Trading Cockroaches for Cold

I love Alberta. 

It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.

Warm temperatures.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 (C or F) is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Small Town Summer Night

Milk River, Alberta. My Home Town.

A summer sunset.

For a short time, a hush falls over the town.

Then the Summer Evening starts.

The rumble as the teen-aged drivers in Dad’s car (or one resurrected and maintained by their own hands) start cruising Main from the Catholic church to the hotel. Most of them watching for ‘that’ vehicle. The one containing their person of the moment.

Listening to CJOC or CHEC, or, if you had a good radio, CKXL in Calgary.

Rat races (hide and seek with cars) through the back alleys and sidestreets.

The dust hanging in the still air, most noticeable around the street lights. Giant water bugs, ditto.

Glancing in the lighted windows of Charlie’s to see who is hanging out there, listening to the jukebox.

Checking out the dance in the high school gym and trying to avoid the chaperones, all of whom know one’s parents.

Going to one of a half-dozen parties at someone’s barn/gravel pit/cabin/shack complete with bonfire and/or some form of alcohol.

Stopping for milk shakes, mushroom burgers and/or popcorn twists at the Milky Way and visiting/flirting with whichever of your friends currently works there…

Cruising main again.

And finally, as the cars thinned out and your friends find other places to be . . .

Sitting by the slow-moving ribbon of silver that gives your town its name. Drinking one last milk shake and eating popcorn twists by the bagful with your big sister. The sixteen-year-old who just gave you a glimpse of what you will be doing when you become teenager in a few short years.

And the words over the radio you’ve been waiting all night for: On McKenzie’s Instant Top 12, THIS is Number One!

A Moose Parked...

A repost for birthday number five!

And you thought she was protective of her moose!

Our second youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) was a tiny little thing.

Not walking yet, she scurried using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.

Hands and knees.

At eleven months old, she could sure get around.

Her favourite toy/workout apparatus was her rocking moose - one of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.

(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)

If BG wasn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she could be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.

And she was more than a little possessive.

Something that had only recently discovered.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.

Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)

I should mention here that said older sister had waist-length hair.

This will be important later.

Moving on . . .

BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.

Hey!

She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.

Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.

Then she pulled.

“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.

BG pulled again.

“Mom! She’s got me!”
BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.

Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.

Then she turned and grinned at her sister.

A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.

Did I mention that she was eleven months old?!

I predicted she’d be CEO of a major company by the time she’s five.

That's today!

Stay tuned . . .

The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.

So Hair We Are

Okay. See? Here she looks like a girl!

Sometimes, being thrifty has its limits.

When I was eighteen, my Mom taught me to cut hair.

She thought it was a skill I would need as I contemplated starting my own family.

The brave lady used herself as my working model.

Let's just say that, for several months, my Mom's hair was . . . interesting.

And leave it at that.

Her bravery was rewarded.

I learned to cut hair.

In one style.

And short.

Moving forward several years.

My Husby and I were blessed with three sons.

All of whom had the same barber.

Me.

I got quite proficient at boy's haircuts.

And fairly proud of myself.

We all know about pride, right.

After three sons, our family increased in size once more.

By a daughter.

A girl?

I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.

I had been raised in the barn.

With the horses.

And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.

Or interest.

I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.

Holy Smoke!

My exact words.

It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.

I muddled through.

Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.

And was gleaming bald till she was two.

That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.

But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.

?????

Or cutting.

I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.

All was well.

Or so I thought.

One evening at an activity, several young boys ran up to her father and I and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.

I stared at them.

We didn't have any of our sons with us.

And our daughter was . . .

Ah!

I learned to do hair.

And also to dress my daughter as a girl.

But that is another story.

There is a codicil:

That same daughter, when asked by her daughter for a haircut, did exactly the same thing.

Now her little girl, shorn of her locks, is . . . happy.

Full circle.

Rest-ing on a Sunday

 From Mom's journals.

How did this . . .

 . . . become this?

Sunday at the Ranch was a day of rest.

We slept in!

Instead of getting up at the uncivilized hour of 5:30 AM, we got up at the uncivilized hour of 6:30 AM.

The Wrangler assigned for the day saddled up Slow Poke and rode out to bring in the horses.

The other cowboys swept out the barn, fed the animals in the feed lots and milked the cow.

The man who drew the short straw got cow-milking duty.

Not a favourite chore.

Especially on Sunday.

And a cause for real irritation to whoever got stuck with it.

'Horse Play' usually erupted around or near.

Let me explain . . .

Hans, an animal lover came down the stairs from the hay loft, Cyclone (the aptly-named barn cat) purring in his arms.

Seeing Joe seated beside the milk cow, grouchily taking his irritation out on poor Jenny-the-cow, Hans got an idea.

Okay, not a great one, as it turns out, but an idea none the less.

He set the cat on Jenny's back and pulled his tail.

The cat's, I mean.

Cyclone's claws instantly contracted into the innocent old cow's hide.

Bellowing in pain, Jenny lunged forward, kicking wildly to free herself.

The milk bucket flew into the air, spilling its contents all over Joe as he scrambled for the door, desperate to get away from the flying hooves.

Cyclone flew through the air like a rocket. Five feet off the ground. He shot through the door with legs spinning, all of his nine lives in jeopardy.

With Jenny, intent only on finding the nearest far-away place, right behind him.

Just as the Wrangler arrived on Slow Poke.

Horse, cow, cat and cowboys met.

Completely out of character, Slow Poke erupted. With great heaves and grunts, he flung himself into the air.

Sunfishing.

Twisting.

Switching ends.

Pounding the ground.

The Wrangler catapulted into the sky in a beautiful arc.

Over the corral gate.

Everyone stood mesmerized in a total state of shock.

The dust settled.

Then the casualties began to moan and move.

Slightly.

This shook everyone out of their trance.

Mark grabbed his vet bag and began to check for cuts, broken bones and heart beats, prodding gently at each limp form. He swabbed and bandaged and dispensed pain killers.

Then Joe sat up, rubbed his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me in the morning," he said, "I just had a nightmare!" He opened one eye. "I should have gone to church!"

The boys carried Joe to the bunkhouse.

All of the other casualties limped or dragged themselves away to the nearest safe place.

Where they collapsed into a heap.

Everyone survived.

But it was some time before Jenny, Joe, Slow Poke, Cyclone, or any others involved in the spin off would approach the barn without apprehension.

Sundays. Truly a day of rest.

Verse-imilitude

A bit of a departure for today's Poetry Monday (the best day of the week!)

This is 'verse' written by my mother so many, many years ago.

But it is so perfect, it needs to be shared.

Again.

And again . . .

My Mom.
She of the wicked pen . . .
and wonderful cooking.

From my Mom . . .

Blessed art thou, woman.
For thou shalt be called 'Mother'.
Yea, and thy tasks and thy chores shall follow thee all the days of thy life.
And thou shalt eat the bread of thine own baking.
And thou shalt dwell forever in a dirty house, if thou dost not choose to clean it thyself.
Thou shalt arise before the cock croweth.
And thou shalt say unto thyself, "Where are the offspring which were given me? Yea, the sun has risen high in the sky and the hour grows late, wherefore I have been long at my labours."
And thou shalt go and find thine offspring prostrate in their cot.
And thou shalt say unto them, "Haste, arise and shine, for I have many labours for thee to perform; wherefore I have been many hours preparing the way."
And thine offspring linger in sleep and shall say unto thee, "Thou didst not watch the late, late, late show as I did last night and mine eyes are heavy and mine bones acheth."
And thou shalt say unto thy offspring, "Get thee up from thy cot; ere I lay a hand upon thee, and go ye hither and scrub a sparkling tub, for thou hast left black rings upon its sides."
And thy offspring shalt say unto thee, "I will go and do thy bidding - in a minute."
And thy rage shall know no end.
And thou shalt weep and wail and gnash thy teeth mightily.
Never-the-less, thou shalt scrub a sparkling tub thyself and glory shall be added unto thee, for thou didst not strike the lazy beast.
Thou are blessed above all others and thy descendants shall call thee 'Blessed', for thou preparest a table before them. Thou cookest meat and all manner of tasty vittles and they shall sit at thy table with thee and partake with thee.
And they shall add glory unto thy crown for they shall let thee also wash the dishes, if thou wilt.
And when the night falleth thou shalt be deflated, and thy offspring shall say unto thee, "She is an old woman, wherefore she neither goes dancing, nor does she watch the late, late, late show."
Thy art and thy craft shall make thee called upon and thou shalt labour at many tasks in thy kingdom for whosoever asketh.
Thou doest his bidding.
Thy back shall acheth with arthritis; thy cane and thy husband shall be thy support.
Thy veins shall be varicose in thine aching legs, but thou shalt do thy duty with a smile; neither shalt thou complain.
Thou are blessed with a crown every second Sunday in May.
Wherefore, thou art blessed above all others for thou are 'Mother' and thou shalt find joy in thy offspring forever.
If thou endureth to the end!

Thanks, Mom.

Now go to and see what Jenny has to say about cat hair and Delores about a rather large birthday celebration! Hooray for Poetry Monday!

Muffy the Two

Muffy the First. With our eldest son, Mark

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.
We loved them.
They came as little, furry puppies.
And turned into big, furry dogs.
Gentle. Affectionate. Protective.
Have I mentioned that we loved them?
Several of our dogs stand out in my memory.
One is Muffy the Second.
Not to be confused with Muffy the First.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Muffy lived to eat. And receive affection.
But mostly to eat.
Our youngest son, Tristan had an ice cream cone.
And an audience.
Muffy was sitting nearby, keeping what she hoped was anunobtrusive eye on his actions.
I should point out that in our house, the dogs weren't allowed anywhere near the dining room.
Tristan was in the living room.
The rules were a bit more blurry there . . .
He had taken a couple of licks.
With the third lick, his little scoop of ice cream vacated the cone and headed for the floor.
It never landed.
In a blur of motion, Muffy was across the room. She had that ice cream downed before Tristan had even realized he had lost it.
Tears ensued.
Tristan, not Muffy.
Another scoop, and all was well.
After Muffy had also been banned from the living room.
Sigh. People, make up your minds . . .
Another time, rawhide bones had been issued to all three dogs currently residing in the house.
They retreated to favourite corners to chew.
Or so it seemed.
Muffy was again keeping an unobtrusive (she was getting good at it) eye on the other two.
Biding her time.
When one of them got distracted, she would sneak in and snatch their bone.
Whereupon (good word) the offended party would look around in confusion, sigh and close their eyes for a nap.
Have I mentioned that they weren't always the brightest bulb in the chandelier?
Finally, Muffy had cornered all of the bones. Happily, she cradled them between her front legs and proceeded to chew, first one, then another.
But that is where her bliss ended.
Oh, not because the other two figured it out.
No. Because the kids came home from school.
Now it was the usual scenario in the Tolley household, that the kids be met at the door by All. Three. Dogs.
They would jump around and make general nuisances of themselves in their excitement and enthusiasm.
The dogs, that is.
Ahem . . .
We heard the bus.
Panda and Chief headed for the door, wiggling happily. I should also mention that an Old English Sheepdog has no tail. Thus, when excited, they wag their entire rear end.
Just FYI . . .
There was much wiggling and snuffling and vying for attention as eight kids came through the door.
And Muffy was missing it.
She whined and cried and fidgeted as she stood over her ill gotten gains, not wanting to leave them for fear of losing them, but sad to be missing all of the excitement.
Finally, it was too much for her.
In a flurry of movement, she joined the others.
Whereupon (that word again) the other two left the melee and dashed over to the bones, each snatching one and heading to their respective corners to resume their interrupted afternoon chew.
Maybe that was their plot all along.
Muffy finished greeting the kids and ran back to her spot.
To find just one bone.
The price of enthusiasm.

We just said good-bye to our beloved Aldo. The last of the last.

May you romp and play happily in Heaven, our boy. We'll be along some time . . .

Outruded

Our family loves taking holidays.

And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.
We have had wonderful experiences.
Sunsets over the Mediterranean.
Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.
Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.
A wild bus ride through the streets of London.
The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.
The bustle on the streets in Paris.
But, sometimes, like everyone who travels, we have . . . 'adventures'.
Let me explain . . .
We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.
And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.
We wandered into a very popular tourist site.
And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.
These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.
At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.
They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.
And I do mean 'knot'.
Pretty.
Then stand back and loudly demand money.
Great scam.
We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.
“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.
“Don't let them grab you!”
I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.
And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.
The tourist's best friend.
If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.
This didn't work here.
If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.
One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.
There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.
You would be forced to pay.
We managed better than most.
You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.
But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.
An outspoken girl of 21.
She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.
Firmly.
Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.
Politeness and patience were wearing thin.
And not working in the slightest.
The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.
She shifted back and forth, eluding them.
We started towards her, intent on rescue.
We weren't needed.
Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”
Did I mention outspoken?
All heads in the square turned.
Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.
The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.
Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”
They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.
There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.
Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?
I was proud of my daughter.
She had tried to be polite.
She had tried to be firm.
But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.
And won the day.
This was an isolated incident.
Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.
But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .
Good old 'country spunk' will.
Travelling?
Take a farm girl.

"I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

An Uplifting Experience

It's officially summer time in Edmonton. 

Today we were driving past one of the many ski hills that abound in the area.

The snow is finally gone. The slopes green-grassed and empty.

Only the lifts, looking forlorn and forgotten, are there to remind one of the usual bustle on those slopes.

Lifts.

It reminded me of something . . .

Years ago, our family used to ski Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

Every winter.

It was the highlight of our year.

Well, mine, anyway.

Dad forked over a whopping $3.00 ($4.00 CAN) per ticket for us to ride all the lifts all day.

Watched as we attached said ticket to our ski jackets.

Then waved us off cheerily.

I don't know what he and Mom did all day while we kids were having the time of our lives.

But as long as he showed up at the end of the day and immediately took us to be fed, we were happy.

But back to the ski slope . . .

At that time, Big Mountain had four main slopes.

There was the bunny hill. Which we learned on. Then immediately spurned.

Two intermediate slopes.

Where I and my siblings spent the most time.

And, finally, the advanced slope. Which, for me, merely served as the entrance to the back trails. (See here.)

Oh, I skied it.

Once.

And ended up taking off my skis and walking down.

Don't ask.

Moving on . . .

The first thing we learned about skiing was the fact that you had to get to the top of the hill before you could come down.

Skiing 101.

And that required the use of the tows/lifts.

Sure. It looks fun here . . .

The bunny slope had a rope tow.

A very sneaky rope tow.

Consisting of a rope running continuously.

I assume it was pulled by some sort of . . . pulley.

The rope had to be approached cautiously.

One would place one's mittened hands on the rope.

Then slowly tighten said hands around the heavy, quickly-moving hemp until finally, one's grip was tight enough to actually start one sliding up the hill.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds.

If one gripped too hard, the rope would jerk one off one's feet.

Which, I must admit was hilarious.

Unless it was you.

And, even funnier was the sight of a pulled-off/escaped mitten riding up the rope.

All by itself.

Do not attempt this without supervision.
Ouch.

The tow on one of the intermediate hills was a little more . . . touchy.

It was the 'poma' lift.

Pomas consisted of a long pole attached to the high tow wire by a spring.

With a little disc welded onto the bottom.

Which disc, when inserted between the skiers legs, would, theoretically pull one up the hill.

It took practice.

A lot of practice.

There were the inevitable mishaps and false starts.

People who lost their grip on the poma and watched it spring up into the air.

While the hapless skier slid to a halt down below.

Or, better yet, the people who lost their balance and were dragged several feet before they realized that any hope of completing their ride to the top was gone and that their best tactic at that point was to . . . let go.

The poma lift always attracted a non-skiing group of observers whose sole purpose was to watch.

And laugh.

Jerks.

I should mention, too, that getting off was . . . tricky.

Enough said.

Effective. And cosy.

The other intermediate slope tow was a 'T' bar.

A bar in the shape of a T.

That pulled two riders up the slope.

Or one rider if the other one fell over.

Which happened a lot.

If you were a bit more of a skiing expert, you got to ride the chair lift. The most fun of all. And the easiest to ride.

How often does that happen?

The problem was that it took one to the very highest slope.

And the steepest (see above).

My siblings and I became experts on each of these lifts.

The Ultimate.

Oh, not all at once.

It took time.

And we had our learning curve.

Which was infinitely more 'curve' than 'learning'.

But still, we had fun.

And were finally able to stop providing entertainment for the jerks.

HA!

Masters of the ski lifts.

Life just didn't get any better.

Irreverence

No explanation needed.

We are a church-attending family.

Always have been.

We love it.

The quiet, peaceful feeling that comes from stepping into the Lord's house.

There is only one problem.

One is expected to keep that quiet, peaceful feeling by being . . . quiet.

And peaceful.

Maybe you haven't noticed, but our family isn't very often quiet.

Well, seldom.

Okay. Never.

Sigh.

So, going from loud and noisy to . . . less loud and noisy takes effort.

And resourcefulness.

Something my Mom had 'in spades'. (A gambling term for 'a lot of'.)

Not that I've ever gambled.

Ahem . . .

She would tote a huge bag of books and things quiet to church every week in a bid to effect reverent behaviour.

It worked.

For a time.

Then we outgrew her books and toys and games.

I know. I know.

That's about the time we should have been able to sit and listen without visual aids.

We couldn't.

Instead, our teen-aged selves resorted to more grown-up ways of entertaining ourselves.

And remember – electronic diversion existed only in the mind of Gene Roddenberry at this time.

We had pens. We had paper.

We drew pictures.

But not just any pictures.

No.

Pictures designed specifically to make whichever sibling was sitting next to us, laugh. 

And get glared at and shushed by Mom.

It was a fun game. My next older brother, George, was the best at it. He could quickly sketch the weirdest people or animals or machines.

Then supply them with the best captions.

His was a rare form of genius.

I will call it spiritualavoidance supersonicus.

Or SAS for short.

He could have taught classes.

There is a codicil:

My Husby always had his pockets full of strange and wondrous treasures specifically designed to keep our youngsters quiet during our hour-long Church service.

I often marvelled at his ingenuity.

And resourcefulness.

His little figures and toys kept all six of them entertained right up until the time that they moved out and into their own lives.

But shortly after the youngest left, I realized that Grant's toys weren't specifically to entertain his kids.

Remember SAS? And having somethings 'in spades'?

That would apply here as well.

Grant still had his pockets full of animals.

I wondered why.

I didn't wonder for long.

I lead the music.

Several times during the service, I had to make the short trip to the front of the chapel.

While he remained sitting on our bench.

Second back, directly in front of me.

That's when his little friends came out to play.

Solely for my benefit.

Picture it.

I'm at the front, waving my arm and trying to act dignified and serious.

He's on our bench, making his little friends dance and sing to the music.

I should mention, here, that his favourites were the little animal heads on a stick, whose mouths open and close by working a trigger system.

And those little suckers could sing!

His goal?

To make me smile.

It worked.

Where's my Mom when I need her?

P.S. Sometime I'll tell you about the wrong words he sings to the hymns.

Sigh.

Cone-y

My Husby had as secret longing.

Oh, it wasn't a bad thing--unless you were the one purchasing the replacements. And, as I frequently pointed out, someone had to.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby had a secret yearning to run over traffic cones.

You heard me right.

He had always wanted to run them over.

I don't know why.

Because they're there?

Because they silently direct his life?

Because they forbid entrance?

All of the above?

But the fact remained that he would dearly have loved to run one over.

And probably would, if he weren't married to me, the person who happily kept him on the straight and narrow.

“Honey, you're getting a bit close.”

“Honey, you'd better move back into the middle of the lane.”

“AAAHHH! HONEY, YOU'RE GOING TO HIT ONE OF THOSE CONES!!!

Driving with us was an interesting experience.

Moving on . . .

He finally gave in to his urge.

But not in the way you may think.

No.

He went out and bought himself a cone of his very own. For two days, it sat on my kitchen table where he could admire it. Then it found its permanent home in the center of our driveway, close to the garage entrance.

I stared at it.

Then at him. What on earth was he thinking?

I soon found out.

Every night when he came home from work, he drove over it, flattening it completely.

Then, when he backed out in the morning, it sprang back upright ready and waiting to welcome him home once more.

He was a happy man.

And who knew those things were so tough?

If I had found out sooner, I might have let him hit a couple.

Not.

Now, with that taken care of, all that's left is deciding what to do about my secret urge.

To drive through one of those little wooden barriers that they put across restricted roads.

I'll keep you posted.

Blue Plate Special

When this . . .

Becomes this . . .

Dinner time on the Stringam ranch was the best part of the day.

Plenty of good food.

Lots of company.

Stimulating conversation.

The quiet melding of day's work and evening's relaxation.

But, as usually happens, the good times must end.

And be followed by the un-stimulating. The mundane.

The dishes.

A subtle reminder that there was payment required for the privilege of eating at one of the world's best tables.

Sigh.

Everyone had their assignments.

Up until this point, mine had been to collect the silverware.

And things un-breakable.

Oh, and stay out from under foot of those whose job it was to deal with the more fragile of the table's settings.

But I had recently turned eight.

My duties had suddenly become more onerous.

Remember what I said about things breakable?

That would definitely come in here . . .

My job now included the ceremonial carrying of the plates to the sink.

The beautiful plates that featured a hand-drawn etching of either a horse or a bull.

For the first few weeks, I carried them one at a time.

It took a while, but no plate was damaged.

Then I got . . . efficient.

And creative.

If I scraped everything onto one plate, I could stack the plates at the table and, theoretically, carry them several at a time to the sink.

A much more efficient system.

And a great saving of my valuable time.

I did it.

First with a couple of plates.

Then three.

Four.

Finally, through a system of trial and error, I discovered that I could carry a total of eight plates at a time.

The time savings were astronomical.

I staggered under the weight of so many heavy dishes, but I got my job done in a fraction of the time.

Genius.

One evening, Dad had watched me at my job.

Eyeing the heavy stack of plates uncertainly.

“Are you sure you can carry all of those, Diane?”

“Oh, I do it all of the time, Daddy!” I chirped happily, pulling the stack towards me.

“Well they look a bit heavy for you.”

“On, no! Look. I can do it!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth then the entire stack of beautifully illustrated plates slipped from my hands and fell to the floor.

It was a crash of Biblical proportions.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds mighty.

Which it was.

The crash, I mean.

For a moment, I stared in horror at the mass of broken crockery at my feet.

The sound had drawn people from the far reaches of the house.

And even in from the yard, where the cowboys were enjoying an evening smoke.

Everyone was present to witness my utter failure.

There was only one thing to do.

Cry.

And I made it good.

Angry words were swallowed as everyone rushed to comfort me.

Not.

“Diane, what did I just say?”

Gulp. “The stack was too heavy.”

“And . . .?”

“It wa-a-a-a-s!”

“Okay, no use crying over it,” Mom said, coming to my rescue. “Help me clean it up.”

I should mention here that Jerry, he whose job it was to wash that night, should have thanked me for relieving him of a large part of his chore.

He didn't. He owes me one.

Moving on . . .

One plate survived. One of the horses.

And it remained, a gentle, subtle reminder that one should never take on too much at once.

Or tragedy can follow.

Good lessons. Expensively taught.

Sigh.

The lone survivor.

Nine

This poem was originally written when our eldest turned nine.
Since that day, we've had many family members pass that great milestone.
Our fifth grandchild just attained it.
This is for him . . .

Eldest son, Mark, Nine Years Old

Number Five. With grandparents . . .

Well, now I'm nine and you can see

The changes time has wrought in me.

I've grown three feet since I was born,

As tall and slim as a stalk of corn.

I've learned about so many things,

I know of bikes and kites and strings.

I can cook and clean and comb my hair,

And help my brothers with evening prayer.

I can haul in wood, or hammer nails,

Or water trees with heavy pails.

I can hold the baby, shine my shoes,

Or sit with you and discuss the news.

I can play piano perfectly,

And beat you at Monopoly.

I can take out garbage, weed and hoe,

Then eat the carrots, row by row.

In fact I've grown so big and tall,

With doing chores and playing ball,

That maybe you can't really see

How young and weak I still can be.

How I take Raccoon to bed at night,

And ask you to leave on the light.

How I still like my whole face kissed

And like to make a 'Christmas List'.

And even though I numb your knee,

I like to be held tenderly.

I like to know that you are proud

And have you tell me right out loud.

Please understand, with all my size,

With knowing looks in big brown eyes,

That I am not as big, you see

As my outside appears to be.

Ignore my size and adult airs,

Forget that I've climbed lots of stairs.

Just hug and kiss and try to see

That little child inside of me.

Mondays would be just another day without poetry!

My friends Delores and Jenny agree.

Visit them and see how they've started their week!

Making His 'Mark'

The scene of the crime
University of Guelph
Notice the tower in the back.
That's all. Just notice it . . .

It's the end of June and the high school graduations have been ongoing for weeks.

They remind me of another grad that I only heard about, but that will stay with me forever . . .

I don’t want you to get the idea that my Dad, Mark Stringam, was a trouble- maker.

Okay, maybe I do.

Dad was a trouble-maker. I think it had something to do with being born on April 1.

If the theory that ‘the day makes the child’ means anything.

Okay, yes, I just made that theory up.

Moving on . . .

So Dad was born on April 1 and thought it was as good an excuse as any to be . . . mischievous.

His pranks at home and in grade school are many.

And varied.

And will be dealt with in future blogs.

This story is about a prank from his college years. One where foresight would have been helpful.

Another of his smellier pranks is illustrated here.

Back to my story.

Dad went to Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph.

Named for the beautiful province of Ontario, where it resided.

Okay, so creative naming wasn’t their strong suit.

It was an excellent college.

It managed to take a young goof-ball.

And turn him into a learned, young goof-ball.

He graduated in 1948.

It was a date worth celebrating.

So his classmates did.

With bottles and glasses of things alcoholic.

But Dad didn’t drink.

He had to get creative and endanger himself in a whole different way.

Something he accomplished by hanging (with a couple of friends) from the water tower and painting a large ‘Grad 48’ on the side.

Dad’s 'celebrating' could be seen for miles.

He was very proud.

Not everyone saw the beauty and creativity in Dad’s accomplishment, however.

There were words.

Loudly and irately spoken.

By people in authority.

Which Dad ignored.

And then a team of steeplejacks was brought in from Toronto to paint out his sign.

And obliterate what the management considered his lack of creative and artistic talent.

Pfff. What does management know?

Dad watched the men clamber around on the tower.

Taking hours to do what had only taken him minutes.

But he learned something:

1. Jobs requiring you to dangle 100 feet off the ground should be undertaken with safety apparatus.

2. Any job worth doing is worth doing well.

3. Steeplejacks make more money than veterinarians.

Oh, I’m not saying he internalized what he learned.

He just had fun learning it.