25 More

More Mom:

1. Everything worthwhile has a fence around it.  But there is always a gate and a key.
2. Keep happy and joy will form a shield against difficulty.
3. The trouble with some of today's smart kids is that they don't smart in the right place.
4. You can't get rid of a temper by losing it.
5. Confidence is that certain feeling you have just before you know better.
6. If the shoe fits, it's out of style.
7. The best way to lose weight is to eat all you want of things you don't like.
8. The nicest thing about being quiet is that you will seldom be picked to head a committee.
9. If you know you've lost your head, you've made a good find.
10. Optimist: A person who thinks the cleaner is shrinking his suits.
11. A bargain is where two people are sure they got the better of each other.
12. The best thing about the good old days is that we were young.
13. Years of square meals add up to a nice round figure.
14. There are still a few things you can get for a dollar: nickels, dimes and quarters.
15. A father is a man who expects his son to be as good as he meant to be.
16. Lord, help me to admit when I am wrong. And make me easier to live with when I am right.
17. To err is human. To really louse things up takes a computer.
18. The young look into the future. The old look into the past. The middle-aged look worried.
19. I've changed my mind. I hope this one works!
20. I do not come to teach. I come to listen to you.
21. Wise people talk when they have something to say. The rest of us talk to say something.
22. Doing nothing is fine. Unless you make it a full time project.
23. A speech often resembles a wheel. The longer the spoke, the greater the tire.
24. People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care.
25. Freedom is the right to be wrong, not the right to do wrong.

And my favourite:
A minister apologized for the bandage on his chin. "I was thinking about the sermon and cut my face." In the collection plate he found this note, "Next time, think about your face and cut your sermon!"

25 + 1

Mom Advice
Twenty-five of her sayings . . .
Plus one.

Treasure Trove.

1. At forty, a man knows almost half of what he knew at twenty.
2. How do Mothers ever learn about all the things they warn their daughters not to do?
3. We do not live by bread alone, though dough plays a very important part.
4. Beware of salesman with 'Pie in the Sky' ideas--They plan to use your dough.
5. Happiness can be thought, sought or caught. Never bought.
6. Little wonder today's teenager gets mixed up--half the adults are telling him to find himself. The other half are telling him to get lost.
7. What's the difference between a teacher and a train? A train says Choo, choo, choo. A teacher says, "Spit out your gum!"
8. A wife with horse sense never becomes a nag.
9. The best thing about some popular songs is they don't stay popular long.
10. A man owes it to himself to become successful. Once successful, he owes it to internal revenue.
11.The horse and buggy are disappearing, but not the waggin tongue.
12. Sometimes my Dad takes things apart when they don't go. You'd better go.
13. This is the land of opportunity. Where else could you afford to spend so much for so little?
14. Half of your troubles come from wanting your own way. The other half from getting it.
15. Tact is the art of making company feel at home when you wish they were!
16. Life begins at 40. But that's also when everything begins to wear out, fall out or spread out.
17. Middle age is when actions creak louder than words.
18. A flood is a river that's grown too big for its bridges.
19. Political bed fellows not only share the same bed but also the same bunk.
20. A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject.
21. All a youngster wants out of school is himself.
22. By the time a man gets to green pastures, he can't climb the fence.
23. The worst place to live in the world is beyond your income.
24. The best night spot is a comfortable bed.
25. No wishbone ever took the place of a backbone.

And bonus--My personal favourite:
Smokey the Bear and his wife could never have kids. Whenever she got fire in her eyes, he'd hit her in the head with a shovel.

Cutting Day

Sifting through Mom's journals again . . .

And/or Alberta

I was feeling a little cross as I changed into my jeans and T-shirt. I had planned a whole day of fun things--like baking and sewing--
Why did I have to be the Joe-Boy around here?
But, of course, I knew the answer to that. If I hadn't been asked to go along I'd have felt a little cheated. Now how can I explain that?
As Max slowed down briefly with the four-wheel-drive, I swung open the door and leaped inside. "You know, one of these days I'm going to miss a step and fall right under this truck of yours!"
Max just laughed and stepped on the gas.
Now what did he mean by that?
In the corral, I was given a whip and posted at the gate.
At the command to open the gate wide, I pushed it very carefully to what I thought was wide.
"Wider!" he yelled.
I flung it wide open. But the cow he wanted to pass through just passed by!
Followed by the whole herd of stampeding Mamas. Now thundering right toward me.
"Head 'em off! Head 'em off!" he yelled.
I headed off for the nearest top rail of the fence and sat there, shaking from the sheer relief of having saved my life.
My irate husband threw his hat on the ground and tried out a few of his 'angry' words, then came quietly over to me and said, "Janie? How are we going to get these cows cut when you're up there?"
I crept slowly back down to the ground, dug my whip out of the churned up dirt and very meekly waited for further instructions.
Surprisingly, the rest of the cutting went very well. Max is a real artist when it comes to cutting cows. He bobs and weaves around, taps one cow on the face and whacks one on the fanny and they just seem to do exactly what he wants.
As for me, I actually faced some of those critters without turning 'mushy'!
As we rode out with the last herd of cows for the last breeding field, we were feeling a little pride in the smoothness of the day's work and I knew Max deserved a little praise.
"That was pretty good cutting we did today," he stated.
"Yes!" My mind groped around for a nice return compliment.
He went on, "You're just about as good as Hansen's dog!"
Yep. A good day.

(Mis)Takes

Things progressed as normal, as the bright sun sailed that day,

And then we watched in awe as Mister Moon got in the way,

And isn’t that a bit like life? Our plans flow normally,

Then all at once, something comes that we did not foresee . . .

Percy was an engineer, known for brains, not brawn,

Was fiddling with some microwaves from a magnetron.

When the chocolate in his pocket melted where it was,

His discovery? The microwave. To worldwide applause.

Play-Doh: It was made to clean the paper on the wall.

But poor results and sales had the business in free-fall.

But when kids started using it for their crafts and games,

It gave the struggling company some money and some fame.

Harry couldn’t get cyanoacrylate to work.

Instead of forming what he wished, it stuck. ‘Twas quite a quirk.

Then suddenly he realized that he’d made a breakthrough,

And what he had invented would be known as Super Glue.

Teflon wasn’t what Roy Plunkett started out to make,

He wanted different CFC’s, but he made a mistake.

Instead of gas, he found white flakes, intriguing little bits.

You’ll love it on your non-stick wear for when you’re frying grits.

Velcro was an accident, invented via dog.

When George took his pet hunting: picking burrs, the epilogue.

When closely studied, George could see the tiny little ‘hooks’.

He experimented and he won. It’s there in all the books.

So just because the sun is hidden for a tiny spell,

You simply do not have to fear that things aren’t going well.

And just ‘cause life is different than what you may have planned,

Sometimes, it is the unforeseen that truly makes it grand

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week in our neighbourhood,

We'll tackle 'PARENTS'. It'll be good!

Creative Excusing

Creative jobs require creative excuses

Everyone, at some point, calls in sick to work.

Well . . . most everyone.

Even those toughest of the tough. The weather-hardened cowboys. Their excuses are just a bit more . . . creative.

In my grandfather's day, his hired men were all experienced, life-hardened individuals.

And I do mean individual.

One morning, one of his cowboys failed to report with the others.

Grampa handed out the day's assignments, then went in search.

He found the man seated snugly in the bunkhouse, both feet comfortably propped up on a chair.

Grampa stopped in the doorway.

“Are you coming out to work?” he asked.

“Can't,” the man said.

"Why not?"

"Toik."

Grampa stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Toik,” the man repeated.

“Oh.” Grampa thought about that for a moment. Then, “What?” he asked again.

The hired man looked at him. “Toik,” he said carefully.

Grampa nodded. “That's what I thought you said.”

He turned and headed back to the barnyard.

For some time, he puzzled over the man's answer.

What on earth was a toik?

Finally, he found himself working alongside one of the other men.

“Smith not coming?” the man asked.

Grampa shook his head. “No. He said something about a toik.”

The hired man grinned. “And you had no idea what he was talking about?”

Again, Grampa shook his head. “None whatsoever,” he said.

The man laughed. “You can't guess what a toik is?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe I should translate.”

Grampa looked at him. “Please,” he said.

“Toe ache,” the man said.

“Ahhh!” Grampa said.

Things suddenly made . . . sense. Sort of. “Toe ache.”

“Yep.”

“Ah.”

Now I'm sure you've heard the excuse of 'a cold coming on'.

The flu.

Sore throat.

Sinus infection.

Broken bones.

Even the occasional bout of 'explosive diarrhoea'.

But I'd venture to guess that you've never before heard of a toik.

Well, now you have.

Feel free to use it . . .

Real(ity)

If you think the outside is fantastic . . .

Edmonton, Alberta is a good-sized city. Not distressingly large, by the world's standards.

But a nice, comfortable million or so people.

It has many, many attractions.

Our family's favourite is the Telus World of Science.

When the kids were small, it was called the Space and Science Centre. We were there almost every week.

The kids would wander through their favourite displays. Interact with their favourite activities.

And go with us to see an Imax show.

If you've never seen Imax presentation, you should. It consists of a huge screen and crystal-clear photography.

And you feel as though you were part of the action.

When our Caitlin was three, we went to see a show - simply titled, Speed.

For forty minutes, we were part of car racing, flights, train rides, roller coasters, and anything in this world that went fast.

To say we enjoyed it would be a vast understatement. Our sons in particular were quite literally hanging onto the edge of their seats.

Finally, the show ended, as shows do.

The lights came up.

Caitlin, who had spent the entire time in the seat next to her father, looked up. “Daddy? Is it done?”

Her father nodded.

“Can I put my feet down now?”

It was then we realized that, when the action started, she had pulled her feet up to keep them from catching on anything as it 'flew' past. And held them up.

For forty minutes.

Now that's movie realism.

Edmonton is a wonderful place. There are tons of things to do.

But when you tire, stop at the Imax.

It's all about seeing.

Keep your feet up.

An Onion Truth

Eat your onions!

I know that this statement seems to have nothing to do with what follows, but bear with me . . .

The 1918 flu pandemic (the Spanish Flu) was an influenza pandemic that spread widely across the world. Most victims were healthy young adults, in contrast to most influenza outbreaks which predominantly affect juvenile, elderly, or weakened patients. The pandemic lasted from March 1918 to June 1920, spreading even to the Arctic and remote Pacific islands. Between 50 and 100 million died, making it one of the deadliest natural disasters in human history. An estimated 50 million people, about 3% of the world's population (1.6 billion at the time), died of the disease. 500 million, or 1/3 were infected.

-                                                                                                                                   - World History Project

And now we'll tie it together . . .

My Husby’s maternal grandparents, Artie J. and Ovedia Seely and their children, weren’t affected by the disease. One of few families that managed to avoid it. Even though every other family in the sleepy town of Stirling, Alberta, like the rest of the world, had one or more (or all) members sick with the deadly disease.

For months during the worst of the outbreak in their small community, Artie and one other unaffected man tended the farms and fed the animals for all of the other farmers.

Before daybreak every day, the two men were feeding animals, milking cows, cleaning, tending . . . performing all of the myriad tasks that constituted farming.

At every farm.

Every day.

It took the whole day.

Artie would return to his home and gulp down a hasty lunch, then head out once more.

Grandma Ovedia Fawns Seely
Onion cooker extraordinaire!

Returning only after sunset to snatch a few hours of sleep before he starting over again.

And still, with all of the work and worry, he and his wife remained unaffected.

The reason?

Earlier that year, the two of them, Artie and Ovedia, had harvested a bumper crop of onions.

Every meal featured some incarnation of the remarkable vegetable.

Both of them believe that that fact alone kept them from succumbing.

I will give them the benefit of any doubt.

They . . . lived . . . through it.

P.S. My Husby has spoken with two other ‘old-timers’ who also lived through the great and terrible influenza pandemic. They, too, maintain that their families survived due largely to the fact that they ate onions with every meal.

You heard it here first.

Oh, and see that onion on your plate? Eat it.

Motivational Music

My Mom, age 20. Looks AND talent!

Mom loved music.

I'm thinking about her today . . .

This is another entry from her journal.

There was much music in our house.

Mama had a beautiful voice, singing us to sleep with lilting Swedish tunes.

Papa was quite proficient on the accordion, playing schottisches, polkas and old-time waltzes for dances at the school house, and at home, especially when we had visitors.

Early on, Papa bought an organ at a sale.

I loved music and tried to play that organ.

Later, Papa purchased a piano to which I became attached as to a loving friend.

Tommy Mair, a musician friend of our teacher, arranged to give music lessons after school in Millicent.

I was thrilled to be enrolled and Tommy became my teacher, maestro and hero.

He could play anything without a sheet of music.

As he rippled through my lessons with a magic touch, I was enthralled, floating on a cloud of notes so sweet and heavenly, I wanted the rhapsody to go on forever.

For eight wonderful lessons, I wafted in ecstasy.

Tommy would play a tune and I would copy him.

Then he would improvise with many delightful trills so that the simple little single notes became a whole orchestra of sound.

As his nimble fingers raced over the keyboard, I was transfixed into a fantasy world beyond my fondest dreams.

In that moment, I yearned to be a maestro like Tommy Mair.

But after eight lessons, I was on my own.

At every opportunity, whether at home or at a community dance, I was at the piano watching the artistic mastery of every pianist.

Fascinated by the variety of piano improvisations.

Then, at home, I would spend every available moment trying to replicate what I had seen.

I was drawn to the piano like a moth to light, picking out tunes in a painful process of matching notes to keys until I had memorized them so I could play them by ear.

The piano became my best friend and companion.

It became an outlet for self-expression.

I learned that if we express ourselves well, others will listen, understand, and believe in us.

They will be buoyed up and motivated by our message and inspiration and we, ourselves will also be inspired with a feeling of accomplishment.

Music has helped me to greatly raise my self worth, to feel good about myself.

For this, I am thankful to my first inspirational music teacher, Tommy Mair.

Season of the Buffalo

It is buffalo season.

I know this may come as a surprise to you. Certainly it did to our granddaughter.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were driving to Banff, Alberta. It is time for our annual week at the Banff Rocky Mountain Resort. The place that has been our summer home for nearly 30 years.

This year, it is our eldest granddaughter’s turn to spend the week with Grandma and Grandpa, a privilege that is hotly contested among several of the grandchildren. Okay . . . well . . . among two of them.

The drive was perfect. Slightly cloudy but not raining or stormy. So the sun wasn’t a problem, but neither were the road surfaces.

Now, I should explain that our route takes us invariably through farm country. Some of the richest in Alberta. Long stretches of rolling hills heavy with nearly-ripe grains. Swaths of luxurious green, newly-mown hay, drying in the late summer sun until it’s ready for baling.

Fields of cocoons.

Cocoons?

And finally, we’re to the point of our story . . .

In many of these fields, there are dozens—even hundreds—of buffalo cocoons. Great cylindrical shapes of uniform size, some covered in plastic or mesh, and all simply sitting there in the fields, waiting to hatch.

Yeah, my granddaughter didn’t believe her grandfather, either.

And he described the day of hatching to her so well. When the long-dormant cocoons burst apart and fully-grown buffalo appear.

“It is quite a sight.  The great, shaggy beasts, hungry from their developmental slumber move off in a herd, grazing, Running in the sun. Happy to be alive . . .”

I’m quoting her grandfather, of course.

Our 14-year-old granddaughter stared at him, skeptically. Obviously she wasn’t about to swallow her grandfather’s ‘this-is-how-things-happen’ story whole like the rest of her siblings and cousins.

Skepticism turned vocal. “Grampa, that’s not right. That isn’t how buffalo are made!”

Her grandfather looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “It totally is! The mother buffalo weaves her cocoons out of grasses, then tenderly inserts a seed into each one. You should have paid attention in Biology class.”

She gave him a disgusted look. “I did.”

Oops. They’re on to us . . .

Newly-hatched. Isn't he magnificent?!

A Meeting in the Meeting

- from a story Daddy liked to tell . . .

His wife was tired, she looked a ‘fright’,

With babies, she’d been up all night.

“He said, “Hun, right here, you’ll stay.”

“I’ll go, myself, to church today.”

She smiled at him with gratitude,

Grateful for the interlude.

He happ’ly went, dressed in his best.

And prayed his wife would get some rest.

‘Twas sometime later. He returned,

His face with discomfort burned.

For two big shiners did he sport,

With one aleft and one athwart.

His wife, her eyebrows she did raise,

He reddened at her doubtful gaze,

“I went to church," he said. "I did!

I wasn’t bad there, God forbid!”

“I sat there good as gold. It’s true!

And others sat around me, too.

We listened. All was calm and peace.

The Spirit flowed and fear did cease.”

“But when the congregation rose,

To sing a hymn (and sleep dispose),

The dame in front of me this week?

Her dress was stuck between her cheeks.”

“Supposing I’d do something kind,

I pulled it, thinking she’d not mind.

But she did! She turned about,

And with her fist, gave me a clout.”

“Well, that explains the first one, dear,”

The second one is still unclear.”

He shrugged, “Well, she made such a fuss,

I thought she must desire it thus.”

So—

With wardrobes, to avoid a smack,

Do not put untucked things back.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Gram and Gramp . . . And Me

Gram and Gramp. And two of my siblings . . .

Gram was in the kitchen, cooking so efficiently,

Gramp was in his easy chair and I was on his knee.

Their kindly ways and gentle spirits touched so tenderly,

Way back in the early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

He was a rancher, cattleman; and honest to a 'T'.

She helped and worked right by his side and served so faithfully.

The two of them raised children strong and loved their family,

E'en before those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

When I was four, my Grampa died; he passed on peacefully,

Gram carried on as best she could, preserved his legacy.

But when I stop and think at bit, I cannot help but see,

There weren't enough of those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

My own Gram and Gramp` Stringam on their 50th wedding anniversary

Terms of Endearment

Bare Blue Stringam

Note: To me, nicknames are exactly what the title suggests: terms of affection and endearment.

Both of my parents served in the 4-H calf club in our community.This duty included attendance at the club's annual summer retreat.
I know you are wondering what this has to do with nicknames. Wait for it . . .

Because both of my parents were going on the 4-H trip, all of their children had to come along.
Because.
My brother, Blair, was two. A happy, friendly little boy. Who didn't always spit out his words clearly.
One young man, a member of the club, asked the smiling little towhead his name.
"Blair Lewis Stringam."
"What?"
"Blair Lewis Stringam.
"Admittedly, it came out sounding something like 'Blairloostringam'.
But I digress . . .

"Bare Blue Stringam?"
"No! Blair Lewis Stringam."
"Okay. Bare Blue Stringam."
And just like that, he had a nickname. Which still is in force today, even though he is in his fifties and a college professor.
Ahem . . .
My Grampa, George Stringam had a younger brother who couldn't pronounce Grampa's name 'George' clearly. It came out "Dard."
Thus, his nickname. Dard.
Which my brother, George, inherited the moment he was born.
'Dard', he remains.
My daughter, Tiana, was learning to spell her name. She wrote the letters 'T', 'I' and 'N' properly. But her 'A's' had the lines on the wrong sides, thus disguising them as 'B's'.
Her second oldest brother, Erik was looking at a sheet of paper she had been practicing on. "Who's Tibnb?" he asked.

A name we call her to this day.
My eldest daughter was . . . bouncy. She hopped everywhere. We called her 'Tigger Pie'.
A lot.
So much so, that on her first day of school, she insisted it was her real name.
Oops.
I, myself have been through several incarnations of my name as told here.

My MIL didn't agree with nicknames. "Why," she would ask, "do people choose perfectly good names for their children, then go out of their way to call them something else entirely?!"  Why, indeed. . .

Fuzzy, Warm Love

And each of them has/had a name. Please don't test me . . .

My first date with my Husby-to-be was memorable.

On so many levels.

You can read about it here.

Go ahead . . . we'll wait . . .

Our second date was even more memorable. But for more exciting reasons.

It was the occasion of our first kiss.

Let me see if I can describe it . . .

Chore time. The sun has set.

Darkness drifts slowly over the prairie.

A large, quiet feed lot. Young bulls in the background, munching on grains.

The smell of fresh manure wafts on the cool, autumn breeze.

A young man and woman snared in the light of the mercury-vapour lamp.
Hey, this is ranching country, what did you expect? The light of the moon?! 

Their eyes lock. They move closer . . .

You get the picture.

Romantic?

Okay, maybe not to the normal person.

Fortunately for me, Husby-to-be was as un-normal as his wife-to-be.

A perfect match.

But the date was only beginning. After our kiss, we returned to my parent’s home.

And that’s when I received my second surprise of the evening.

When we stepped into the vestibule (ooh! I like that word), Husby-to-be pulled a little package out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, smiling. “I brought you something.”

Have I mentioned that I love surprises? Well, I do.

Moving on . . .

I quickly opened the little bag and tipped out two little fuzzy men. Pom-pom people. With magnets on the back.

Ooooh! Cute!

“Thank you!” I said. Then I gave him a kiss.

It seemed like an appropriate response. And I’d just discovered he was a great kisser.

Ahem . . .

And so began a tradition that lasted for years and covered a large part of our fridge.

Until a bottle of home-made root beer sprayed all over them.

Sigh.

Then they were relegated to a shadow box.

For safety.

And posterity.

I love traditions.

Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .

Monsters

Picture credit

I have a vivid imagination.

I know it will come as no surprise to many of you.

It has been a great source of both entertainment—and agony—throughout my life.

The entertainment—the stories that I’ve created, both real and . . . less real.

The agony—well let’s just say we’ve finally come to the subject of this story . . .

When I was little (ie. 4), I slept by myself.

I know it sounds incredible in a household containing (then) four children that I would get my own room, but it’s true. I was on the lower floor in the room closest to my parents. All that was between us was the stairway going up to the room where my older sister slept and that occupied by my two older brothers.

Moving on . . .

I would happily go to bed each night (It’s my story, I’ll remember it as I want) with the door open and light spilling into the room from the activities of those who did not go to bed at dusk.

All was well.

But, inevitably, I would wake sometime in the night to discover that—while I slept—the scenario had changed.

The most important part of which would be that the lights were out.

Eep.

Now in the thick darkness, monsters gathered.

I should point out that I had never seen said monsters. But my vivid imagination (see above) had peopled the darkness with them in astonishing detail—slavering, sharpened fangs. Giant, little-girl catching claws. Glowing red eyes. You probably understand.

I knew they were there. They knew they were there.

Now it was up to my Mom to make them go away.

Off would go the covers and a tiny, little elf-like (okay it’s time to use your imagination) girl would scramble madly the few paces to her parent’s room.

Me: “Mom!”

Mom: “Gaahhh!”

Me: “Can I sleep with you?”

Mom: “Fine.”

Dad: “Gaahhh!”

And I would snuggle down between my parents and drift off blissfully to sleep.

I can’t recall exactly when this practice ended. Suffice it to say it was at some point before I reached adulthood.

But it was revived after I became a parent.

And had a little four-year-old girl of my own.

The scenario was a bit different. She wouldn’t say anything. Just silently appear at one’s bedside and wait for one to become cognizant of the fact that she was there.

A little wraith.

Standing there beside your bed.

In the dark.

Sunday Bonanza

Tell me you remember . . . sigh!

Every Sunday evening when we were kids . . . hmmm . . . maybe a little preamble . . .

Sundays were family/TV nights.

Our one TV channel outdid itself on that particular evening.

And if we were good--okay, I admit it, even if we weren't good--we got to watch.

First Disney's Wonderful World of colour.

In black and white and shades of grey.

Then Ed Sullivan.

Eeeee!

Then Bonanza.

The best of them all.

The cherry on top of the sundae . . . well . . . Sunday.

Not a sound would be heard.

We barely breathed.

Pa and Adam and Hoss and Little Joe filled the air around us.

There was room for nothing else.

If you wanted to do something noisy . . .

Like blink.

Or swallow.

Do it during the commercials from the Kraft Kitchens.

Wimp!

But the best part . . .

The best part, was the opening: du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza!

Du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza is it's name!

We'd 'sing' along happily and wait.

Remember the aforementioned (good word) no breathing.

That would be here, too.

Warning: Hot!

Because the fire was coming.

From the map that burned right there on the screen.

All of us kids would run up and touch the B&W&SOG (see above) flames and then run howling and screaming about the room pretending we had been mortally burned.

Our patient parents would nod and smile and shake their heads and wait for the music to finish.

Because that would be our cue for absolute quiet.

Without either of them having to say a word.

Sunday evening.

With family.

And Bonanza.

It just didn't get any better than that.