Friendship

My heart was aching, woes amassed,

I’d trauma in my recent past,

So when she called to see if I

Could watch her babies by and by,

I turned her down, while pleading woe,

“Give me a year for good to grow,”

And so she did, and called again,

(I was doing somewhat better, then)

I took her girls, tow-headed pair,

They joined with my kids then and there,

Two families became as one,

Us—family herd, her—single Mom,

I learned from her, she learned from me,

But most, she taught what friends could be.

Sometimes I think of days long past,

When hearts were heavy, woes amassed,

And how I could have turned her down,

Allowed myself—through grief—to drown,

And what I would have missed, if I

Said no, when she, to me, applied,

Through her service, love and ‘time well spent’,

I learned what ‘Friendship’ really meant!

 

This poem has been an exercise

If, from a theme, we could devise

To craft a poem, both wise and new,

And present our labours here, to you!

So tell us what you really think

Of what we've hewed in pen and ink,

We’d like to hear (if you don’t mind),

Be truthful now. Or else be kind! J

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Lydia at Cluttered Genius

Dying Right

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. There are so many stories of the courage and bravery of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for those of us who followed.
Here is one.

Richard Rowland Kirkland was eighteen when he enlisted in the Confederate Army in 1861, shortly after war had been declared. 
By 1862, Richard had seen many of his closest friends from Kershaw County killed and had fought in some of the largest battles. 
In December of that year, his unit found itself in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

This is the story of that battle...

Richard Rowland Kirkland

Just eighteen when he enlisted,
Richard offered his support,
Of Confederates, his group consisted,
They, the Union army’d thwart!
 
Within a year, from Kershaw County,
To closest friends, he’d said adieu,
In battles, large, they’d paid the bounty,
And death’s dark veil they hurried through.
 
In Fredericksburg, there came that fight,
8,000 Union soldiers shot,
Though some were dead at Marye’s Heights,
There’re many hundreds that were not.
 
Their cries and moans of pain and thirst,
Assaulted ears of South and North,
T’ween this and battle, this was worst,
They needed aid. Someone go forth!
 
For hours those cries were unrelenting,
But no one hearing, offered aid,
For fear they, too would be consenting
Targets. If from their lines they strayed.
 
Then Richard, he could stand no more.
Defied the band of army ‘law’,
Behind the lines of his own corps,
Approached his gen’ral Joe Kershaw.
 
“I’ve got to help!” young Richard told him,
“A flag of truce to bring me home?”
The older officer just looked grim,
And told him he was on his own.
 
So Richard packed what he could carry,
Blankets, canteens by the pound,
Crossed that ‘No Man’s Land’ so scary,
Reached the first, then started round.
 
No one fired as our young ‘fighter’,
Dealt compassion by the hour,
Making wounded’s burdens lighter,
Serving with empathic power.
 
Kindnesses are oft found missing,
When we tell the tales of war,
One fact, we should not be dismissing,
Of Richard Kirkland’s we need more.
 
Our Richard took a fatal blow,
During Chickamauga’s fight,
"I'm done for," said the 20-year-old.
“Tell my Pa that I died right."
 

Domest(ick) Incident

 

They’d been married one week, plus a day,

Sylvester and his good wife, May.

And May thought she should mark the date,

With something special for her mate.

 

A chicken dinner was her plan

She dug out pot and frying pan,

Consulted her mom’s recipes,

For gastronomic ecstasies.

 

All afternoon, she cooked and stirred,

By love for her Sylvester, spurred,

At last she had the table set,

With goodies from her kitchenette.

 

She heard his step upon the stair,

And quickly pulled him to his chair,

He saw the things that she had done

And gently hugged his Honey-bun.

 

They ate enthusiastically,

Of fluffy spuds and buttered peas,

And other dishes by the score,

Each one, another to adore.

 

But when the crowning plate arrived,

So very prettily contrived,

He carved, and laid the pieces down,

And poured out fine, rich gravy; brown.

 

Then the anticipated taste,

And, suddenly, his smile displaced.

“My dear,” he said, with quite a sniff,

“What did you stuff the chicken with?”

 

She smiled upon him brilliantly,

Then sighed and answered blissfully,

“That part, I didn’t have to follow,

For the chicken wasn’t hollow!”

 

Cause 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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week from Mimi, with our love,

Are NEWSPAPERS (or memories of)!

So Similar Siblings

Three little boys were playing around the cul-de-sac in Camper’s Village.

All three were armed with swords—or variations on a theme.

Their play had ranged through the trees, behind the neighbour’s RV, past the water spigot, through the bathrooms, over the garbage receptacles and ‘not too far now, Amos!’ into the woods that surrounded us.

Over gravelled street, flagged guy rope, thickly-needled path and grassy knoll.

It was this last in which they came to grief.

The three had just achieved their goal—the very tiptop of the evil king’s castle—and were ready to proclaim their justly-deserved triumph when one bumped the other (who knows how these things start?) and the smallest one fell backward onto his little sturdily-covered bottom.

He landed on the ground with a thump and a gasped out ‘****!’.

His startled mother provided comfort and then hurried instruction pertaining to appropriate language for appropriate moments.

A short time later, three small squirrels, brothers or sisters or a combination of the two were playing in the trees in the cul-de-sac in Camper’s Village.

All three were armed with shrill voices—or variations on a theme.

Their play ranged through said trees, our campsite, the neighbour’s campsite, the common area, and at least one stand of thick forest grass.

Over outhouse, parked cars, two sleeping dogs, three picnic tables, one startled camper and up the largest tree.

It was this last in which they came to grief.

The three had just achieved their goal—the very tiptop of the greatest tree—and were loudly proclaiming their triumph when one bumped the other (who knows how these things start?) and the smallest one fell backward onto his furry tail.

He landed on the ground with a thump and a gasped out ‘****!’.

His mother appeared in a nearby tree and chittered at him loudly, noises we campers assumed were words of comfort and hurried instruction pertaining to appropriate language for appropriate moments.

This happened exactly as presented here. Both stories.

Doesn’t it just prove the point: In some ways, we’re—all of us—exactly alike?

Terror in the Night

This post is a departure for me.

I don't often make political statements or comment on world situations.
I choose instead to dwell in the past.
It's peaceful there.
But I had an experience . . .

I’ve always thought that I lived in a safe, peaceful world.
As much as anyone could at a time when acts of terror are delivered up with our morning coffee.
Let’s face it, when one lives miles from the nearest town and many more miles from the nearest city, the chances of world-attention-grabbing incidents are few.
But on that night, I had a soupçon of what the rest of the world is enduring . . .
We were on holiday.
Suffice it to say we were deep in the Canadian north woods.
A place of few ‘civilized’ comforts.
Where an early-morning discussion of a group of Ravens or the scramble and squabble of a family of squirrels through the trees is much more likely than the reality of a newspaper or an early-morning commute.
We had been there over a week.
And in that period had witnessed—several times—the glorious and awe-inspiring fury of a summer storm, but only caught the barest whiff of the latest heinous world-wide assaults.
It had been wonderful to be able, just for a time, to let the world and its pain pass by us.
That night, we said good-night to our neighbors and ducked inside our dependable little tent.
The usual night sounds lulled us and we settled peacefully into sleep.
Then, at 3:00 AM, I was jerked suddenly from my slumber.
Someone was screaming.
A hoarse male voice.
Screaming.
Then I heard the sounds of others.
Also shouting.
At one point, they began to chant.
Then more screaming.
And, the most terrifying of all, the pounding of dozens—could it be hundreds?— of feet on the ground.
Were they growing closer?
Okay, in this morning light, I know now that it was probably a drunken group of holidayers, maybe watching a drinking game or contest of some sort.
But at the time, in the dark of a moonless night, when one is snatched from a deep sleep to unfamiliar surroundings, the sound was terrifying.
Maybe it was because of the real and constant danger that seems to be closing in on us in these dark days.
Maybe it was my own vivid imagination.
But for a while, I felt what millions of people the world over feel every single day.
Terror.
Helplessness.
Waiting for the inevitable juggernaut of twisted power to overtake and crush us.
Unlike those peoples, I awoke in my peaceful little world.
Unscathed.
Secure.
But, just for a moment, I had a glimpse.
And my heart is now truly theirs.

Getting Badgered

Yes.

No.

The Stringam ranch sprawled out over many, many miles.

And took many hands to cover.

My Dad was twelve and had happily, and of necessity, joined the ranks of the ranch-employed aboard the first horse he could truly call his own.

The recently-broke and still fairly green, Queenie.

His pride and joy.

His first assignment was to keep an eye on the bulls.

I should point out, here, that the bulls were kept in the South pasture.

A vast, open field which went on forever.

With an outer fence that also went on forever.

Back to my story . . .

This fence had to be constantly patrolled.

On the other side of it were the Community Pastures.

Filled with . . . community cattle.

All female.

And none pregnant.

A state which their owners wished to preserve.

So someone had to explain to the bulls that any form of interaction was distinctly discouraged.

Hourly.

This was Dad's job. Make sure that the fence was doing its job.

Keeping the heifers on the one side . . .

And the bulls on the other.

But bulls are, after all, bulls.

And when the siren song goes off in their vicinity, they must answer.

With voice and/or action.

Usually action.

What's a paltry five lines of tightly-stretched barbed wire when love is calling to you from the other side?

They would ignore it as if it wasn't there.

And that's where Dad came in.

At a gallop.

Chase the bulls back.

Fix the fence.

He got pretty good at his job.

One day, he was riding along the fence.

Everything was unusually calm.

Then, something moved.

A brown head poked up out of the great sea of grass.

A brown head with darker brown stripes.

Badger.

Dad had never seen a badger close up.

He turned Queenie towards it.

It turned away from them and started off across the prairie.

They followed.

It ran faster.

They pursued faster.

After a few minutes of this, the badger had had enough . . . umm . . . badgering.

He turned and attacked.

Well. Hissed.

At this point, Queenie decided she was finished with this adventure.

Dad could go it alone.

She piled him, forceably, into the prairie dust.

And left him there.

Dad screamed and jumped to his feet, certain that his beloved horse had landed him on the badger.

Or near enough that the badger would soon be on him.

He pictured teeth and claws.

And ravening. He wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded nasty.

He looked frantically around.

Nothing.

The badger had disappeared completely.

He took a deep breath of relief, then recovered his horse and continued with his job.

Dad decided, then and there, that the only four-footed animals he and Queenie would chase would be the big ones with hooves.

And horns.

They were safer.

Building. Or destroying.

 This is as political as I get. Because it is a politically important day.

 I live in the seventh-fastest growing city in Canada.
True story.
Of course, with the pandemic, that statistic may have slowed somewhat.
But only slowed.
During my thrice-daily walks, I still see a lot of construction. Houses. Businesses. Streets and infrastructure.
At one of the three schools near me, a portable fence was erected a couple of weeks ago. Then men and machines appeared and scrabbling began. Great heaps of earth were thrown up and men and smaller machines boiled about the site.
Finally, their project progressed enough that an actual structure began to take recognizable shape.
Ah. A future ice rink.
One of several that passed through city planning a few months ago.
As I stood and watched those men in their so-productive activities, I was suddenly reminded of something my dad said years (and years) ago.
“Louie,” he said.
He called me Louie. Just FYI.
“Louie, everyone in the world has a need to make their mark. The weak do it by destroying. The strong do it by building. You have to decide which you are. One of the weak? Or one of the strong.
Will you make your mark by destroying?
Or by building?”
I’ve often thought about Daddy’s wise words.
Because, of course, he wasn’t speaking strictly of things created with hammers and nails.
He was also speaking of relationships.
Of business models.
Of governments.
Of living.
On this day of days, when so much is being decided by my beloved brothers and sisters to the south, I am again asking my father’s question: Are you going to make your mark by destroying?
Or by building.
My prayers are with you.

More Than Learning

 I know you might find this one hard to believe,

But after grade three, teachers had a reprieve,

I followed the rules and did what I was told,

While others cut up, I’as not cheeky. Nor bold!

And so to my Dad, and his ‘doings’ gigantic,

I’ve had to resort for this week’s ‘High School Antic’!  

Dad and his Partner-In-Crime, Mom

Now my Dad, and his friends (not sure which the trailblazer),

Tried all sorts of shenanigans, (bunch of hell-raisers!),

From ‘car-theft’ at 10 to work-pranks at fifteen,

And lots more tomfooleries betwixt and between,

But one of my favourites pops up to the top,

In more ways than one, as you’ll see ‘fore I stop.

See, Dad was mechanical, and understood gears,

And had to support him a large group of peers,

The bunch of them (this is just how mischief spreads…)

Got a prank of significance into their heads,

Their high school headmaster was a man good and true,

Did his best for his kids, to them knowledge imbued,

He wasn’t a man of material means,

What he had was well-used, often mocked by his teens.

He had an old car, a ‘jalopy’ some said,

It had seen a few years, part alive and part dead,

Well, one day those boys, without much of a ‘think’,

Disassembled that car just as quick as a wink,

With wrenches and tools that they brought in from home,

Thus ensuring that old car would ne’er again roam,

Now your thoughts on this matter are surely allied,

Your thinking those boys needed well-warmed backsides,

Please know ‘fore you drag the switch out (to disproof),

The boys re-assembled it.

Up on the roof.

 

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,

With POETRY, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

 

Next week, we’ve something you won’t hate

‘A Domestic Incident’ from Spike’s Best Mate!

Trading Up

Horse trading.

A term that doesn’t necessarily include horses.

My Father-In-Law, Ray Tolley, hereinafter known as FIL, was a master at the Art.

How do you get to be a master?

Continue and see my young apprentice . . .

FIL, when he left the farm, always wore a fedora. A smart, jaunty fedora.

His old one was getting . . . less than smart.

And a degree off jaunty.

He was in need of a new hat.

A fact that coincided with a 1960 trip into Montana with his wife and kids.

While they shopped elsewhere, FIL went into the local millinery (hat shop) and looked around.

Several possibilities immediately presented themselves.

And quickly narrowed to one.

Choice made, FIL happily carted it over to the salesman.

“This is the one I’d like,” he said.

Or words to that effect.

I wan’t there, so I’m Making It Up As I Go.

Back to my story . . .

“That’s is a fine hat, sir.” (More MIUAIG.)

“Yes. Can we make a deal?”

The salesman looked at the hat and went into his spiel. “This is one of our finest Field hats, sir. Brushed fur felt with a silk-like finish. Notice the new, open telescope shape with narrow sport brim and upper welt edge.” He pointed to the hatband. “Included is the rayon and cotton grosgrain band, with single-wing side bow and feather.” He turned the hat over. “A reeded, roan leather, cushioned sweatband and rayon, acetate lining.” He looked at FIL. “It comes in the two-tone iodeon green, and two-tone brown as well as this gray.”

See how good my imagination is? And how much you can find out on Google?

Ahem . . .

“No, I’m just interested in the grey. How much?”

“Ah. You can see that it is marked with today’s special price of $7.64.”

“Okay. Let me ask you something.” FIL took off his well-cared-for but distinctly used hat. “How much would you give me on a trade?”

A few minutes later, FIL emerged from the store wearing his smart and jaunty new hat.

MIL looked at it. “Nice. How much?”

“Well, here’s the thing. The original price was over seven dollars.”

She sucked in a breath. “Seven?!”

“Yes. But I didn’t pay that.”

She stared at him. She was used to Dad. “Okay. How much.”

“Well, you see, I traded him my old hat for this one.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He gave me $2.00 for it.”

MIL shook her head. “Why on earth would he give you $2.00 for that old hat?”

“Well, I told him that was how we did it in Canada. And he didn’t want to be outdone by some milliner in Canada. So he sold the new hat to me for $5.00 and took my old hat in trade.”

Horse trading.

It doesn’t always include horses.

But it is always entertaining.

Partner Perks

I’m old.

He’s a little older.

We’re happy.

When we married, nearly 45 years ago, I looked into his hazel eyes and thought, “All I want to do is grow old with you.”

It’s happened.

We’ve had triumphs: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work accomplishments. Good health. Peace and freedom.

We’ve had tragedies: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work setbacks. Health problems. Disharmony and shackles.

But we’ve shouldered on. Through good times and bad.

Just in case you are thinking, “Oh, my word, is she going to wade through an exposition of My Wonderful Life?” let me reassure you.

You’re not far wrong.

Because this is my usual long-winded way of getting to a story . . .

I’ve hit the wonderyears that we affectionately call mid-life.

Where nothing in my physical self seems to behave the way it used to.

The way it should.

My nights are spent vacillating between shedding and/or cocooning in my blankets. At times, both. As some parts freeze and others parboil.

Sigh.

Last night, I discovered one of the joys of growing older with someone else.

You have to know that Husby and I used to leap happily into bed without doing much more than donning PJs, scrubbing teeth and saying prayers.

Now, our evening routine is a litany of age-defying/life-augmenting practices. Ending with my careful application of wrinkle-reducing face creams and his donning of his sleep-apnea mask.

I must admit – we are quite a sight. Darth Vader meets Slime-Faced girl.

I see a horror movie in there somewhere.

Back to my story . . .

Last night, I was particularly keyed up. Who knows why.

Awake at 3 AM. Music blasting through my mind. Blankets on. Blankets off. Turn to one side. Turn to the other. Blankets on. Blankets off. Face up. Face down.

You’ve totally been there.

Meanwhile, Husby was peacefully snoozing. His machine breathing quietly.

He rolled over to face me, and my poor overheated self was suddenly enveloped in a soft, cooling breeze.

I looked up at the window, but it was as it had been. Not really doing its part to alleviate anyone’s (ie. my) discomfort.

I turned back to Husby. Then I held out a hand in front of his face.

Ah! The lovely little breeze was emanating from the exhaust port in his mask.

I laid back, smiling, and let the cool air get in its wondrous work.

Soon, I was comfortable and cocooned once more.

You have to know that growing older has its drawbacks.

But growing older with someone else yields definite perks.

Plan accordingly.

(Not Really A) Care Bear

Most of the stories told at a family reunion are of the belly-laugh variety.

Occasionally . . .

My cousin’s son-in-law worked with his dad, a contractor.

Said SIL and a friend were scouting out an area in the remote woods, looking to build a new oilwell site.

Friend was carrying a bow and arrow.

SIL was carrying a rifle.

They were walking through the Great Canadian Woods. They brought the weapons for protection.

Spoiler: They would need them.

As they were hiking, they suddenly smelled something very dead.

The two men stopped. Obviously, they were near a bear’s cache.

Should they back up?

Change course?

They chose to keep following the path, thinking they would simply by-pass the cache.

It didn’t work that way.

Ahead of them, waiting in the bushes, was a very large, very real grizzly.

With a very real attitude.

The bear went for the man with the bow, who immediately commenced running.

SIL fired three shots. Emptying his gun.

With little effect.

In fact, the only thing it did was cause the bear to change course.

From his friend.

To him.

Suddenly, he was staring into the teeth of a large omnivore and all he had to defend himself was an empty gun.

In one panicked movement, and almost without thinking, he shoved his gun, barrel first, down the bear’s throat. Right up to the scope.

It was at that moment the bear keeled over.

Dead.

At least one of the shots had finally found its mark.

The two men called Fish and Wildlife to report the tragic incident.

And received a lecture entitled: Grizzly Hunting is Really, Really Against the Law.

Something, in other circumstances, the two scouters totally agreed with. They didn't want to shoot the bear. If there had been an alternative, they definitely would have taken it.

Fish and Wildlife officers came out and surveyed the area, mapping the men’s tracks through the snow.

Studying the bear’s.

Examining the bite marks on the gun and scope.

And concluded, finally, the men were telling the truth.

The men were then informed that they were free to take the bear and have it stuffed. But once it was done, they weren’t allowed to keep it and, instead must turn it over to the government.

They learned something from this experience.

If one’s job necessitates walking through the more remote parts of the Great Canadian Woods, always, always take a Fish and Wildlife officer.

Preferably one you can outrun . . .

Mowing Smarts

Me and everyone on the ranch who was smarter than me.
(except Dad who was taking the picture. . .)

I was nine! I made it! I could do anything!
I was supergirl!
As you may have guessed, nine years old was an important time in my family.
The time when one was moved up to the next level of responsibility.
Now I could do all of the cool things that my older brothers and sister could do. Things I'd been waiting years to do.
Wonderful 'adult' things like . . . mowing the lawn.
Odd, isn't it, how exciting and attractive something looks when someone else is doing it?
And how not-exciting and not-attractive it is when suddenly, it is your responsibility?
By the second time, the thrill of mowing our acres and acres of lawn had begun to pall.
In fact, I hated it.
Maybe if there were such a thing as a really cool riding mower, I could have retained my enthusiasm.
But the fact was that we only had a small, electric unit. 
And you had to push that little cretin every square foot of the way...Oh, and watch out for the cord.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
My instructions were very specific. Always start at or near the plug-in. Then work away from it in rows.
And rows and rows and rows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorry! Got caught up in the memory . . .
Needless to say, my mind didn't stay focused on what I was doing.
In fact, it rather wandered. A bit.
One bright, sunny summer afternoon, when my horse and I could have been a small dot on the horizon, I was, once more, pushing that wretched mower.
But it wasn't all bad. Part of me - the thinking part - was off riding. Suddenly, I was rudely made aware of just why we are supposed to keep our minds at least in the vicinity of what we are doing.
The mower . . . quit.
Just like that.
Dead.
There were some tell-tale sparks in the lawn, if one cared to look, but other than that, the stupid thing had just suddenly become lifeless.
I narrowed my eyes and began my investigation.
Aha! A cord. That just . . . ended. Snapped off as though it had been . . . cut. I searched around for the other end. There it was! Lying in the grass! Now how do you suppose . . .
The truth hit me like one of Dad's yearling bulls. I had done the unspeakable. The unpardonable.
I HAD MOWED THE CORD.
Soon, if Dad found out, I was going to be as dead as this mower.
I had to fix it.
I grabbed the two ends. Maybe if I just put them back together, they will magically join . . .
I sometimes wonder just how many guardian angels I wore out during my growing up years on the ranch. I think I went through them at an alarming rate.
But they were good at what they did.
There was an enormous explosion and a First-of-July amount of sparklers.
I dropped those two ends like they were hot.
Which they probably were.
And headed for my dad.
He just shook his head and followed me to the scene of the crime. Then he unplugged the live end of the cord (funny that I didn't think of that) and with a few quick strokes and some electrician's tape, mended everything.
Good as new.
I sat there in the un-mown grass and watched him work.
He got to his feet. "Okay, Diane, back to work. And watch the cord a bit more carefully."
I stared up at him.
After that traumatic experience he was going to make me get 'back on the horse'? (Something I would loved to have done, in reality.)
He smiled and turned away.
He was! He actually meant for me to start mowing again!
I looked at the couple of swaths I had completed.
Then at the millions of swaths left to do.
I reached out and tentatively flipped the switch. My trusty little cohort hummed into life.
Sigh.
I started pushing.
Okay. Careful of the cord. Always keep it between you and the plug-in. Be watchful. Be wary . . .
Oooh! Look at that hill. Soon my pony and I will be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
And yet another guardian angel sighs as he is called into service.

Being Inoculated

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggars.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These three statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.
But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots