Losing an Eye

The Stringam ranch house had one delicious feature. 

That kids love.

And parents hate.

The kitchen ran right into the hallway, which ran into the living room, which ran back into the kitchen.

Or, alternately, if one wanted to change things up a little - from the kitchen into the living room into the hallway, back into the kitchen. A perfect setup for running laps.

Which we did.

Usually at mealtimes. Because it kept us near the kitchen but not completely under Mom's feet.

Unfortunately, in an effort to keep us safe, Mom would inevitably holler, “You kids stop that before someone loses an eye!”

We would stop.

Oh, not because we were afraid of losing something important. But because Mom usually had a large spoon or knife in one hand when she said it.

Okay, yes, we were afraid of losing something important.

Moving on . . .

It was suppertime.

Mom was cooking.

My brother and I were running.

Mom said, “You kids stop running! Someone's going . . .!”

That was as far as she got.

I skidded out on the corner just going into the turn between the living room and the hallway.

There was a chair there.

Large.

Heavy.

It--and my eye--had what could only be called a 'close encounter'.

It won.

Remember what Mom said about 'losing an eye'?

Well, she was close . . .

There was the sound of contact.

Then the pause.

Then the shriek.

Mom came running.

I was writhing around on the floor, screaming. Both hands clamped over my right eye.

I'm sure Mom's heart probably stopped. She pulled my hands away probably expecting to see the fulfillment of her prognostication (Oooh, good word!).

Fortunately for me, it hadn't happened.

The fulfillment, I mean.

My eyebrow had taken the brunt of the blow - puffing up and out quickly.

And remarkably.

I looked like a prize fighter.

Mom dragged me, still screaming, into the kitchen where she produced her largest and deadliest-looking knife.

I stared at her, then clamped my hands back over my injured and decidedly puffy eye and screamed, “No, Mom! It'll be alright! Don't cut it off!”

You see, when she picked up the knife, she had been looking for 'cool'. Something to lay against my wound to take down the swelling.

I was looking at an instrument of a far more radical method of 'swelling removal'.

Fortunately, her more humane treatment was what we went with.

“Diane! I'm not going to cut it off! The knife is cool. It'll help the swelling!”

Oh.

I finally dropped my hands and allowed her to continue.

She pressed the cool surface against my eyebrow.

Ahhh! Moms know everything.

I'd like to say we stopped running.

Forever.

That we learned our lesson. That one close call convinced us that Mom knew whereof she spoke.

Yeah, I'd be lying.

George and me. (Pre-running days)
Beneath us . . . the chair!

Obliviously Obvious

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

A little background here . . .

Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

(Maybe we can take a little lesson from this vis-a-vis the conflicts in today's world. Just sayin'.)

Back to my story . . .

Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

The two had set up housekeeping and were currently deciding whose turn it was to go for groceries.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Cow Terms

Okay. Call it what you want . . .

Cows. 

You see them in the fields. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They are in the barns. Being milked. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They care for little calves. Nursing. Licking. Bellowing. Giving the occasional kick. Ignoring.

You know them as ‘meat’, ‘milk’, ‘cheese’, ‘cream’.

We know them as aggravating, funny, stupid, perverse, blind, ornery and endlessly hungry.

And the reason we get out of bed in the morning.

We’ve called them cows, dogies, critters, some terms unprintable here.

And our bread and butter.

Our family raised Polled Herefords.

A breed known for its gentle disposition.

And beef production.

We also kept one ‘milk’ cow. Usually Holstein.

A breed known for their milk production.

Near the Stringam spread was a herd of Jersey cows.

Also known for their high dairy output.

And gentle disposition.

Dad pointed them out as we drove past. “See. Diane! Those are Jersey cows! They give milk!”

Four-year-old Diane, nose pressed against the car window, “Oooo!”

I will admit that, occasionally, things got turned around in my little girl mind . . .

The next time we drove past that particular field, I pointed excitedly to the quiet animals out grazing. “Ooo! Daddy! Look! It’s those juicy cows!”

I was right.

Scam Warning

From my Husby!

Just because I thought it was funny . . .

A deep thinker, this man . . .

Subject: Scam warning! Home Depot

A 'heads up' for those men who may be regular Home Depot customers. This one caught me by surprise.

Over the last month I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Simply going out to get supplies has turned out to be quite traumatic. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you or your friends.

Here's how the scam works: Two seriously good-looking 20-21 year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping into the trunk. They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. It is impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask you for a ride to McDonalds. You agree and they get in the backseat. On the way, one of them climbs over into the front seat and starts hugging and kissing you, while the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen May 9th, 10th, twice on the 15th, 17th, 20th, & 24th, 29th. Also June 1st, 4th, twice on the 8th, three times last Saturday and very likely again this upcoming weekend.
So tell your friends to be careful.
P.S. Walmart has wallets on sale $2.99 each.

Fight? Flee?

Yep. Just clutch that pillow tighter...

Which are you?

I just read that, when faced with something dire, a person will fight.

Or a person will fly.

Sometimes, we don't know which one we are until the climactic moment.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

My bedroom was across and down the hall from the bathroom--directly across said hall from my parents.

And I wasn't an 'early-to-bedder'.

These two facts will become relevant . . .

I had been reading. Something I did every night.

For a very long time.

I finally decided it was time to get ready for bed.

Which included brushing and scrubbing.

And all things hygienic.

I should point out that all other members of my household had long been asleep.

Or so I thought.

I finished my evening ablutions. (Oooh! Good word!)

And, clutching my toiletries bag, headed for my bedroom.

Now the words 'across and down the hall' may sound like a long distance.

It wasn't.

But it was enough. And it was dark.

I darted toward my door and was just reaching for the doorknob when a voice came out of the darkness.

“What are you doing!”

Okay, it was the voice of my father, so it shouldn't have given me the fright it did.

But the fact remains – I was frightened.

And then, the ultimate response.

Fight?

Or fly.

Let me describe:

Pitch dark hall.

Household asleep.

Girl with large imagination dashing across the hall. (Quickly, so as to avoid things that might come out of the darkness and 'get her'.)

Voice rumbles out of said darkness.

What does girl do?

Fight?

Fly?

No. 

Girl crumples to the floor.

I am not making this up.

My legs folded up and I fell to the floor.

When faced with a crisis, or so I thought, I curled up. Like a little spider. But with less legs.

So, which are you?

Fight?

Or fly?

When you decide, let me know.

I will be the shivering little puddle of goo curled up on the floor.

Sigh.

Learning From Mom

More stories from Little Brother, Blair.

The Learner

As I make my way through life I often reflect on the things that my mother told me.  At the time they were taught, I didn’t really appreciate what was said, but their true and deeper meaning hit me later.  I guarantee! 

When I was a child, Mom would often have some treat for us.  We would all crowd around her saying me first, me first. 

Then one day she said to us.  “I don’t think it is nice for you to say me first.  From now on, I am going to give the first treat out to the one that says me last.” 

We all hesitated, but then we all started to say me last. 

I learned that it didn’t matter if I was first or last, I was given a treat.

While growing up the radio and or TV was often tuned to the news.  We would often hear politicians and individuals criticizing someone or something.  At times Mom would shake her head and say, “Anyone can criticize, but it takes a truly intelligent and creative person to find a solution.” 

                                                                                                   

Another thing that mom taught me was to try to look for the good in others, something I am still trying to master. 

While growing up, I would from time to time have a fellow student at school that was just making life miserable. 

I would express my dislike of that student to Mom and she would say, “You can always find good in someone if you look for it.” 

My response was often, “Sure Mom, but you don’t understand.” 

I had the opportunity to understand Mom’s guidance when I served a mission for our church.  I had a companion that wouldn’t follow the rules and was just hard to get along with.  I felt like I couldn’t get anything done, because I was always waiting for him.  For a while I was very frustrated.  I would express my frustration to him and we would argue.  However, nothing ever changed.  As I tried to figure out how to deal with the situation, I could hear Mom say to me “look for the good in others” and “you can always find good in someone if you look for it.”  I didn’t want to hear those words but they kept running through my mind.

Finally I decided to try to practice what she told me and within a few days my situation completely changed.  I learned that if I was careful, I could learn from almost anyone.

Mom would often say that “if you swear you are just showing that you have a limited vocabulary.”  Swearing was easy.  Trust me, when you are dealing with an ornery cow, swearing was really easy.  As I have gotten older, I find that it is not very satisfying and I have tried to come up with creative ways to express my frustration.  Some of these ways have brought laughter and a better feeling to an otherwise maddening situation.

 

Thanks Mom for all that you taught me. 

Perhaps some day I will understand the value in all that you have said.  

The Timing of Toddlers

Me. And six of seventeen.
I know what I'm talking about . . .

For any of you who have children, are around children, or have heard of children, you know that their timing is the one thing about them that remains totally impeccable. Always.

Theirs is the voice you hear chanting, “I gotta go potty!” immediately after you’ve pulled onto the freeway.

The disembodied face that appears at your bedside just as you’ve dozed off.

The crash and the “Oh-oh. Mom!”, when you’ve got both hands kneading sticky bread.

When split-second timing is needed, the children in the immediate area are on it.

I have two examples:

My Eldest Son was sitting watching TV, his youngest daughter, aged nine months, perched on his lap. The two of them, with the rest of the family had been happily engrossed in ‘Arthur Christmas’. The credits were rolling and the sound of Justin Bieber singing a Christmas song filled the home. There was a pause in the music and Mr. Bieber could be heard, talking in the background. “It’s that time of year again! Time to let all of your problems go!”

At which point, said daughter, with accurate and impressive sound effect, let those pesky little problems go. Directly into her diaper.

Remember when I said, ‘engrossed’? I used that word deliberately.

My second example involves the same son, before he was married. Or a father.

But still involves children.

And timing . . .

Eldest Son was sitting in Sunday School class, discussing, with the other members of the group, the life of Paul. This man, an apostle of Jesus Christ, suffered many indignities and horrors to his person during his life. On occasion, he was dragged before local, and at times, high authorities.

At one point in his life, his captors hauled him up before King Agrippa.

The teacher introduced this significant ruler’s name in stentorian(real word!) tones.

His pronouncement was immediately followed by the loud scream of an infant seated with its parent in the back.

See? Timing.

The class broke up. Some 30 seconds later, order restored, the teacher grinned. “And that was Paul’s exact reaction!”

I don’t know how they do it.

The timing thing, I mean.

It’s a talent they are obviously born with.

Some of them maintain it throughout their lives . . .

I know as soon as I sink into a steaming hot bath, or start doing something sticky in the kitchen, that my daughter is going to telephone.

Timing. You know what I’m talking about . . .

Harvesting Memories

Mom always maintained a large garden.

Hmmm . . . let me reword.
Mom always maintained a humongous, gargantuan, colossal, huge, enormous, vast, giant, mammoth (that's all the big words I can think of right now) garden.
Better.
Okay, well, that's how it appeared to us kids.
I will admit, here, that my help during the weeding and hoeing was minimal.
Mostly my nimble fingers came into play during the shelling and snapping.
And the rest of me got very involved with the eating.
Ahem . . .
Mom and the older kids would come in from the garden with bushel baskets of freshly-picked peas and/or beans.
Us kids would find comfortable spots on the lawn in the shade of the huge pines. Each would have a bowl which we would replenish now and again from the central stock. Chris would turn on her radio.
And we would shell/snap. And talk.
Sometimes the talk would get quite serious. For example, it was while my older sister and I were shelling peas that she explained the facts of life to me.
True story.
At other times, we would get very animated and silly, quoting heavily from Mad Magazine or one of our favourite movies.
The hot sun.
The cool shade.
The soft grass.
The top 40 on the radio.
The smell of pine and sage and green, growing things.
Occasional snitches of deliciousness from my bowl.
My brothers and sisters around me.
It is one of my most treasured memories . . .
This year we got a terrific harvest from the garden.
Peas, beans, beets, carrots and rhubarb.
And the next generation got involved in the processing.
Here's to many more years of gardening.
And a whole new passel of memories.

Snapping.

Shelling.

Heaven.

Camping With Coyotes

 

Camper Extraordinaire, far right.

 When I was eleven, I was excited to become a boy scout.  My friends and I wanted to go camping and do things that scouts do.  We had already been on a short day-camping trip with our junior scout group and I loved it. 

I tried to figure out a place that my friend Gerry and I could go camping alone.  I thought about the backyard, but that wasn’t cool and we would not be able to show that we were camping outdoor geniuses.  We needed to camp in a place that was convenient for my father as he drove to and from the ranch several miles west of Milk River. 

Then I realized there were several places on the ranch itself that made ideal sites. One had a spring that bubbled up out of the ground.  Dad could take us there on one of his trips to the ranch then pick us up the following day.

It was late spring and the weather was ideal.  Gerry and I planned what we needed, packed our backpacks and loaded them into Dad’s truck.  One of the items we packed was pancake mix.  I was excited for us to cook this in the morning.  It seemed like it would be a great treat. 

We were driven to the ranch and then out to the spring.  It was an ideal day and an ideal location—about a mile away from the house and ranch buildings where my brother and his wife lived. 

As Gerry and I unpacked our gear, we realized that we didn’t have any butter or lard to lubricate the frying pan for making pancakes, so we walked the mile back to the ranch buildings to borrow some from my brother. 

Then we walked back to our camp and settled in for the night.

As it got dark Gerry and I crawled into my little pup tent and into our sleeping bags.  We were camping and ready for all that it had to offer.  We talked for a while and started to fade off to sleep. 

Then we heard something outside our tent.  Now Gerry and I must have seen the same scary movie because we were both immediately afraid of whatever it was.  I suppose that we could have looked but we didn’t dare.  Whatever was outside the tent probably had large teeth, massive claws, and it would cause great bodily harm to my friend and me.

Then coyotes started howling.  It sounded like they were right beside our tent.  Gerry and I were terrified.

Those coyotes were kind enough to serenade us all night. 

Then we could hear rustling outside our tent.  I don’t think I slept at all.  I kept thinking that if I survived, I could have pancakes in the morning with choke cherry syrup.  I prayed that morning—and pancakes—would come soon. 

After a very long night, we saw the sun rise. Somehow we had survived.  The critters that were rustling around our tent had miraculously disappeared and we ventured out to a beautiful spring morning.  The fact that we survived the night (and the menacing monster) made the day that much more beautiful.  A great day to be alive.

Gerry and I mixed up the pancake batter and we made several pancakes.  They tasted so good considering our near-death experience. 

Then we looked around our tent.  Deer tracks were everywhere but about 30 feet from our tent, we found coyote tracks. 

We probably weren’t in any danger, but when one is in the midst of a pack of howling coyotes in the middle of the night, your perspective changes.

Also when you’re in the midst of coyote tracks in the middle of the morning.

Just sayin. . .

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.

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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.
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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.

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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. 
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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.
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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.