The Passing of the Torch

Foreground: Ranch.
Background: Machinery Hill

On the Stringam Ranch, there was a hill.

A large hill.

It had old machinery parked on top.

We called it the 'Old Machinery Hill'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

There, could be found the outdated, outmoded and discarded mechanical devices of ranch life.

Mowers, haybines, cultivators, tractors, cars and trucks.

All past their 'best-before' date.

All neatly parked in rows.

My brothers spent many blissful hours on that hill, deconstructing the various machines (and machine engines) to be found.

Excitedly, they would point out to me the valves and sprockets pulled from this amazing machine and 'Wow! Aren't they fantastic?!' Then proceed to explain just how these intricate little marvels fit into the whole 'making-this-machine-bale-hay' scenario.

To which I would nod and smile. Then run off to see what the horses were doing.

But that was just the beginning of my brothers' mechanical adventures.

Throughout their lives, I can picture them with various machine parts spread out neatly as they re-constructed and fine-tuned.

Something that still goes on today.

I should probably mention that the 'mechanical bug' hit me as well.

Later.

I took apart, fixed and re-assembled in my world, too.

Mom's piano-organ. Her toaster. Iron.

The only thing that defeated me were the clippers.

Oh, and the washing machine and I have a history, too.

But we won't mention those.

Please, let us not mention those.

Moving ahead . . .

Our four-year-old grandson was playing quietly in their basement.

A little too quietly.

Usually this heralded trouble.

His mother went to check.

She found him with one of his sister's musical toys disassembled in front of him.

Part of it had stopped working.

The need for new batteries had been ruled out because the other parts were still working.

He had rummaged through his father's tools and found the screwdriver he needed.

Then proceeded to take the toy apart.

This was when his mother came in.

He looked up at her.

“It wasn't working,” he said calmly. “So I'm fixing it.”

Now remember, this boy had just turned four.

The two of them saw that a wire had become disconnected.

They reconnected.

No response.

“It has a micro-chip,” he said suddenly, pointing. “See? It's fit in right there. Maybe it just needs a new micro-chip.”

His mother stared at him. “You're probably right,” she said, finally.

When she told us the story, I was reminded suddenly of my brothers.

With their tools.

And their sprockets and wheels.

The torch is truly passed.

The newest generation . . .
Photo Credit

Lady Killer

I seem to have a way with turkeys.

If you missed yesterday’s post, see it here.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

He was handsome.

He was fit.

He was attractive.

He had the moves.

And he had eyes only for me.

Oh, and he was covered in feathers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the town of Coaldale, Alberta is the Alberta Birds of Prey Centre. A centre dedicated to the rehabilitation of injured raptors. The stories of the hundreds of birds already helped back to the wild is inspiring. Visiting the place is an experience.

There are demonstrations and education stations throughout the site. Majestic birds with various injuries are glimpsed during their rehabilitation exercises. One, a golden eagle named Spirit, blinded by a shot from a careless hunter, is particularly exciting. 

Especially up close.

Visitors can walk along the pathways and watch the antics of owls, hawks and eagles.

And one Turkey Vulture.

Snoopy.

Snoopy, unable to fly or survive in the wild due to various injuries, has been a happy attraction of the centre for several years.

When my family arrived, he was contentedly staked out with a long tether, enjoying the sun.

As I approached, he fanned out his tail, ruffled his feathers, clicked his beak and spread his not-unimpressive wings. Then he hopped toward me and . . . strutted. Hey, hey, hey lady! Like what you see? Huh? Do you? Huh?

Reaching the end of his tether, he continued to swivel back and forth, allowing every feather its opportunity to (quite literally) shine.

I called Husby over. “Look at this guy!”

Husby moved closer.

And that’s when the show ended. Every feather was slicked flat. Wings folded and tail snapped shut.

Snoopy just sat there. The very picture of indignant male. Oh, I see! You’ve already made your choice. Well, sucks to be you, lady!

Husby smiled and moved on.

“No!” I said. “He was different! He was all . . . ruffled!”

But Husby had already moved ahead to one of the hawk exhibits.

I looked back at Snoopy.

And received a shock. 

Once more, his feathers stood on end. His wings and tail were spread. He was again looking at me. He shook his wings invitingly. How about now, lady? That guy is gone. All of this could be yours! Last chance . . .

One of the attendants moved past. “Oh, I see you’ve discovered Snoopy,” she said. “He likes the ladies!”

Snoopy the lady killer.

An appropriate title for a bird from a raptor centre.

With a totally different meaning . . .

Mr. Sexy.

Turkey Talk

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bus To Imagination

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher. Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror. Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize from what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem . . .

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals. Sheesh. You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows and off benches.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too. (But there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired play.)

Moving ahead many, many years.

Some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.

P.S. Just FYI, the baby I was holding was neither dropped out of a window or off the bench. I know you were worried...

Does a Bear **** in the Woods?

You see a fence post. We see . . . 

Okay, I’m apologizing up front for this story.

It’s . . . gritty. So to speak.

Ahem . . .

I’ve always wondered about toilet paper ads.

Softer. Stronger. More effective.

I mean, why advertise this stuff?

Are there people who are not buying it?

Actually . . . yes.

Think of the people who live in places where dropping over to the local grocery store is really not a possibility. Like those in the deepest, darkest part of the jungle.

And their banana leaves.

Okay, I understand. Soft. Strong. Effective.

Now think of the cowboys on the wide, wide prairie.

Where there are no trees at all and leaves simply aren’t an option.

What are they going to do when nature . . . hollers?

Case in point . . .

Dad was out with his dad doing . . . cowboy stuff. Fencing and exploring the joys of barbed wire.

They were far from the ranch house and even farther from the miracle of indoor plumbing and its accoutrements.

Grandpa had to go.

You know what I mean.

He turned to Dad. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Dad nodded and continued with what he was doing.

Grandpa set down his fencing pliers and pulled out his pocket knife.

Dad stared at him, confused. Didn’t he just say . . .?

Grandpa walked over to one of the cedar fence posts and, using said knife, shaved off several pieces of wood.

Then he smiled at Dad and disappeared over the nearest hill.

Can anyone say ‘ouch’?

To Jerry. On His Birthday.

Posted this a few years ago as a tribute to my eldest brother on his birthday.

And guess what? It's his birthday again!

Jerry. My Hero. Age two.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry is my oldest brother. The one, chosen by the rest of us, most likely to be just like Dad. In my earliest memories of him, he is working. Hoeing the garden, mending fence, riding, milking cows. Always busy. Always cheerful. Always teasing. 

He could put just the right inflection on the most innocent of phrases and it was enough to send his middle sister into paroxysms of anger. 

His favourite? “Oh, Diane!” Pronounced more like, “Oh, Di-Anne!” 

With the buffer of many years, it doesn’t seem so bad. Rather cute, really. But at the time, it was enough to set me off like a miniature Mount Vesuvius. 

The old phrase, “If we hated you, we’d ignore you,” certainly applied to Jerry. He must have truly loved us. He’d take us everywhere. Riding. Sledding. Swimming. Exploring. 

You’d just have to be prepared to put up with the teasing.
---------------------------------------------------
Jerry was the most amazing swimmer. He was the only one of us kids who could make headway against the current of the river. The rest of us were pretty proud when we could hold our own. That wasn’t good enough for Jerry. He would dive in and battle the current. And win. Races against him were moot. 

The one good thing about the constant competition, however, was that when we were given swimming lessons, we could out swim all of the other kids. We weren’t weak swimmers.
Just weak against Jerry.

___________________________________

Dad had purchased a small ranch in the Coaldale area. Over an hour from the Milk River spread. A logistical nightmare for one man to run. But an adventure if said man put his four eldest kids on one of the ranches for the summer.Which he did.

Soon after we took possession, however, we discovered an entirely unexpected crop which our new ranch produced in abundance.
Rattlesnakes. 
Big ones.
Jerry and George were hauling in the hay. Jerry on top of the stack . . . ummm . . . stacking. George tossing bales up to him. Jerry sat down on a bale, waiting for George to bring in the next stook. Just as his butt touched the bale, he heard the unmistakable, ‘tell-tail’sound of a rattler. Sure enough, curled there at his feet was a small rattler, poised to strike.
Without conscious thought, Jerry pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then, boys being boys, the two of them closed in for the kill.
Sometime later, I was interrupted from my morning chore of . . . doing nothing . . . by the ring of the doorbell. Excited at the prospect of company, I raced for the door, only to discover – no one. 
I opened the door for a better view. Maybe someone was . . . you know . . . pressed up tightly against the wall so they couldn’t be seen from the doorway.
There, coiled neatly on the front step was a rattler. I never really noticed that it was rather . . . lifeless. 
Panic first, think after. That’s my motto. 
I screamed. And almost pitched backwards down the stairs. Then I heard laughter. And saw two brothers’ sunburned faces peeking around the door. “Did it scare you?”
No, this is my usual slap-dash method of pitching down stairs, but thanks for thinking of me. 
---------------------------------------------------------------
My friends wanted to walk into town and visit Charley’s. The soda shop hang-out.
But I needed money. And neither of my parents were anywhere around. In disgust, I kicked at the dusty road and resigned myself to sitting and watching everyone else consume floats or shakes. Maybe, out of pity, offer me a sip.
Sigh.
Suddenly, Jerry emerged from the feed lot. The answer to my prayers. Maybe he would lend me a dime, or if I was really lucky, a quarter.
Okay, so my expectations weren’t very high.
I asked him. He grinned. One of two things was going to happen. Either he’d lend me money. 
Or tease me. 
And then lend me money. The day was mine.
“You can have all the money that’s in my pocket,” he said.
Uh-oh. A trick. He must be a broke as I. He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . . a handful of change. 
Pennies, dimes, nickels, quarters. I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. 
And he poured the glittering contents – all of it – into my waiting hands. I had enough for . . . anything . . . everything. He just smiled. And went to start chores.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry was out in the feedlot, feeding the yearling bulls.Now let me point out here that yearling bulls are just like puppies. They love to play. And chase each other. And play. The major difference is that they weigh in the neighbourhood of 1000 pounds. A bit larger than your average pooch.

I had decided that I wanted to be where Jerry was. Maybe I could help. 
Or get in the way. 
I was equally good at both. I climbed the heavy board fence and sat on the top rail, watching. Jerry was pouring buckets of feed into the troughs and the bulls were delicately picking at it. Politely allowing everyone his own space. Not.
When feeding cattle, pushing and shoving is the norm. Reaching over or under your neighbour to get that tasty morsel directly in front of him - equally common. Manners flee when a bucket of grain comes into sight. 
For some time, this supper brawl fascinated me. I watched as these overly-muscled and underly-intelligent ‘adolescents’ bickered and fought over their evening meal. But as with anything, watching soon became boredom and I wanted to be in there. Ummm . . . helping. I scrambled down off the fence and started towards my brother. One young ‘Four-Footed Apollo’ spotted me. Someone to play with! He bounced towards me in his finest ‘let’s play!’ mode. The invitation on his part was misunderstood on mine.
All I saw was a mass of solid muscle, encased in a red hide, coming at me, death in his soft brown eyes. 
I screamed. 
And ran. 
Which was exactly what the bull was looking for. He followed. Still bouncing. This was fun!
I reached the fence just as my brother entered the fray. 
With a 5-gallon pail in one hand and an aluminum grain shovel in the other, he went for my attacker.
He swung the empty bucket at one side of the bull’s rump. That got his attention. Then, with the same accuracy and effectiveness, he bounced the shovel off the other side. The bull immediately forgot his erstwhile game with me and started back across the corral with Jerry in hot pursuit. Swinging the bucket, then the shovel, my brother chased the thoroughly frightened young bull, shouting with each blow, “Leave. My. Sister. Alone!”
My hero.

Tummy Yummies

Mom was right about the cake . . .

My Baby Sister, aged two, had crawled up on my Mom’s lap.
It was cuddling time.
I should probably mention that this didn’t happen often.
Cuddling, I mean.
Oh, not because Mom didn’t wish it.
No.
It was because we couldn’t get Baby Sister to slow down long enough to stay in one place.
She was one of those children who are always as bit blurry around the edges.
Because they are moving so fast.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Cuddling time.
Mom held her close.
Then counted her tiny, pink toes.
And all of her fingers.
And finally poked her round little tummy.
“What’s in there?” she asked.
Baby Sister looked at her and shrugged.
“Are there yummy things in there?”
Baby Sister looked at her tummy, lifting her little dress to see better. Then she looked back at Mom.
Mom went on. “Maybe there’s some cake and ice cream.”
Baby Sister’s eyes got wide.
“And some cookies. Maybe some pie and candy and pudding.”
With each new treat mentioned, Baby Sister’s blue eyes got wider and wider.
“And chocolate.”
Baby Sister could stand it no longer.
She pulled her dress up as far as she could. “Open it!” she said, pointing to her tummy. “Open it, Mommy!”
Enough talk. Let's get to the good stuff . . .

Junk Collections of the Future

I had saved forever!

It was mine!

It's not fair!

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.

Okay, yes, they still do.

But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight.

Isn't it a beauty?

At least it was for me.

Probably because it didn't happen often.

Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.

Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.

“Dad! Is there anything for me?”

He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”

“Diane!”

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

I got smarter. Or at least more efficient. “Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”

But the answer seldom changed.

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.

Free stuff. Lots and lots of it. The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.

It was a whole new world.

I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff and sent out dozens of requests.

Then started receiving packages in the mail.

Pictures.

Books.

Games and puzzles.

It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.

Now he no longer asked what my name was, he simply handed me packages.

Ahhhh. Valhalla.

Then I discovered something else.

First a little sidenote: Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.

For special times.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Desserts.

Tuesday.

We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.

Bummer.

But that was all right because we received permission a lot.

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with ordering stuff.

That part comes now . . .

The ice cream treats had wrappers. Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose. Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.

From 'Popsicle Pete', whoever that was.

Offers for 'free' stuff.

Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.

But I digress . . .

If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.

I studied the selection.

I made my choice.

And hoarded my wrappers.

Eons later, I finally had enough. I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.

Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?

Oh it wasn't just any knife. There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.

And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.

It was to become the heart of my collection.

Of stuff.

I sent out my wrappers.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.

I tore into the paper and triumphantly held up my knife.

Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post.) Mom grabbed it.

“Diane! What are you doing with this?”

I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”

“You can't play with a knife!”

“I wasn't going to play with it!”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”

“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.

The one above the fridge. Incidentally, the only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.

“Mom! I bought that!”

“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”

“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”

Ten?

Ten?! That was forever!

I stared up at the cupboard.

Then at my Mom.

She couldn't possibly mean it.

“But . . . I bought it,” I said again, weakly. Maybe it would have more impact this time.

“I know, dear,” Mom said.

“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.

That's when the tears started.

Even those failed to move her.

Sigh.

For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard. Not to be discovered until we moved.

“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said. I took it from her and looked at it. “Cute.”

“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.

Age? Ten.

“Sure.”

I handed it to him.

One should never have to wait for their fun.

To Suit a Suitor

With three London seasons behind her and no husband to show for it, forthright and direct Julia is getting a little desperate. An opportunity to stay with a relative far from the humiliation of London looks like a true blessing until she meets Henry. He of the title, extensive lands, and firmly locked heart. Will Julia overcome the embarrassment of her fruitless search for a bridegroom in time to thaw Henry’s frozen heart?

In Paula Kremser’s newest novel, To Suit a Suitor, all the elements are there for a fun, energetic romp through the ballrooms of Regency England. Beautiful, but sadly unattached heroine. Life-saving, aging cousin. Conniving mother. Self-absorbed sister. Mysterious friend. And heart-broken suitor. All crafted together to create a glorious, page-turner of a romance.

I was not compensated in any way for reading and reviewing this delightful romance. Except that Paula promised to read mine. Best. Trade. Ever!

About the Author:

Paula Kremser began writing while living in

England, so choosing to write about the Regency

era was no coincidence. She is an avid reader, but decided to write because sometimes stories just didn’t go the way she wanted. She obviously has control issues; just ask her four kids. She hopes to someday win an award for writing, in the meantime, she brags about once winning a

bubble gum blowing competition. She continually practices that skill (along with writing) in her new hometown of Sandy, Utah.

Raindance

I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Hmmm . . . Maybe I should recap.  

Norma, my elder sister, and I have been roommates since the death of my husband three years ago. Norma never married and, in a move that was at once uncharacteristic and generous, asked me at the funeral to sell my home and move in with her.

It took me a while, but I finally decided that it would be much more practical for us to halve our expenses by sharing living quarters. Two days after the funeral, I was cramming my bed and furniture into her spare room.

This was new territory for us.

With the gap in our ages—she is twelve years older than me—we had really never ‘shared’ anything. Before I was old enough to be a friend, companion or even a ‘spoiled-brat-hiding-under-the-bed-to-listen-to-her-and-her-pals’, she was gone, working in the big city.

Now was our chance to make up for it.

At first all went well. I put up with her rabid attachment to her smelly old bird, Reginald, and she put up with my need to poke pins in her ego at key moments.

All was well.

Until we discovered our visitor. Our fragrant, albeit invisible boarder.

Then everything changed.

Reginald developed a nervous disorder resulting in bowels even more active than usual. Her words, not mine. (I mean, how is that possible?) And finally forced her to send him (temporarily) to our cousin, Edith.

Something that still doesn’t sit well. With any of the three involved parties.

Once good old Reggie was out of the house, Norma, using his future return as incentive, took it upon herself to expose and terminate our boarder.

I probably don’t have to mention that issuing an eviction notice doesn’t work with invisible visitors. That was the first thing she tried.

Her most recent attempt included dried grass.

And a lot of sneezing.

Effective in exposing our visitor.

But in no way allowing us to capture. Or evict.

And that brings us to today. And her next challenge.

I walked into the sunny front room and stopped. “What are you doing?”

Norma looked up. “I just had the best idea! I’m going to . . .” her words faded to a mumble as she bent over the old stereo that, until this moment had resided in dusty splendour in the basement. She straightened. “What do you think?”

I looked at her. “I think you’re crazy, but that has nothing to do with this. What did you say?”

“I’m reinventing my strategy. I’m going to change the atmosphere here.”

I glanced from the stereo back to her. “And?”

She smiled. “I’m going to play our old records really, really loud.”

I blinked. “Oookay. And that will do—what exactly?”

She looked at me, disgusted. “Well, obviously she likes it quiet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And if we—somehow—make this place become more—undesirable, maybe she’ll just leave.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Norma. Maybe she’ll grow to like it.”

Norma reached into the stack of old LPs on the chair and slid one out. “Remember this one?”

I glanced at the cover. “You’re going to chase our ghost out by playing Elvis Presley?”

She nodded. “If it’s played real loud?”

If her plan was to get someone out of our house, it worked.

I’m now sitting at Edith’s.

With Reginald.

On a more positive note, I think Elvis actually showed up.

I’m quite sure he and our ghost were dancing up a bonafide storm.

I left before the rain started.

If you'd like to catch up with Norma and I, our stories are

Here. Here. And here.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado shuffles words between her adherents. Fan ‘A’ gives to fan ‘D’. Fan ‘B’ to Fan ‘C’. And so on. It’s fun. 

My words this month came from Joy (AKA Evil Joy) at Evil Joy Speaks.

change ~ reinvent ~ challenge ~ grow ~ become more
Now what to do with those?

Visit these other bloggers to witness their trial-by-word!

Baking In A Tornado  http://www.bakinginatornado.com
Southern Belle Charm  http://www.southernbellecharm.com                     
Not That Sarah Michelle http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com 
Spatulas on Parade http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/
The Bergham Chronicles  http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver  http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy http://dinoheromommy.com/
Climaxed  http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com 
Confessions of a part time working mom  http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch    
On the Border  http://dlt-lifeontheranch.blogspot.com/ 
Evil Joy Speaks  http://www.eviljoyspeaks.com

Real Bone Head

Okay, yes, this is me. Ignore the glasses et al.
But that is a genuine 4-H calf behind me.
See that head? Solid bone.

Have I ever mentioned that cows have a head comprised mostly of bone?

Seriously.

Their head is 99 % bone. With a tiny little space for a walnut-sized brain.

Okay, well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

Their head can go through most anything.

Fences.

Doors.

Walls.

People.

You get them running and I swear they could go through solid concrete.

And laugh about it with their friends later.

That head is a force to contend with.

You get upwards of 2000 pounds of hair and hoofs going.

With a battering ram for a head and anything is possible.

And we puny little humans have to deal with these animals.

On a daily basis.

You want to talk about bravery?

True statistic: Dairy bulls kill more people annually than the grizzly bear.

Mind you, Dairy bulls usually have sharp, pointy things on that solid-bone head.

How can we make the situation just a bit more dangerous?

Put sharp, pointy things on it.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

Cow heads.

And puny humans.

On to my story . . .

Every fall, the eldest siblings in the Stringam household would happily show up for the organizational meeting of the Milk River 4-H Beef Club.

It was a highlight of the year.

They would then go out to the corral with Dad and choose a suitable calf to register in said club.

Then the work started.

I should mention here, that I never really got involved in the whole ‘work’ part of the scenario.

That’s what brothers are for.

Moving on . . .

My oldest sister, Chris was a lot more ‘hands-on’ than her younger sibling.
So to speak.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
She would go out and wash her calf.

Talk to it.

Put a halter on it and attempt to drag it around.

It was while attempting this last that she came to grief.

And pain.

Chris had been trying to train her calf to lead. An important skill when you plan to have the animal in a show ring.

The calf wasn’t cooperating.

Chris pulled and pushed.

The calf also pulled and pushed.

In the opposite direction.

Chris became frustrated. In an attempt to get the animal’s attention, she shaped her hand into the patented, TV-approved karate hold and . . . chopped.

Remember what I said about solid bone?

That would apply here.

Chris heard the satisfying *crunch* of pro-activity.

For a brief (very brief) moment, she thought, ‘Ha! Got you!’

Then the pain started.

Chris spent the next weeks in a cast to her elbow. Cursing the thick-headedness of cattle in general.

And her 4-H calf in particular.

We thought it was funny.

We never let her know, though.

Because ironically, though that hand, cast-less, couldn’t make much of a dent in a solid bone calf head, that same hand, cast-ed, was a weapon of world class destruction.

Just FYI.

Blessings

At four, my family and me,

Were just as close as we could be.

My Mom and Dad and girls and boys,

Were blessings sent to give me joy.

When I was eight, my blessings most

(Or those of which I liked to boast)

Had four hooves and lived ‘out there’,

The fields beyond the barn somewhere.

And then, with time, my blessings changed,

And somehow became re-arranged,

My friends were more important then,

That year I hit the age of ten.

At twenty, I found something more,

A man unlike I’d know before.

Admirer, lover and a friend,

Brought blessings that would never end.

Six blessings joined us, one-by-one.

At thirty-two, I held my son,

Then looked upon his siblings, vast,

Decided he would be my last.

For sixty years, my blessings came.

But not of money, nor of fame,

I look around, I’m filled with awe

My blessings now call me Grandma!

(I have to add a small P.S.

For splendid friends. They are the best.

And one I’d like to mention here,

Is Awesome Sarah. Let's all cheer!)

Each Month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado challenges us with a new poetry topic.

This month? Blessings!

What could be better?!

See what the others have wrought:

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Blessings

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Hidden Blessings

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Blessings Overflowing

Joy of Evil Joy Speaks: Blessings of Change

Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Thanks

Candice of Measurements of Merriment: Life Blessings

Sarah of Not That Sarah Michelle: My Blessings

Drinking Problems

Soooo simple. Soooo satisfying.

Horses are very much like people.

They have personalities.

There are friends.

And enemies.

They like to play.

Hate to work.

Live to eat.

They even have quirks.

Some have learned to take in a deep breath just as you tighten the saddle cinch.

Then let it out . . . later. Sneaky beggars.

Loose cinches cause accidents.

Just FYI.

I could go on and on about the tricks they play.

And how crafty they can be.

But that is another post.

This story is about Harry.

Harry the Horse.

And drinking.

Now, I should explain that horses, when they drink, don't lap like dogs and other animals.

They dip their lips into the water.

And suck.

Careful to keep their noses out in the air.

But a tired horse, coming back from a long day in the pastures, will try to drink with the bit from the bridle still in its mouth.

This results in . . . leakage. An imperfect seal at each side of the mouth.

Leakage.

Most horses simply ignore it and happily slurp up the water.

Except for Harry.

If Harry had been human, he probably would have been an efficiency expert.

He hated leakage. It was messy. And, for want of a better term, inefficient.

So Harry had come up with his own solution. If one just dipped a little more of one's mouth into the water, one could avoid the whole 'leakage problem'.

Genius.

He would lower his mouth into the trough to a level just above the bit.

Problem solved.

Of course, this meant that one's nose became, at times, perilously near, and even in, the water.

No worries. Just lift your head, take a breath, and lower it again.

Child's play.

Soon Harry discovered that he liked dipping his head into the trough.

If he was really tired, he would dunk it right up to his eyes.

Sometimes further.

And all you would see were a pair of ears, sticking out above the water.

Unusual to be sure.

But immensely entertaining.

It gave a whole new meaning to the terms, 'Here you go. Dig in!'.

'Wow. He's in it to the eyebrows!'.

'He's in over his head'!

Or, best of all, 'Go soak your head!'.

Yep.

Harry.

The perfect entertainment at end of a long, dusty day.

Getting to the Heart(beat) of the Matter

Let me know if this scares you!

Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if I hadn’t just finished reading Edgar Allen Poe’s “Telltale Heart”.

Maybe . . .

It had been a busy day.

Busy.

Our children, and our children’s children, had just left. With six originals, plus spouses and offspring, that comes to . . . quite a number.

I had collapsed into the couch for some well-deserved R & R.

After the noise from so many bodies, the silence was almost thick around me.

I laid my head back. “Ahhhhh!” I relaxed there for a few moments.

Hmmm.

Funny.

I could hear the sound of my heart beating.

I smiled.

Then frowned.

Wait. I put one hand to my chest. That couldn’t be my heart. It was a different rhythm.

I sat up and looked around. The sound was gone.

Weird.

I got up and listened. Made a circuit of the room.

Nothing.

I must have imagined it. I relaxed back on the couch again. Laid my head back.

There it was!

The steady ca- thump, ca-thump of a heart.

Coming from . . . inside the couch.

My couch was haunted!

I leaped to my feet and went in search of my Husby. He would be able to tell me that I was just imagining things. And that my furniture hadn’t really taken on a life of its own.

“Sit down, honey,” I directed. “No. Right here.”

He sat down, eyeing me doubtfully.

“Now lean your head back.”

He did so, still keeping his eyes on me. Then, those eyes widened. He sat up and looked at the couch.

“You hear it, too?” I asked.

He nodded, still staring at the couch. He leaned over again, putting one ear against the fabric. “Huh,” he said. “I hear a heartbeat.”

“Is it a sign or something?” I asked.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. What on earth would a couch with a heartbeat be a sign of?

Humour me . . .

He shook his head. “There must be some explanation.”

“Well, you have to admit that it’s not every day you have furniture that develops . . . bodily functions,” I told him.

We took turns sitting on the couch and pressing our ears against the back. Each time, we heard the steady thumping of a heart.

Stranger and stranger.

Our front door opened and we both jumped. It was our second son, returning to pick up something his family had forgotten.

“Erik! Come in here!” We directed him to the couch. “Sit here!” We pushed him down. “Now put your head against the back.”

He did so, thinking all the while that both of his parents had suddenly taken the last bend in the road before reaching the loonie bin. Then he frowned. “It that . . .?” He turned his head and pressed his ear against the couch then looked up at us. “It’s a heartbeat.”

“I know!” we said together. “Our couch has a heartbeat!”

He frowned and put his head down once more. “Yup. Definitely a heartbeat.”

He got up and started probing the cushions.

“Erik, what are you doing?” I suddenly had visions of him coming up with a bloody, beating heart grasped in one hand.

“Ah!” he said, pulling his hand out. He was clutching a soft, furry little lamb. With cute little ears and a tiny little stub of a tail.

“I think this is your problem,” he said.

He put the lamb against my ear.

Ca-thump! Ca-thump!

“Oh!” I said. I took the lamb from him. “Ummm . . . why does it have a heartbeat?” I asked stupidly.

I’m sure the rest of you have heard of these things, but I swear I had not . . .

“It’s supposed to be soothing to a new baby,” Erik said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You put it in the cradle. The baby’s used to the sound of a heartbeat. It soothes them.”

“Huh.”

He took it back and flipped a switch. The beating sound stopped.

He laughed at the two of us staring down at the little lamb. Then he left.

Case of the Possessed Couch solved.

A Visit

Mom

I’m a believer . . .

My mom was a wonderful person. A hard worker. Kind and caring. Supportive. Encouraging.

And funny. She gave us such terms as “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!” and “I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

And the ever popular “What's wrong with that milk. There's nothing wrong with that milk. It tastes just fine!”.

But Mom had a trait that she struggled with her whole life.

She was a world-class worrier.

She worried over debt and income and other things.

But mostly, she worried about her family. Especially her kids and grandkids.

She worried so much that she made herself sick.

A sickness that, fourteen years ago, took her life.

I’m like my mother in a lot of ways. Good ways, I hope.

And, though I’m not nearly in her class when it comes to worrying, I do have that tendency.

And that brings me to what happened the other night . . .

Some of my children are struggling. The downturn in the economy has cost many in our area their jobs and our family is not immune.

The stresses of job-hunting as well as keeping a family going with little or no income are taking their toll.

And I’ve been worrying.

Earlier this week, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sunk in despair.

And then a scent drifted over me.

A scent I haven’t smelled in years.

My mother’s favourite perfume.

Now, you have to know that I do not wear perfume. And that particular scent hasn’t been sold in forever.

I knew it was my mother.

Worried about me still and doing what she could to make things better.

She succeeded.

Thank you, Mom.

I miss you.