The ART of Construction

Perfect!

Tenting was my favorite thing in the world.
I could happily sit for hours in my soft, quiet shelter. Immersed in my own little world. Miles away from the business and bustle of life.
Or at least inches away.
On the other side of my blanket.
And my chair.
Oh, and the all-important pillow.
Okay, so tent-making wasn't an art with me. In fact, you could probably say that it was . . . fairly inexpert, invariably consisting, as it did, of a blanket tossed over a chair and held in place by a pillow.
Frank Lloyd Wright, I wasn't.
But I still loved it. Hiding in a shelter erected solely by my own two little hands.
For a short while, I was the queen of my world.
Then, one day, I was introduced to a whole new world. My brother, George, deigned to join me.
Something, I might point out, that rarely happened . . .
And instructed me in the creation of a complex, blanket draped wonder.
George set up chairs and draped them with covers, connecting them to each other and holding each in place by different items, drawing heavily from the various 'objets d'art' that Mom had strewn about the room.
The blankets were pulled over to the couches, secured, and then drawn to the tables. There, they were again weighted into place.
Slowly, our little 'club house' grew until it covered the entire front room.
The two of us stood back and surveyed it proudly.
It had an entrance. And a back door. It had twisting tunnels and little rooms.
It was perfect.
I was quivering with excitement. I couldn't wait any longer. I dove in.
"Careful, Diane!" George said.
But he was too late.
My rash action pulled on one of the blankets.
In fact, the blanket that was being held in place by a large, ornate, plaster vase.
Both slid from the table.
The blanket survived.
The vase didn't.
George and I stared, aghast, at the mass of wreckage.
And then, like a figure of doom, Mom appeared in the doorway.
"What are you two . . . my vase!"
There was no hiding it.
There was our intricate web of blankets, furniture and bric-a-brac.
To one side, a limply hanging corner.
And, beside it, the broken vase.
Even a fool could have figured out what had happened. And Mom certainly wasn't a fool.
"Did you kids use my vase for your fort?"
How did one answer that? I mean, couldn't she see it?
George was braver than me. "It was Diane's idea."
I stared at him. "It was not!" I said, hotly.
"Was too."
"Was not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
Okay, so our arguments could never have been classified as intelligent.
"Too."
"Not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
"Okay, enough!" Mom had worked her way gingerly across the sea of blankets, plucking up breakables as she went.
Finally, she reached the vase.
She set down the other objects she was carrying and stared down at it.
Then she looked at us.
"Ummm. Sorry, Mom," I said. Not entirely original, but it was all I could think of.
Mom picked up the vase. Then the pieces.
She looked . . . sad.
Mom never really had to discipline me. I could do it all by myself. I burst into tears. "Sssooorrry!"
She turned and looked at us once more. "I don't ever want you two playing with my things again."
"Oookaaay!" More tears.
I should have been on the stage.
Mom carried the pieces of her vase out of the room without looking at us again.
And just like that, our fort was no long the wonder it had been. George and I 'folded' the blankets and put things back.
Mom kept the vase, carefully gluing the numerous pieces back together.
To our 'waste not, want not' Mom, it was totally in character.
But it haunted us for years, in fact, it sat atop a cupboard at my Dad's apartment.
Haunting,

I still like to tent.
But fortunately, my husby introduced me to such marvels as . . . tent poles. Pegs. Guy lines.
What it lacks in ingenuity, it certainly makes up for in convenience.
And unbreakable-ness.

Summer FUN

Okay, picture us four just a couple of years older...

One summer Daddy bought a ranch

He thought it’d give us kids a chance

To prove that we could ‘git ‘er done’,

And maybe e’en fit in some fun!

My oldest sis was seven-and-ten,

She ruled the household, fed the men,

By which I mean, our brothers, two,

And 10-year me to round the crew.

We four rode horses, tended cows,

Learned of mowers, rakes and plows,

Then hunted rattlesnakes in pens,

And made them into sculptures then.

Each evening when the work was done,

And supper gorged by everyone,

Over card games, laughed and cried,

‘Till morning brought us back outside.

That summer passed, as summers do,

Dad sold the ranch. We said ‘Adieu!’,

I happily packed my small suitcase,

And we returned to the home place.

But through the years, as I look back,

At ‘work-all-day’ then ‘hit-the-sack’,

The things we learned while we were young?

It was the best of ‘Summer Fun’!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So all of us together, we,

Have posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next Week, our Jenny is in charge.

About 'Bodies of Water', we'll enlarge...

Cabled

Okay...somewhere, there are cables...

It’s once again our week in Banff National Park.
Our 29th year.
We’ve spent the time hiking. (Sulphur Mountain. Fenland Park. Cascade Pond. Etc….)
Biking.
Swimming.
Getting a little too much sun.
Playing card games.
And sleeping in a wee bit too long and eating way too much.
In one word: Glorious.
Today, we were doing our family hike around Minnewanka Lake.
We had climbed rock formations.
Posed for pictures at the edge of the lake.
Dodged trees in a free flight game of ‘tag’.
Munched on nuts and granola bars.
Talked and laughed.
And chased toddlers and/or Grandpa. As a little aside, just guess who was easier to catch . . .
Moving on . . .
We were stopped beside one of the boat docks.
Several small, sleek craft were floating peacefully in the blue-green water.
On the other side of the barrier where we stood, several large rings were bolted securely to the rocky edge of the lake.
Rings which, themselves, were fastened to long cables that stretched into the water and out of our sight.
10-year-old grandson turned to his father, our eldest son. “Dad,” he asked. “What are those cables for?”
Now, I’m pretty sure I know what I would have said. Something along the lines of “anchors to boats” or similar. And boring.
This is what his dad said: “Those cables are what are keeping the lake there, Son. If they didn’t chain it down, who knows where it would end up. Why some lakes have even been known to climb the sides of the mountains. We just can’t have that. So we chain them down to keep everyone happy.”
His son stared at him for a long time.
I’m pretty sure the laughter of his Grandfather and I and all the other adults and sub-adults standing nearby pretty much gave things away.
But he nodded.
And changed the subject.
For just a moment, I was transported back to the days when his father was his age and asked his father a question.
Receiving an equally hilarious, albeit ludicrous answer.
What’s that saying about acorns and trees?
Oh, and if you’re wondering about those cables? Just keep wondering . . .

A lizard on a rock. A really, really cute lizard.

Our intrepid crew.

A tiny little pixie we caught scaling the mountain.

Again the crew...

The lake really was interesting. Really.

What a Gas

My Victim

I had my driver's license.
I was queen of the world!
I have to admit, here, that most ranch and farm kids are driving from the time that they can reach the gas pedal in the tractor.
But not officially. Not on an actual ... (Cue dramatic music: Dun! Dun! Duuuun!) ... public  road!
I was quivering with excitement.
And to make things even better, I had officially become my parents' 'errand boy'.
Life couldn't possibly offer anything more.
Okay, so I then proceeded to back my father's car into the tractor. (Another story.)
And run it into the garage. (Another, another story.)
And into the ditch. (Another . . . oh, never mind.)
But I was still on top of the world.
With all of the driving I was doing, inevitably, I would run through the gas. (At $.29 per gallon, one had to be a bit judicious . . .)
And Dad had a gasoline rule. Whoever was driving when the gas gauge reached 1/4, was responsible for filling the tank.
I should point out here that, on the ranch, we had our own bank of gasoline tanks, carefully monitored and filled periodically. There was one tank containing purple gas (for farm vehicles only), one for diesel (tractors and equipment) and one for regular (mine). Two of them were side-by-side on the same framework. The other a bit apart on its own stand.
Dad showed me how to 'fill 'er up'. First, you unlock the nozzle. Then you twist the valve. Then you put the nozzle into the tank and pull up on the lever.
Simplicity in itself.
As long as Dad was standing there.
He took me through the steps several times until he was satisfied that I could do it on my own. Then he left me.
I finished filling and locked everything up again. I was, once more, the master of my universe.
For several months, I enjoyed my new found freedom. No longer was the 20 miles into town such an insurmountable barrier.
But, during those first months, I never again had occasion to fill the tank. Whenever I got into the car, it had already been filled by the previous driver.
What a blissful existence. Driving around in a car that never, ever ran low on gas.
The best of all worlds.
Then, Mom asked me to drive into the city to do an errand.
The city.
70 miles away.
I was ecstatic. I hopped into the car and headed out.
The trip was uneventful, if one ignored the fact that I was DRIVING TO THE CITY! ON MY OWN!
Okay. It was an event.
But when I returned home, I noticed that the gas gauge was just kissing the 1/4 full line.
Oh-oh. Time for a fill up.
I pulled into the tanks.
Then stared up at them.
Which one had Dad used?
I couldn't remember.
Okay, so I know a lot of things. I just can't remember what they are . . .
Finally, after much wrinkle-browed concentration, I chose one and proceeded to run through the procedures in my head. Unlock. Twist. Insert. Fill.
I had it.
I did it.
But a little voice in my head, the one that tried, vainly, to keep me from my many terrible fates, told me to stop at 1/2 full.
For perhaps the first, and only, time in my life, I listened.
I capped the gas tank and locked up the nozzle. Then drove triumphantly into the driveway.
Where the car stopped.
Dead.
What was wrong?
I tried to start it.
It made the appropriate noises. Coughed a couple of times.
And died.
Again.
“George!”
Have I mentioned that my next older brother is a whizz with engines and anything mechanical?
He came running.
“What’s the matter?”
“I dunno. It just . . . stopped.”
“Let me have a look.”
All was well. George would figure it out . . .
“Ummm . . . did you just put gas in?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Ummm . . . I think you filled it with diesel.”
“Is that bad?”
He pulled his head out from under the hood and gave me . . . the look.
Now, anyone who has been to a mechanic and asked a stupid question knows exactly what I am talking about.
The sun went out of my day.
“What's the matter?” My voice had suddenly gotten very tiny.
He sighed patiently. “Diane, this car runs on regular gasoline.”
“And?”
“You put in diesel.”
“And that's bad?”
“You might as well have filled the tank with . . . oh, I don't know . . . mud? Pancake batter?”
“Oh.”
“I think you might have wrecked the engine.”
Big oh.
“Let's talk to Dad.”
How about . . . you talk to Dad. I'll just go and join the Foreign Legion.
“Come on.”
Sigh.
As it turned out, that nagging little voice of reason in my head had given me good advice when it told me to only fill the tank half full. In reality, the tank was only 1/4 full of diesel.
Dad simply had us push the car . . . did I use the word 'simply'? . . . and fill it the rest of the way with normal gas.
Oh, the car gas is in the tank off by itself! How did I miss that?
Then, he told us . . . and I'm quoting here . . . to “go and burn it off”.
What? Really?
Never, in the history of the world, had punishment so closely resembled reward.
Happily, my brother and I headed into town. Tooled main. Hit the mean streets of Warner. Back to Milk River. More cruising main. Off to Coutts.
It was a glorious night.
Okay, so we smelled a bit like a bus and the engine ran a little rough, but it was worth it.
Of course, afterwards, I had to pay the piper, in the form of car lessons.
To quote George, “No sister of mine is going to drive without knowing how everything works.”
And he did mean everything.
In subsequent years, because of him, I could change a tire or belt and perform everything from an oil change to a major tune-up. Or I could pull into a shop and tell the mechanic exactly what I needed or what I thought was wrong.
In their language.
And all because of a few misplaced litres of diesel.

SWT

YD. Not in a Time Out...

Shopping With Toddlers. A condition frequently and affectionately known by its acronym of SWT is a one-way ticket to adventure.

Via the crazy train.

And that’s just the beginning…

DIL (another popular acronym!) had spent much of her day shopping. Mother of soon-to-be-six, suffice it to say she had her hands—and her day—full.

Between finding the items she had ventured hesitantly from home to find, chasing down fugitives and side-tracking frequent requests/out-and-out-begging, she was on the downward slide toward exhaustion and distinct done-ness.

You’ve all been there.

Just turned two-year-old Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as YD) was also past finished.

Hungry. Tired. Irritable. All were rolled up into one neat, efficient—explosive—little package.

After a loud bout of screech and flail on the floor of the department store, her mother asked, “Do you need a time out?”

YD looked up at her. “Yes, pease.”

“Fine. Go and sit on that chair.”

YD got to her feet and crossed over to the nearby chair, where she took up a perch.

Once settled, she looked at her mother and sighed. “Sanks,” she said.

If any of you reading this feel the need for some SWT, she’s available to rent ...

And yes, Gramma is babysitting in Banff this week.

Finding 'Food'

Admit it, they would fool anyone!

First, a little insight into the 'Diane' thought process . . .
But they look like peas!
They open, like peas.
And they have little pea-type things in them.
And if they look like peas, and open like peas and have little pea things in them, they must be peas.
I'm eating them . . .

The Anderson family lived in a great barn of a house at the very top of the hill in Milk River. It was my favourite place to visit. And to play.
Not only did my best friend, Kathy, live there, but there were lots of other kids to play with (12 in all) and they had this amazing house with an infinite number of rooms and hallways and balconies and little, hidden cupboards. We could play pretend for an entire day and never run out of spaces or scenarios.
And to make things even better, across the road on the north and east, was farmland. With barley crops taller than we were, ripening in the sun.
I should probably mention here that Milk River has produced at least three Barley Kings. An award given for producing the best that the barley world had to offer.
But to me, barley simply made an excellent hiding place.
Moving on . . .
Along the road, on the East, screening the Ellert farm from the Anderson's back yard, was a high hedge of caragana. (Google it!)
That, in late summer, was hung with thousands of . . . peas.
. . . Well, it made sense to me.
We had been playing hard most of the day and it was nearly time to go home for supper.
We were hungry.
Kathy did the smart thing. She ran to her house to find food.
Her sister, Laurie, and I decided to forage for ourselves. After all, there were all of these peas that no one else was picking. We simply couldn't let them go to waste.
Have I mentioned that I love peas?
I grabbed a big one and opened it.
Huh. Well, they weren't quite the right colour, but they were approximately the right shape and size.
I ate one.
Yuck. Not great. Well, the next one will be better.
Okay, it wasn't.
Maybe the next one.
Okay, all of those were pretty much awful.
The next pod will be sweet and tasty.
Nope.
Well, maybe the next one.
And so it went.
I can't tell you how many of the awful things Laurie and I ate. It must have been quite a few. Because we certainly got sick.
I don't remember much about that part. Mostly because I was unconscious at the time.
Who knew that peas could do that?
But I learned my lesson. 
Which I would like to share with you.

Don't eat peas that grow, temptingly, on trees.
Stick to things like . . . buffalo beans.
Adult aspirin.
Dust bunnies.
All of which have been tried and tested by me!

Seventeen Seventeens

August 27th is National Just Because Day, celebrated by doing something without rhyme or reason.

Each participant has given another participant a number between 10 and 50.

Then we wrote something using the exact number of words given to us.

My number was 17. And given to me by my very helpful friend, Dawn of Spatulas on Parade.

I decided to write 17 stories using 17 words each.

Yikes.

Husby and Me
1. In case you hadn’t heard: in the beginning, there was man and woman. Woman won. Now you know.
2. Long before I met my Husby, I picked his picture out of a group. He’d no say.

3. Preparing to propose, Husby dropped the engagement ring. It rolled to the sewer. It was almost sewercide.

4. Daddy offered us $2000.00 and a ladder to elope. Ha! My room was on the ground floor.

5. I wanted a baseball team. We almost made it. We stopped just before reaching left field. Sigh.

6. Husby built me a home. From a chicken coop. Great till he called me an Old Hen.

7. Husby cleaned out the stove, parking the ‘dead’ ashes on the picnic table. Yeah. Almost a disaster.

8. Husby built museums all his life. 19 of them. Toured museums on vacations. Kids now hate them.

9. Husby loved long road trips. Several offspring suffered motion sickness. All time winners of the Up-chuck Olympics.

10. Vacation to Vancouver Island. We left the undercarriage of our trailer there. Probably not our best holiday.

11. Family on a single income. Still managed to ‘travel’ once a month (to restaurants for ‘adventure food’).

12. Went camping every year. Kids. Dogs. Canoes. Best times ever. Miss camping, but not the hard ground.

13. Opening of Husby’s new museum. Politicians yammering. Finally—his turn. His family gave him a standing ovation.

14. Theatre was our life. Raised our kids there. Remember saying, “Put your homework down! You're on stage!”

15. Once, on a holiday, I overturned a canoe. With Husby inside. He wasn’t happy. News at eleven.

16. Husby’s retired now. So glad I don’t have to see the back of his head every morning.

17. Husby uprooted this rancher’s daughter, replanting her in the city. Where he gave her a wonderful life.

Meet the other participants!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Counting Words, Just Because
Sarah Nolan: A Little Diddy
Dawn of Spatulas on Parade: Short Sweet And To The Point

Marbled

I gave my kids some marbles
On a sunny, summer day,
I showed them how to scratch a ring
And taught them how to play.

And for a while, they practiced hard,
(And some became quite good!)
They soon outdid their parents
And tore up the neighbourhood.

But as with any fad, you know,
They all began to tire,
And by the time the winter came,
They’d quit the game, entire.

Then for the next few months, I found,
Those wretched ‘rounded’ toys
Were everywhere and when I stepped,
Oh, man, I made some noise.

They finally were gathered up,
Tucked with the ‘toys all past’,
No more marbles underfoot,
And peace restored at last.

Now it’s been years since marble games
Back in those times of yore,
And quite a while since marbles
Lay forgotten on the floor.

When one could step out any time
And tromp upon a few,
Then throw those little beggars out,
While language would ensue.

Now what I’d give to find a couple,
(One or two would do),
Cause I’ve lost ALL my marbles,
And I sure could use a few.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So all of us together, we,

Have posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

Delores

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we’re going to get’er done,
And talk about some Summer Fun!

Grampa-Sour

Husby is known for his hoard of treats. Maybe I should capitalize the word 'Hoard'. Because that would be more accurate.
Some time ago, when our chicks and chicklets were visiting, Grandpa brought out something he hadn't produced for a while. Dino-sours.
And no, that isn't a typo . . .
They proved to be a great favourite. Again.
Littlest man (LM) was quite captivated and proved that he could shove quite a number in his mouth before he was caught and emptied by his mother.
He hovered around that bowl of gummy, sweet and sour deliciousness until it was well and truly empty.
Then they went home.
A few days later, that same little family was shopping at Costco.
(Our favourite place on earth.)
While walking slowly up the fairly extensive candy aisle, a display of those delicious dinosaur treats appeared.
LM toddled over and pointed excitedly. "Grampa!" he said clearly.
How would you like to be remembered?

Spilt Milk

This post may or may not be described as 'icky'.

Sorry.

Yummy deliciousness. Not.

Milk. That commodity touted as one of the world’s most perfect foods. So important to growing bones and teeth. Or so it was described in the 50’s.
Like other ranching families, the Stringams had their own milk production system.
Bossy.
Not an original name, but at least it gave her a slight distinctive edge over 53. And 175. And 92. And . . . you get the picture.
Bossy was gentle. Quiet. Dependable. Everything a milk cow should be. Her milk production was high. Higher than most dairy cows. For that reason, she had been a family fixture for many years.
She also had a problem. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Every morning Dad, or one of the hired men, would carry home a galvanized steel pail filled with warm, rich, frothy milk, compliments of Bossy. This milk was then poured through a straining cloth into another pail and ‘purified’, then poured into sterilized jars.
The jars of still-warm milk were distributed to the various households on the ranch. Bossy was truly a remarkable cow to fill the needs of so many.
In the evening, the same procedure was repeated, only the captured milk was poured through the separator and the resultant thick, rich cream used for such remarkable things as ice cream, cream puffs, pastries, and many other treats aptly designed to satisfy the sweet tooth of every child - and most of the adults - living there.
The milk from which the cream had been removed, or ‘blue’ (skim) milk was given to the pigs, who thought they were in heaven.
It was a prefect system. Not a drop wasted.
Then the milk . . . changed.
At first, Dad thought the cow had gotten into a patch of weeds. Not an unknown thing on any ranch. The result of such a change in diet usually reflected, quickly but briefly, in the milk.
Onions make for a really . . . interesting . . . milk flavour. But I digress . . .
For some time, the milk continued to taste strange. But the processes remained the same. The milk was distributed. Separated. Consumed.
Then the rebellions started. Small at first.
“Mom, this milk tastes icky (real word)!”
“You’re imagining things, dear. Drink it.”
“Mom, it stinks!”
“Drink!”
Then larger.
“Mom if I have to drink one more glass of that milk, I’m going to be sick!”
“You need the calcium! Now drink!”
Mom was not unaware that the milk was distinctly off. But she was very concerned about giving her growing family the nutrition they needed.
Occasionally, she would bring home a container of milk from the store.
Which disappeared. Magically.
And also coined another phrase. “I’m going to stop buying this milk! You kids just drink it!”
Ummmm . . .
Finally, Mom got to the point where, if anyone complained about the milk, she would taste it, smack her lips appreciatively and say, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
As time passed, she got more and more creative in trying to get the horrible stuff past our pre-adolescent taste buds. She put it into puddings. Soups. Desserts.
And still we whined.
Then that glorious day. Dad went out to milk . . . and found the cow dead.
Really dead.
Hardware disease. Not uncommon and distinctly nasty.
Poor Bossy.
Our celebrations could be heard in Lethbridge.
An autopsy revealed what the rest of us had suspected for three long years. That the cow had something seriously wrong.
She had, some time while grazing, ingested a piece of metal and it had become lodged in her system, affecting her milk production. Eventually, it had worked its way through something important internally, and had been the cause of her death. Now you have to know that my Dad was a vet and, through the years, had given her every available test to see just what was wrong. And she remained bright-eyed and shiny-coated right to the bitter (I use this word intentionally) end.
Some things you just can't see...
There was no grieving.
Dad bought a new cow. A healthy, young one. And the ‘milk distribution system’ resumed as though it had never been interrupted.
With one important change. Whenever any of us was given a glass of milk, we would sniff it suspiciously. Even forty-five years after the described events.
Old habits die hard.
Kind of like our cow.

There is a codicil.
Years later, when my family and I were attending my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my children and I performed a skit. They were seated around a picnic table and I poured each of them an imaginary glass of milk, which they then ‘drank’.
Clutching their throats, each then succumbed to the terrible poison that had been ingested. Gasping out their last breaths, one by one, they collapsed onto the grass beneath the table, twitched a few times, then lay still. I picked up one of the imaginary glasses, pretended to take a drink, smacked my lips and said, “What’s wrong with that milk? There’s nothing wrong with that milk! It tastes just fine!”
At which point my eldest brother leaped to his feet and shouted, “IT DID! IT TASTED THAT BAD!!!”
Spill this milk. Please.

Planting Panties

Mom, Chris and Jerry

Mom was a gardener. 

One of those . . . mmmajor gardeners. 

I’m almost certain that her garden produced enough to feed the entire country of England . . . or Russia . . . or the entire southern hemisphere . . . or . . . someone stop me! 

And because Mom was a gardener, her kids were gardeners, albeit reluctant ones. On any given day, you could find one bonneted head and several younger heads bent over the various plants, being more or less productive. 

We all had our assignments.

I was four. My job was to lose interest and wander aimlessly about.
Oh, and eat peas.
Our family produce patch covered about 2 acres, give or take. The rows were probably about 40 feet long, but to a four-year-old, they stretched to Argentina. (I didn’t exactly know where that was, but it had a sort of far away-ish sound to it.) The patch was surrounded by pine trees. Tall, lush, they had been planted by my father in his youth – now that is a story – and now provided perfect shade for a small body who wanted to be out with the others but suffered from a short attention span.
So there I sat, whiling away the hours. Mostly, I lay on the cool grass and made life miserable for the ants and other small, harmless creatures. But deep beneath the overhanging branches of the towering pines were patches of dirt. And I discovered that it was fun to dig in that dirt and – don’t tell my mother – plant things.
But what would a four-year-old have to plant? All pea seeds had gone into the mouth. Hmmm. The pods were there. No sooner thought than done. 

What else? Shoes? Those had been kicked off when I had first hit the garden and were now lying abandoned in one of the rows, waiting to be discovered by the roto-tiller. 

Taking stock, I discovered that my feet were at least partially covered by . . . ahem . . . formerly white socks. They slipped off easily. A little furrow in the dirt and voila! A perfect place for a future ‘sock tree’. What else. The gardening bug had hit. I just had to plant! I just had to plant!
My mother had tried to instill in me the need for modesty, so removing anything obvious, like blouse or skirt was not even considered. What else did I have that I really didn’t need? I had it! Panties. 

Now I probably don't have to tell you that panties and me already had a history.

But I'll save that for another day.

These panties were the cute, blue ones, with little darker blue flowers. They would produce something lovely, I was sure! Off they came, and into the little trench dug specifically for them. I patted the dirt into place. Perfect. Job completed, I crawled out from under the tree. Mom was down the row of beans just in front of me, sitting back on her heels and waving her bonnet in front of a flushed face. She turned and smiled at me. Obviously, she had noticed nothing.
Feeling giddy with a sense of accomplishment, I joined her, offering to help pick the beans. She nodded gratefully and I squatted in my abbreviated skirts to begin.
I remember a gasp followed by a short period of 'question and answer'. Then strong hands propelling me unceremoniously back to my ‘garden’. 

I was ordered to dig up every article buried there. I stared up at her, aghast. The whole garden? Socks AND panties?
With an aggrieved air, I began to half-heartedly push at the dirt, only to uncover . . . nothing. I dug deeper. Still nothing. Where could they be? 

I crawled out from under the tree and stared up at it. Was I in the right place? I looked at the tree next to it. Surely. How could I be mistaken? 

Back into my ‘hidden garden’ which, incidentally, was becoming more hidden by the minute. 

We never did recover the things I had buried, though my mother turned up the dirt beneath every tree surrounding the garden. Where could they have gone? We’ll never know, now, but if being a successful gardener means planting things, I am an expert. 

If it also means that something is supposed to grow? 

I’m not.

Barnyard Lull-aby

The Stringam Wagon Train

I suppose it will come as no surprise that I love horses.
All horses.
And therein hangs a tail. (Did you see what I did there?)
On the ranch, everything ran like clockwork. Cows were milked. Cattle, horses, chickens and pigs fed, eggs gathered, meals served. One never had to look at a clock to know what time it was. You could tell merely by observing the natural rhythm of the operations that were an integral part of ranch life.
But that has only a peripheral connection to this story.
I loved horses. And I was a natural with them. I could climb on the back of the most dastardly villain the corral had to offer and handle him with ease.
I spent most of my waking hours with the horses.
And some of my sleeping ones, as you will learn . . .
During the day, my four-year-old self was fairly useless. I wandered here and there, usually sticking close to the barn, but occasionally breaking with tradition and getting into trouble in some other area.
(Chickens and I have a history, but that is another story.)
On this particular day, mealtime was fast approaching.

Okay, we're back to that 'rhythm' thingy.

Now I could always be counted on to appear for meals.
The bell (from a genuine for-reals steam engine) would ring and inform all and sundry – including total strangers living in Timbuktu – that it was time for everyone on the Stringam Ranch to head to the house because something truly wonderful was waiting there.
My Mom was a terrific cook.
The bell rang.
People assembled.
No Diane.
How could this be? She was always underfoot. Particularly at mealtimes.
Dad began to worry. He questioned the men.
Had any of them seen her?
Bud had shooed her away from the cow he was milking by singing ‘Danny Boy’. A guaranteed ‘Diane repellent’.
Al thought he had seen her going into the shed behind the barn, where the horses were.
Dad got to his feet. This was serious.
He headed for the barn.
The horses could come and go at will on the Stringam ranch. Mostly they preferred 'go'. But occasionally, when it was too hot or too cold, and because they were--basically--wussies, and lazy, they would hang around under the shed beside the barn and eat the hay that they didn’t have to stalk and kill themselves.
It was to this intrepid group that Dad went. He could see tails swishing as he approached. Usually, that meant that they were there.
He approached quietly, careful not to spook them.
A spooked horse is a stupid horse . . . well, actually most horses are st . . . oh, never mind.
He slipped carefully in under the shade. He patted one horse and slid between two others, and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
Then he saw it. Back in the corner.
Something peculiar.
A horse with . . . something on its back.
He patted another rump and moved a little closer.
The horses started to shift a bit.
Dad had finally moved far enough through the herd that he could see into the corner.
See the smallest pony, drooping in front of the manger, with a little girl turned backward on his back, her head on the wide, soft rump.
The rest of her in dreamland.
He had found me, but now for the tricky part. How to wake me without spooking the herd. If he spoke, the horses would surely work out the fact that it was a man standing among them and use that excuse to start running.
Or dancing.
Or playing chess.
You never know with horses.
He would have to take the chance. “Diane,” he whispered.
“Mmm?”
“Diane,” he said again, a little louder.
My eyes opened.
“Diane.” A third time.
I sat up and frowned at him. “What.”
“Time for dinner.”
Success. And who knew a four-year-old could move that fast?

Woe-Hawk

Hair is a renewable resource.

Dyed. Cut. Whatever.
Within a few weeks, whatever outrageous style had been conceived and achieved, is vastly changed.
For these reasons, I never balked when my kids wanted something new. Hair-wise. I dyed my son's hair blue when he asked. And I gave my sons Mohawks--ditto.
When we arrived at Daddy's apartment for a visit, he was less than...enthusiastic about their choice of style.
Until I dragged out the ol' photo album and pointed to the above picture. Taken when Daddy was sixteen. (He's the one on the right.) And leaving him without the proverbial ‘leg to stand on’.
Now I'll let my dear cousin, Anne Stringam Tingle take over the story...

Diane -
I knew enough when I was a little girl to find this story funny. I was a little scared of Grandpa - he was quite stern, but I knew that what Mark had done was hilarious to everyone, except probably Grandpa. Certainly, Mark thought it was a huge kick.
I loved your Dad very much.
Anne 

I was a little girl living on the Milk River Ranch with my parents when my Uncle Mark was a cool cocky college student working on the ranch for the summer.
Grandpa and Grandma Stringam spent a lot of time at the ranch: Grandpa teaching my dad how to run a complex ranch operation and Grandma teaching my mum how to be a ranch wife and how to cook for hay and harvest crews as well as a bunkhouse full of hungry cowboys.
One lunchtime, after Mark had been sent into town for some baler parts, he trooped into the kitchen with the other ranch hands. They all knew the routine - wash hands and hang up your hat on the hooks in the entrance.
Mark swept off his hat to reveal a sassy, fresh mohawk hair cut.
There was complete silence as Grandpa slowly surveyed the desecrated cranium. Finally, he spoke: “The house rule and common courtesy requires that men remove their hats at the table. Mark, in your case, we will make an exception. Go get your hat.”
Later that summer, after the mohawk grew out, it wasn’t quite as sensational when Mark got a reverse mohawk (with the middle strip shaved and sides left long).
However, Grandpa reinstated the hat rule at the table - every man bare-headed, except Mark.

There is a codicil: Dad told my brother that the reason he and Roule Gilchrist (in the picture with Dad) got a Mohawk in the first place was because Aunt Mary (Anne's mom) bet Dad 5 bucks that he wouldn't.
Ha!

In the Trees

I'm cheating a little for this week's Poetry Monday.

The topic is camping.

And I'm reusing a poem I published a couple of years ago.

It's even more poignant to me today . . .

Each summer, since the dawn of time,

We’d pack our kids and dogs and gear

With plans to spend a week, sublime

And frolic with the bears and deer.

For camping was our family ‘thing’,

Anticipated through the year,

And, oh, what praises they would sing

When finally, the time was here.

We parents’d sit beside the fire

And eat and laugh and shoot the breeze,

While younger legs who’d never tire

Would charge together through the trees.

With shouts and laughter as they ran,

Or giggles, hopefully suppressed.

‘Hide and Seek’ and ‘Kick the Can’

And ‘Find the Flag’ and all the rest.

When daylight waned, called back to camp

To spend a moment round the flames.

And crown the glowing, happy champs,

Then plan for the Tomorrow's games.

What fun to hear those voices shout,

And watch their progress through the trees.

To see them scurrying about

On fleetest feet; or hands and knees.

Time’s gone by. It’s what it does.

And still, we’re camping in the trees.

But something’s missing now, because

There’s silence floating on the breeze.

We parent’s camp, as we have done,

With tales to tell and wood to hew,

But in the trees, there is no one,

No voices yelling, “I’ve found you!”

We tell ourselves it’s peaceful, true,

As restful as someone could wish,

We do the things we want to do,

Like eat and nap and swim and fish.

At night, we stare into the flames

And talk about the times long past.

When woods would ring with noisy games

And summer days forever last.

But now our kids are raising theirs.

And time’s a thing that’s hard to find,

And spending days with deer and bear’s

A priority that’s far behind.

Oh, what I’d give for one more day,

When simple fun brought endless joy,

When games would pass the time away,

And woods would echo with the noise.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So all of us together, we,

Have posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

Delores

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?