early. She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat. The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

A Needed Trip

What do you say about the most amazing holiday you’ve ever taken?

Ever. Taken.

That is was fantastic. Stupendous. Awesome. Astonishing. Surprising. Astounding. Remarkable. Over-whelming. Breath-taking. Tremendous. Grand. Outstanding. Impressive. Magnificent.

I’ve run out of impressive words . . .

But I hope you get the message.

We had wonderful time.

But the most important part about it had nothing to do with the shopping, or seeing the places only dreamed about.

Maybe I should tell you about it . . .

We flew into Istanbul.

Even the name stirs up the imagination. Here is the site of a hundred, hundred years of HISTORY. Of sultans and harems and the mysterious Bosporus. Of conquering armies and a people who refused to fade away.

Okay. Yes. I read a lot.

We were ushered through the remarkably clean airport and into a waiting cab (a large one because we have large luggage. Yes. Large luggage. I’m going to go with that.)

Then a breath-snatching view of ancient walls interspersed with modern skyscrapers as we wound our way through the old city to our former-mansion-built-in-1835-and-now-an-amazing-hotel. Square in the middle of everything.

I’m not kidding. We were within walking distance of Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, Süleymaniye Mosque, Basilica Cistern, Grand Bazaar, Egyptian Spice Market, Galata Tower and bridge, and many more.

Every view was astounding. Around every corner, something that dropped the jaw.

And you're right. I spent a lot of time with my mouth open.

Then there were the scents. The braziers, coffee, spices, roasting corn, roasting meats, incense, seawater, perfumes, baking pastries, bread, roasting chestnuts, and the occasional whiff of diesel (In a town of 15 million, some of that is expected).

And the people. (Like our new friend Erik and the amazing food he serves in our now-favourite restaurant, Ab-i Nefis. (I have his phone number if you want to make a reservation...)) The intelligent, friendly, courteous, dedicated, hard-working, elegant individuals who crowded the streets and the markets. Who cleaned and cooked and served and bargained and spoke better English than their Canadian visitors, and joked and laughed and carried children while pushing an empty stroller.

And finally, and most important, the five-times daily call to prayer (adhan).

The most amazing part of the whole experience.

There is something so reassuring and comforting in such a touching and heartfelt display of faith. It brought us to tears every single time. And brought us to a standstill. While much of Istanbul went on around us, the Canadians were transfixed by the beautiful voices calling us to remember to be grateful. To have faith. And to come and worship.

I acknowledge that there is no god but Allah.

I acknowledge that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah (After prophethood).

Hasten to prayer (Salah).

Hasten to success.

Prayer is better than sleep (Recited only for Fajr prayer's Adhan).

God is greatest.

There is no god but Allah.

At times, the voices were all around us. Some taking turns singing out their beckoning message. They woke us in the early morning and reminded us one last time before sleep.

On my last morning in Istanbul, I woke to the voices beginning to sing in the distance. Then they were overpowered by the Muezzin in the mosque across the street from us.

From the kitchen of the hotel, I could smell the coffee brewing and the bread just coming out of the oven.

I lay there, realizing just how much I was going to miss this wonderful land of faith and food and friendship.

I needed this trip. I needed to come to Turkey. To see that 99.9% of the Muslim people are not those who make the headlines. But are family members who are spending their lives working, serving, laughing, caring and worshiping.

I loved my stay in Istanbul.

As soon as I can, I’ll be back.

I have friends there.

First of all: Tea. As it always comes in Turkey.

Our new Turkish family.

View inside our hotel.

Our room.

View from our hotel. Astounding.
Only hinted at by my IPhone.

Süleymaniye Mosque.
I hope I look as good when I'm 600 years old!

What can I say? Spices!!!

More spices.

Galata Tower. From the outside.

Galata Tower. From the inside looking outside.

Yes. It is Suleman. Or at least he would have you think so...

Erik. Cooking us supper. Testi-kebab. Mmmmmm.

The Blue Mosque. As photographed by an amateur. 

Hagia Sofia. Ditto.

Hagia Sofia. Professional shot.

My favourite photo. A sweet girl inside Hagia Sofia.

Friendly Canadian Tourists.

Sailing

I'll be away for the next couple of weeks.

I'm here.

On the Royal Clipper.

I'm doing this:

There's room for you!