SSS Shirttail

Ready to ride

I had been Dad's herdsman for two months. I knew everything about cattle. Their needs. Their peculiarities. Not.

But I loved the job.

Every morning, I would drag out whatever goofball horse I was currently riding, tack up, and be off to check the herd.

This is a bit more complex than the statement suggests.

Yes, I would ride around the field. (I'd like to point out here that the aforementioned 'field' was roughly the size of a good-sized town.) And yes, riding around it was pure joy to anyone as horse-crazy as I. But I also had to be on the look-out for any cows getting ready to calve. Having trouble calving. Already calved. And anything else remotely resembling cows, calves and all their antecedent and potentially fatal problems.

Thus, the most important of my duties was watching alertly for signs of a cow having trouble.

This wasn't always easy to spot. For one thing, a cow preparing to give birth will hide herself so completely that she cannot be found. Even with GPS.

Cows are funny that way.

Any other bodily function, they are happy to share with anyone and everyone. If they can do it, you are welcome to watch.

But when they are in labor (yes, they do experience labor) they head for nearest secret spot. Very, very secret. So secret that . . . well, let me put it this way. If bin Laden had been hidden by a cow preparing to calve, he never would have been found.

I must confess, I missed some of them in my travels.

Most of them were fine and I would ride out the next day and spot yet another little red and white baby 'hidden' in the tall grass.

Some weren't, and those either required immediate help.

or burial.

Ranching can be a brutal business.

On this particular bright and sunny spring day, I had just started my sweep. I was feeling particularly cheerful because the days were getting noticeably warmer and most of the snow was gone.

I directed my horse along the north side of the pasture, heading east. There were less trees there and movement was easy. Then I swung back, just inside the tree line.

There! A suspicious patch of red! I slid off my horse and investigated. Sure enough, a cow. An almost completely exhausted cow.

I circled her quietly, trying to see the business end of things.
Yes, definitely calving. As I watched, she strained.
But something was wrong. She had obviously been at this a while, but was making no visible progress.
I finally got a clear view of her back end. I could see a pink calf's nose.
And one little white hoof.

I must point out here that a calf normally presents with a little pink nose and two little white hooves. All is well. It's two front feet and head enter the world together, followed immediately by the rest of the body, a stubby white-tipped tail and two little rear hooves.

The appearance of one hoof means that the little guy is trying to come through with one foot and leg tucked behind him, forcing the shoulder to bulge.

Making him entirely the wrong shape to come via the normal entrance.

There are only two solutions: Push the calf back inside and quickly, very quickly, get your hand around that recalcitrant hoof and pull it forward. Or find a vet for an immediate caesarian.

My dad was a vet and could easily have performed the needed surgery. But there was over a mile between him and my patient.

I considered my options for a very brief time. Then decided on option two. I jumped on my horse and proceeded to herd my uncomfortable mother-to-be towards the ranch buildings.

We made it halfway across the field.

She wasn't making any detours and the straightest route to the gate was over the last remaining snow bank. She tried to push through. She didn't get very far.

She sank into the drift with a groan and . . . stayed there.

I immediately slid off my horse again and approached.

By this point, the poor thing was oblivious to my presence. I had a very short time to do something and very few tools at my disposal to do it with.

I looked down at my shirt, a long-sleeved, button-up variety. It would have to do.

Placing a gentle hand on that little nose, I shoved the calf back inside it's mother.

Then I slid my hand in beside it and felt for that wayward hoof.

There it was! I cupped it in my hand and pulled it forward.

It slid easily.

I released my hold on the wet nose and it slid towards light and life once more. But this time, it was accompanied by two hooves.

I stripped off my shirt, tied the sleeves around each of those little feet and, bracing a boot against the mamma's backside, heaved.

The little, shivering, wet calf slid out.

Into my lap.

Ewww.

But any disgust or outright repugnance was immediately dispelled when the little guy (yes, it was a boy) shook his head and I heard those wet ears slap weakly against his head.

He was alive!

Belying the manner in which she had entered the snow bank, the mother immediately struggled to her feet and turned around to see her new baby.

Ignoring me completely (maybe I was a part of the landscape by now . . .) she started licking him.

He bleated softly and she 'mmmmm-ed' at him.

I was no longer needed. I took myself off for home.

And a bath.

There is a codicil.

My father raised only purebred Polled Hereford cattle. And each animal was required to have its own registration papers. I can still picture him seated at his desk, trying to come up with imaginative names that not only identified the animal, but also connected it in some way to its parents.

The naming of my little calf posed no such difficulty.

Daddy named him SSS Shirttail.

No explanations needed.

The Fire-WORKS

Grant . . . Don't ask

My husband, Grant, loves fire. Really. When we lived on the farm, our neighbours always knew when he was home. Inevitably, his presence was betrayed by the large column of smoke emanating from our property. And his tall figure silhouetted against the flames, happily stirring in whatever garbage he had been able to find.

Our farm was amazingly trash-free.

After our move to the city, his love of fire had, of necessity, to be squelched. For the good of the neighbourhood. And our own personal safety. Neighbours can be notoriously crabby when it comes to garbage fires in their back yards.

For these reasons, he commuted his love of fire to a love of fire . . . works. They sizzled. They sparked. They exploded. They were a budding ‘pyro’s’ citified dream. They filled the void left by his unfortunate, but necessary, separation from fire.

He began a tradition. Fireworks on New Year’s Day. It was a relatively safe time. The world heavily coated in fire retardant – commonly called snow. Everyone in a festive mood, ready to celebrate.

Permits and regulations were disregarded. One merely had to invite the mayor and his family over for dinner and a show to get around those. Who’s going to ticket the mayor?

We won’t go there . . .

There was a large snow bank in a field just outside of the town limits. Perfect for the display. An array of fireworks, chosen specifically from the abundant possibilities, were thrust, carefully but firmly, into this bank to hold them steady before their spectacular flight.

Grant had things organized. Our second son and his friend were on hand to light things up. Strictly in order. Chaos controlled. Explosions only on his command.

The stage was set.

The first sparklers went off without a hitch. Starlight exploded in the sky. Red, Green, White, Blue. The display was dazzling. We oohed and aahed on cue. Everything was proceeding well.

Then the event.

One candle had ideas of its own. Not a good thing when you’re a firework. It went up, but before it could fulfill the measure of its creation, its trajectory . . . changed somewhat. Straight down, in fact. Into the box of remaining fireworks.

For a moment, Grant stared at it, perhaps too shocked and surprised to really take in what had just happened. The firework spluttered warningly. He screamed. Not a good sound in the middle of a fireworks display. In an amazingly graceful leap, he cleared the snow bank, taking the two boys with him. The three of them landed in an ungainly heap. Then, totally abandoning dignity, they scrambled frantically for the nearest shelter as the real fireworks display began behind them.

It was like a scene out of a movie. For several minutes, the crackers fizzed and shot everywhere, sending up showers of sparks from wherever they happened to land. A few even made their way skyward. It was spectacular. Amazing. Fun. Everyone screamed and laughed . . . and ducked.

Then . . . silence.

After waiting several minutes, Grant finally figured it was safe to move. He crawled behind the snow bank, using knees and elbows. Sort of like a soldier approaching a bunker. A very cold, snowy bunker. With exploding things inside it.

Yes, just like a bunker.

He emerged some time later holding the still-smoking box, with the remnants of his collection and a very chagrined face.

Fortunately, no one was injured. But Grant never again held a fireworks display. For one thing, he was out of fireworks. For another - how could he ever top that?

Ring Around the Collar

Me and GollyGee

Not using a saddle really did pose certain challenges. Being unable to use a rope being the most notable. Unfortunately, I had to learn that particular fact by experience.

I had been Dad’s official herdsman for . . . about two weeks. A job that had hitherto been the responsibility of one or more hired men.

Our operation had shrunk in size until we no longer needed hired men. We kids could do most of the work. And did. 24 hours a day. Seven days . . . but that is another story.

I was checking the herd for prospective, or recent, mothers. My horse stumbled, literally, over a small, newborn calf lying in the tall grass. Abandoned. At that early point in my new career, I didn’t know that the calf certainly wasn’t in any danger. Mama was nearby.

All I could see was a small, defenceless little creature that needed my help. I picked it up. And somehow got it across the riding pad on my horse. And then managed to get up behind it. No mean feat for someone without stirrups.

Or a brain.

I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures of the cowboy bringing home the small, half-frozen calf. The tiny creature lying helplessly across his saddle. I had always pictured myself doing just that. It seemed . . . romantic somehow. And was. Until the calf peed. All down my new riding pad. You never saw that in the pictures.

I managed to make it to the corrals in the corner of the pasture. I set the little cretin down in a corner and went off in search of Mama. There. The cow running around and bawling. Now all I had to do was reunite them. Simple. Not. She didn’t want to vacate the area where she had last seen her baby. He must be here. If she ran back and forth a few . . . thousand . . . more times, she was sure to stumble over him.

I had an idea. I would rope her. She certainly wouldn’t be able to argue with that. Genius! I rode back to the corral and returned with my Dad’s brand new lariat.

Getting the loop over the head of the frantic cow was easy. Then I would just . . . dally . . . I looked down in consternation at the place where the saddle horn should be.

Where it . . . wasn’t.

The rope slid through my hands, along with the cow.

I managed to reunite cow and calf. Finally. By bringing the calf and putting him back where I had found him originally. The cow wore Dad’s expensive new lariat for several months. I called her ‘Ring Around the Collar’. I though it was funny.

Dad didn’t.

An Unscheduled Trip

Big Daddy - where everything started



Early summer. 

The grass is green. 

The birds are singing. 

The earth smells sweet. 

And the irrigation canal is empty.

It was time to bring the heifers, and their attendant ‘boyfriend’, home.
This was a relatively painless job considering that the youngest of the breeding stock were always wintered in the fields closest to the ranch buildings.
One simply had to walk out, circle the small field once, and start the herd moving.
They would find the corrals, and feed, without being directed. A fool-proof plan.
Unfortunately, we weren’t fools.
Between their pasture and our destination was . . . THE IRRIGATION CANAL.
A vast expanse which snaked across the countryside and our ranch.
It was some forty feet wide and twenty feet deep and, below the corrals, spanned by a sturdy little bridge.
A sturdy little . . . sideless bridge.
At high summer, the canal was full - sparkling clear water nearly reaching to the supports of the bridge. At this time of year, the floodgates had not yet been opened and it wasn't.
Full, that is.
Except for the large rocks at the bottom.
That was a problem. But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
To head from the pasture to the corral, one had to make a slight right turn immediately after crossing the bridge.
A left turn took one to the house and its attendant outbuildings and, eventually, the main road.
Right was what we wanted.
Left was what we got.
In an effort to turn our mis-directed herd, I started threading myself between large, warm hairy bodies, working my way slowly towards the front.
By this time, we were on the bridge.
I had worked my way almost to the front of the herd.
I noticed a vacant spot at the extreme left of the bridge. I made for it.
At the same time as the 2000 pound bull.
We collided.
He won.
Suddenly, I was teetering at the extreme edge of the bridge, staring down at the large . . . hungry . . . rocks. They beckoned to me.
And they had a willing partner – gravity.
Oh, this is going to hurt! I told myself.
Then, the author of my misfortune stalked past me.
2000 pounds of perfect, red-blooded, oblivious muscle.
With a tail.
A tail.
Before he could take the fatal step that moved him forever out of my reach, my hand shot out and nabbed that . . . appendage. That glorious, wonderful, life-preserving . . . really smelly tail.
Then I turned to stare down at those rocks.
Which slowly lost their hypnotic grip as each step my rescuer took pulled me further . . . and further.
Away.
I clung to that tail until I was safely across the bridge.
By this time, the cattle had organized themselves and were heading in the correct direction.
Success was within our sight.
There was only one other problem to be solved.
Someone had to peel Dad off the ground.
He had laughed himself unconscious.
Again.

175

I never used a saddle. I had seen a movie, ‘The Sons of Katie Elder’ and the sister in that movie only used a riding pad. I though that was cool and copied her. Tacking up was amazingly easier. Riding much more natural. And no stirrups to get in the way.

But it afforded other . . . complications. For one thing you could never use a rope. Nothing to dally to. Chasing down and securing a calf presented . . . certain challenges. But nothing I couldn’t handle. I simply rode up beside them and leaned off to one side, catching said calf by the tail, or whatever protruded, and sliding off on top of him. Or her. It was fool proof. Until I met Cow 175. Head on. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The day started out much as any other. I was riding the herd. Checking to see if anyone had calved, or needed help in doing so. I came across a small, obviously newborn calf hidden in the tall grass. I straddled it and proceeded to make ‘distressed calf’ noises. A process I had discovered was sure to bring Mama on the run.

It worked. She came. She saw.

She attacked.

Now I should mention here that my Dad raised Polled Herefords. The breed known for their gentle dispositions. Oh, and also a breed that has no horns.

They don’t need them.

175 hit me with the pointy part of her head. The part made entirely of bone. Really hard bone. I saw stars and quite a bit of the prairie as I left the calf. In a summersault. Backwards. The culprit and her offspring wasted no time in vacating the area. I got to my feet and stared after them, fuzzily. I had lost my glasses in the encounter. But that didn’t even slow me down.

I piled back onto my horse and started after the two, quickly nabbing the calf once more. This time, I took the precaution of dragging it beneath my horse.

Throughout my years on the ranch, I was known for riding really . . . ummm . . . green horses. Usually quite unsuited to ranch life. GollyGee, my mount of the moment was totally in keeping with this reputation. She was an ex-racehorse. Tall, lean, fast, and really . . . not smart. Usually, a person walking anywhere near her would have sent her, by the most direct route, to the moon. And a person dragging something towards her? Jupiter.

Perhaps the anger radiating off me in waves had a stupefying effect on her. Perhaps she was merely trying something new. Self preservation.

Whichever.

She stood like a rock as I dragged the 50 pounds of protesting red and white calf beneath her.

Most cows are afraid of horses. Even horses with one lone brain cell, like GollyGee. Fortunately, this cow was only over-protective, not suicidal. She did laps while I injected and tagged her calf.

Then I stood up, releasing it, but before it could regain its feet and rejoin its Mama, I walked over and booted her. Twice. It felt good. Then I watched as the two of them headed for some human-less spot.

Riding back to the scene of the crime, I searched around until I finally discovered my glasses. Miraculously undamaged. Then I rode home and stabled my horse.

And here is where the story really gets interesting.

My Mom was the daughter of a rancher. Her years of ranching experience were many and varied. But she could still be shocked. Which I did. On a regular basis.

When I walked in the kitchen door, she screamed. And ran for a towel. It was only then that I realized that I could feel the tip of my tongue. Through my bottom lip. And that my shirt was completely covered in blood. You’d think I would have noticed something like that.

To Cookie is Human

Best Friends



Cookies. The ultimate in snack foods. That perfect balance of sugars, grains, fats, and deliciousness.

And the most unique and perfect forum for getting small, semi-disguised chunks of chocolate into your mouth. Chocolate that you can savor, but dismiss as insignificant when tallying your calorie count at day's end.

Or at least I can.

I love cookies. And I make the mistake of baking them on a regular basis.

Call me a glutton for punishment.

Or just a glutton - the shoe fits. (Or did, before I started making cookies.) But I digress . . .

My six children have been raised on my cookies. Mostly with some form of chocolate as a noteworthy ingredient. They love those small handfuls of pure perfection as much as I do.

Bliss.

But life, and reality, tend to sneak up on you and smack you soundly, just when you aren't paying attention. And so it was with my cookie consumption.

I was going merrily along, enjoying my cookie-filled life until, one day, I drug my favorite and freshly-washed jeans out of the drawer . . . and couldn't do them up.

Now I know this has happened to many of us, and certainly is nothing new, but it was a first time for me.

And it made me . . . unhappy.

To make matters worse, which we all try to do far too often, I decided to step on the scale.

I should note here, that the person who invented the scale, and non-stretchy clothes, was a nasty, evil individual. But again, I digress . . .

I had to make some changes.

Or buy a new wardrobe.

Finances won. Losing weight was in order. And the first thing to go was my mostly-cookie diet.

I baked one last batch . . . and started eating them as though they constituted my last meal on earth.

Finally, heroically, I put the lid on the still-half-full cookie jar and left the room.

But they . . . called to me.

Cookies do that.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I answered that call.

I went back into the kitchen and discovered that my beloved cookie jar . . . was empty.

At first, dismay. Then, relief.

"Who ate all the cookies?"

My daughter, Tiana's voice, "Tristan."

My son Tristan's voice, "Sorry!"

Me. "Thank you Tristan! I just couldn't leave the silly things alone!"

A pause, then my daughter's voice, "Tiana."

The cookie doesn't fall far from the tree.

The Proof Was in the Pudding

My Mom

   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’ 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, rather poorly, 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 strange!”
   “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 as though it had evaporated.
   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. When our prayers were finally answered. Dad went out to milk . . . and the cow had keeled over. Dead.
   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 ingested a piece of metal and it had become lodged in her system, affecting her milk production . . . ummm . . . badly. Eventually, it had worked its way through something important internally, and had been the cause of her death. Hardware disease. Poor Bossy.
   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 to this.
   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!!!”

   Ummm . . . the proof was definitely in the pudding!

The Bus To . . .

My Dad. My brother, George. And me

     Okay. I was six. Grade one is hard work! I was tired! And we lived a million miles from town!
     Enough background.
     Living 20 miles from the local schools might be a blessing during ‘snow days’ in the winter when the buses didn’t run, but the rest of the time, it merely meant a very long ride. A very long, boring ride. Homework completed while seated in a shockless bus travelling along rough gravelled roads (and I use the term ‘gravelled’ lightly) was never so much completed as . . . erm . . . attempted. Illegible would be another word to describe it. In fact, for the first years of my schooling, my teachers thought I had the worst writing ever. Not that it changed much in ensuing years, but . . . oh, never mind.
     If one didn’t have friends to visit with, the trip was interminable. Especially to a six year old.
     Which I was.
     Seating was a highly organized, painstakingly structured fact of bus life. The eldest kids got to sit in the back. The youngest directly behind the bus driver. Hijinks were restricted to the back two rows. Your progress through school and through life was largely measured by where you sat in the school bus.
     I had never sat behind the first seat.
     Until that fateful day.
     The Lindemans weren’t on the bus. One seat in the second last row was empty. Just waiting to be claimed.
     My day had come.
     Our bus driver, a wonderfully kind and loving man named Dick Sabey was responsible for delivering us safely into the waiting arms of our mother, Enes Stringam, at Nine Mile Corner. It was a corner situated, interestingly enough, exactly nine miles from our ranch buildings.
     Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.
     Day after day, our faithful friend dropped us off at the corner. Waving to us cheerfully as we began the trek towards home.
     Usually, we managed only a few yards before our mother’s car, trailing a cloud of dust on the country road, appeared around the turn. She would skid to a halt and load us in, questions and news being tossed back and forth before the doors had even closed.
     Occasionally, when our amazingly busy Mom was late, we would manage to make it to the Sproade’s, an elderly couple who lived about ½ mile from the corner and whose house was always filled with the rich smell of wonderful German baking. Baking which needed to be eaten. By ravenously hungry school children.
     We prayed every day our Mom would be late.
     But I digress . . .
     It was chilly. I don’t remember if it was Spring or Fall, but the weather necessitated the wearing of fairly warm clothing. I had a golden faux fur parka. Purchased by my Dad specifically for a trip to cut our family’s Christmas tree. A coat that could easily have doubled as a bear disguise. But which was wonderfully warm . . . and cosy . . . and comfortable . . .
     When I awoke some time later, Dick and his dear wife, Scotty, were standing over me, shaking me gently. I sat up and looked around. It was dark. The lights of the Sabey home were shining dimly into the shadowy bus.
     Nine Mile Corner was nowhere to be seen. Or my brothers and sister. Or my Mom.
     That’s when the tears started.
     Dick picked me up and carried me into the house, where Scotty calmed me and cuddled me. And fed me. (Amazing how so many of my stories revolve around food.)
     Later, my relieved parents arrived to pick me up and the story was finally told.
     The Stringam kids usually left the bus in a group. Bundled as they were for the cold, and huddling together, their actual numbers were impossible to make out by the bus driver, though he was watching alertly to make sure they were safely on their way. Since I hadn’t been sitting in my usual spot, the kids had concluded that I was staying in town, for some function or other. After a short, very short, meeting to discuss my possible whereabouts, they had quickly covered the ½ mile to the Sproade’s and Mrs. Sproade’s snacks. By the time our Mom arrived and my absence was noted, the bus was long gone.
     The time for panic had truly arrived.
     Cell phones existed only in the imaginations of science fiction writers. The only phone connection available was a single party line, installed by my father (and enormously entertaining, but that is another story) for the use of the entire ‘117’ community.
     Mom wasted no time in calling the Sabey household and raising the alarm. Dick hadn’t yet returned from his route, so Scotty waited breathlessly at the front window for the bus. When he arrived, she met him and the two of them quickly searched the bus.
     They soon discovered that a bulky coat, discarded on one of the last seats, actually contained a person. Not a very big person, to be sure, but a person just the same.
      Me.
     Some time later, with my Mom’s arms around me, I could see the humour of the situation.
     Almost.
     Until I grew taller, about grade nine or so, I never again sat anywhere but directly behind the bus driver. It was safer there. And less forgetful.
     And, oddly enough, I find it impossible to fall asleep in a moving vehicle.
     Except when I’m driving.

Topper

My Dad and . . . not Topper

Topper.
My eldest brother’s horse.
The ultimate in challenges.
My world was small. I admit it.
By the age of seven, I had moved through the ‘pony’ stage was ready for something a bit . . . bigger. Certainly more challenging.
My brother’s sorrel gelding was the answer.
If I could ride him, I would have achieved my greatest goal. By so doing, I would enter the world of the adults. I would finally be considered a grown-up.
Or so I thought.
We were selecting our mounts for yet another round-up. This one to include branding and all of the fun and highjinks that went with that.
My brother, Jerry, stepped into the corral ahead of me. He lifted the halter he held. He approached . . . Ranger.
Ranger?
My day had come.
Before anyone could think of stopping me, I moved to Topper’s side and slid my halter over his alert head. So far, so good.
Grooming and saddling took next to no time. A good thing as I was in a fever of impatience.
And then I was aboard.
Wow!
The ground was so far away!
This horse was a giant!
Okay, he would have had to stand on tip hooves to reach 14 hands, but I had been riding a Shetland pony. My measuring stick was slightly skewed.
Moving on . . .
And we were off.
All went well to that point. In fact, all continued to go well as we received our assignments and separated to begin collecting the herds. I was given one of the smaller fields. A measly little quarter section.
No problem.
Topper and I started off with a will. I was amazed at how much more quickly he moved than my little Pinto.
I have to admit here that Pinto had one speed.
Slow.
Actually two speeds. Slow and stopped.
This was living!
And then that sun.
In Southern Alberta, at least the corner where I was raised, the early summer days are . . . hot. There are no trees. The sun beats down on the hard-packed earth, turning it into a heat reflector of gigantic proportions. In no time, the heat waves are distorting every horizon you face.
And the favourite little blue jean jacket so necessary when you first hit the barnyard is suddenly superfluous. And distinctly uncomfortable.
And really needing to be removed.
With slow, staid Pinto, a simple task. No sooner thought of, then accomplished. He wouldn’t even have noticed.
With Topper, another story entirely.
I undid the buttons.
His ears flicked back. I’m almost sure his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing up there, Human?”
I slid one arm half-way out of the sleeve.
A jump. A little kick. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it!”
I stopped moving.
He settled.
I moved, he jumped.
This went on for some time.
Then that . . . inconvenient impatience. The same that usually got me into trouble.
Today was no different.
I finally decided to show him who was boss and shed my coat entirely.
He decided to show me who was boss and shed me.
Entirely.
He began to buck.
I’m not sure whether I bailed off, or he planted me.
It matters little because the results were the same.
My face took the brunt of the landing.
When I came to my senses a short time later, I struggled to my feet and discovered that Topper was actually waiting for me a little distance away.
I approached him slowly. The only speed I could muster.
He watched me, warily.
I drew closer.
He tensed.
Closer still.
He let fly.
With both back hoofs.
I really don’t know how I managed to survive life on the ranch.
I must have a particularly hard head.
The next thing I remember is one of our hired men, Bud.
He had followed the trail of my belongings until he finally discovered me, lying in a very small heap.
He plucked me from the prairie floor, like flotsam off a beach.
I noticed, with some degree of satisfaction, that he had already rescued my beloved jacket.
Reunited.
I must have smiled.
In your face, Topper!

He set me on the saddle in front of him and I looked down at the horse he was riding.
Eagle.
The delicious appaloosa.
The ultimate challenge.

Once I got my head back.

Jerry

Jerry. My Hero

I have two elder brothers, Jerry and George. The boys the entire world looked up to. The pinnacle that one can achieve. In teasing. The banes of my existence when I was four.

This story is about Jerry. George gets his own.

* * *

Jerry is my oldest brother. The one, chosen by the rest of us, most likely to be just like Dad. In my earliest memories of him, he is working. Hoeing the garden, mending fence, riding, milking cows. Always busy. Always cheerful.

Always teasing.

He could put just the right inflection on the most innocent of phrases and it was enough to send his middle sister into paroxysms of anger. His favourite? “Oh, Diane!” Pronounced more like, “Oh, Di-Ane!” With the buffer of many years, it doesn’t seem so bad. Rather cute, really. But at the time, it was enough to set me off like a miniature Mount Vesuvius.

Okay, so that particular volcano runs in our family. You should have seen George when Jerry used his favourite phrase on him! ‘Pimple pants’.

Pimple pants?

Now where would that have come from? And, more importantly, how does one get . . . never mind.

But the old phrase, “If we hated you, we’d ignore you,” certainly applied to Jerry. He must have truly loved us. He’d take us everywhere. Riding. Sledding. Swimming. Exploring. You’d just have to be prepared to put up with the teasing.

* * *

Jerry was the most amazing swimmer. He was the only one of us kids who could make headway against the current of the river. The rest of us were pretty proud when we could hold our own. That wasn’t good enough for Jerry. He would dive in and battle the current. And win. Races against him were moot. How could you even contemplate winning against the only ‘current defeater’ in the family?

The one good thing about the constant competition, however, was that when we were given swimming lessons, we could out swim all of the other kids. We weren’t weak swimmers.

Just weak against Jerry.

* * *

Dad had purchased a small ranch in the Coaldale area. Over an hour from the Milk River spread. A logistical nightmare for one man to run. But an adventure if said man put his four eldest kids on one of the ranches for the summer.

Which he did.

Soon after we took possession, however, we discovered an entirely unexpected crop which our new ranch produced in abundance. Rattlesnakes. Big ones.

Jerry and George were hauling in the hay. Jerry on top of the stack . . . ummm . . . stacking. George tossing bales up to him. Jerry sat down on a bale, waiting for George to bring in the next stook. Just as his butt touched the bale, he heard the unmistakable sound of a rattler. A ‘tell-tail’ sign.

Literally.

Sure enough, curled there at his feet was a small rattler, poised to strike.

Without conscious thought, Jerry pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then, boys being boys, the two of them closed in for the kill.

Sometime later, I was interrupted from my morning chore of . . . doing nothing . . . by the ring of the doorbell. Excited at the prospect of company, I raced for the door, only to discover – no one. I opened the door for a better view. Maybe someone was . . . you know . . . pressed up tightly against the wall so they couldn’t be seen from the doorway.

There, coiled neatly on the front step was a rattler. I never really noticed that it was rather . . . lifeless. Panic first, think after. That’s my motto. I screamed, and almost pitched backwards down the stairs.

Then laughter. And two brothers’ sunburned faces peeking around the door. “Did it scare you?”

No, this is my usual slap-dash method of going down stairs, but thanks for thinking of me.

* * *

My friends wanted to walk into town and visit Charley’s. The soda shop hang-out. But I needed money. And neither of my parents were anywhere around. In disgust, I kicked at the dusty road and resigned myself to sitting and watching everyone else consume floats or shakes. Maybe, out of pity, offer me a sip.

Ewwww.

Suddenly, Jerry emerged from the feed lot. The answer to my prayers. Maybe he would lend me a dime, or if I was really lucky, a quarter.

Okay, so my expectations weren’t very high.

I asked him. He grinned. One of two things was going to happen. Either he’d lend me money. Or tease me. And lend me money.

The day was mine.

“You can have all the money that’s in my pocket,” he said.

Uh-oh. A trick. He must be a broke as I.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . . a handful of change. Pennines, dimes, nickels, quarters. I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. And he poured the glittering contents – all of it – into my waiting hands. I had enough for . . . anything . . . everything.

He just smiled. And went to start chores.

* * *



Jerry was out in the feedlot, feeding the yearling bulls.

Now let me point out here that yearling bulls are just like little kids. They love to play. And chase each other. And play. The major difference is that they weigh in the neighbourhood of 1600 pounds. A bit larger than your average toddler.

I had decided that I wanted to be where Jerry was. Maybe I could help. Or get in the way. I was equally good at both.

I climbed the heavy board fence and sat on the top rail, watching. Jerry was pouring buckets of feed into the troughs and the bulls were delicately picking at it. Politely allowing everyone his own space.

Not.

When feeding cattle, pushing and shoving is the norm. Reaching over or under your neighbour to get that tasty morsel directly in front of him - equally common. Manners flee when a bucket of grain comes into sight. It’s every man for himself. And every man wants it all. Especially what is in front of the next guy.

For some time, this supper brawl fascinated me. I watched as these overly-muscled and underly-intelligent ‘adolescents’ bickered and fought over their evening meal. But as with anything, watching soon became boredom and I wanted to be in there. Ummm . . . helping. I scrambled down off the fence and started towards my brother.

One young ‘Four-Footed Apollo’ spotted me. Someone to play with! He bounced towards me in his finest ‘let’s play!’ mode.

The invitation on his part was misunderstood on mine.

All I saw was a mass of solid muscle, encased in a red hide, coming at me, death in his soft brown eyes. I screamed. And ran. Exactly what he was looking for. He followed. Still bouncing. This was fun!

I reached the fence just as my brother entered the fray. With a 5-gallon pail in one hand and an aluminum grain shovel in the other, he went for my attacker.

He swung the empty bucket at one side of the bull’s rump. That got his attention. Then, with the same accuracy and effectiveness, he bounced the shovel off the other side. The bull immediately forgot his erstwhile game with me and started back across the corral with Jerry in hot pursuit. Swinging the bucket, then the shovel, my brother chased the thoroughly frightened young bull, shouting with each blow, “Leave. My. Sister. Alone!”

My hero.

* * *

My Chris

Sweet, sweet Chris

From my earliest memories, Chris was there. The ideal big sister. Patient, kind, and endlessly watching over us younger brothers and sisters. Another mother. Something that was . . . mostly good!

Music played a large part in her life. We always had a radio going wherever we were working. I remember sitting together shelling peas – with some rock and roll blaring in the background. Once, when the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan, all of the girls were screaming in the audience, and Chris got so carried away, she let out a little . . . squeak? We stared at her. We all thought she was as crazy as those girls, though I must admit, she was a little more in control.

Once, when Mom and Dad were out for the evening, leaving Chris in charge, we thought we heard a noise upstairs. The upper floor was in darkness, and it didn’t occur to any of us to turn on the lights. (You remember the horror shows when the heroine never turns on a light, allowing the nasty guy to lurk in the shadows? Reality!) Chris grabbed a long knife and a flashlight and we were off on our little exploration trip to find . . . the noise.

We never did find it. Probably a good thing . . . for it and us. But it was a real workout for our imaginations. Who says that there is no educational value in Horror Shows? I can picture it now. The little group all glued to one central figure clutching a long knife. Moving as one. If anything had popped out of the shadows, trust me, there would have been serious injury. Just not to it.



Chris had red hair. But most of the time, it was merely her hair colour. The famed ‘red-haired temper’ seldom applied to her. Oddly enough, it is those times when the lid slipped that I remember most clearly . . . and fondly.

She and I were washing her 4-H calf in the milking stanchions in the barn. All was well. The water was running freely down the gutter and out the door, slowly filling the barnyard.

One hired man, Ken, kept coming around and offering all sorts of . . . negative comments. At first, it was just a word on his way past. Then two. Then whole paragraphs. Finally, tired and disgusted, we decided we’d had enough of his ‘advise’ and closed up shop. We put the calf in his pen and tidied up the area. The puddle, we couldn’t do anything about. But the always-thirsty Southern Alberta soil would make short work of that, so we left it and headed for the house.

Then Ken made the fatal mistake. He tried a parting shot out the front door of the barn when Chris was still within striking distance. And then, that red hair! She sprinted back to the barn, deadly purpose in every stride. I lost sight of her as she reached the doorway. All I heard was a thump, then she was kiting off towards the house. And Ken was . . . umm . . . swearing mad. Literally.

I really didn’t know what had happened until later that I got to the house. Chris was in the bathtub. A good place to be after an emotional upheaval. She had been, and was still, crying. I asked her what happened. She gave little self-satisfied smile through her tears, and said, and I quote, “I kicked him.”

I smiled with her. We all knew Ken. It was a fitting ‘end’ to the story.



She was working with yet another 4-H calf, trying to get it to lead. A . . . decidedly ornery 4-H calf. Imagine trying to put a rope on the business end of a steam roller and pulling it around the barn yard. You’re not even close. In fact, if we’d had a steam roller, it would have been entertaining to hook calf and machine together and see which came out . . . umm . . . in front. We would have taken bets. But I digress . . .

Chris had been fighting a losing battle for several hours. The calf show was growing closer and she was getting a bit desperate. Suddenly a bright idea blossomed. She had seen Kung Fu. She knew what to do. She put her hand into the proper, scientifically proven form (as seen on TV), and studied the hide-covered head of her opponent. Exactly where could she inflict the most damage? She chose a likely looking spot and swung. Hard. And heard the satisfying crunch of bones.

After a millisecond or two that she realized that something was wrong. If her technique was correct - and she had watched a lot of Kung Fu - then why was the calf still standing? Chewing his cud? Something had been damaged. She had heard the unmistakable sound. Then she looked down at her hand . . .

Needless to say, the calf was eventually ‘broke’ to lead in the usual ways. And Chris discovered that a hand really can inflict damage – when it is completely covered with a hard plaster cast.



Chris and I were riding. The end of a long day. Having successfully penned the last of a large herd, we were closing the gate, the anticipation of a quick ride back and a warm meal uppermost in our minds. Chris was doing the honours. As she put one foot in Gypsy’s stirrup, I turned my horse and headed out. Chris wasn’t quite on.

And didn’t manage to get on.

Gypsy, seeing her pen mate heading for home and supper, gave a wild leap, spilling her would-be rider to the hard ground. From there, she proceeded to drag and then trample my sister. I stopped and waited for Chris to get up. She didn’t. Then something penetrated my pea-sized intellect. Maybe she’s hurt?! Maybe I’d better go for help.

We did manage to get Chris back to the ranch buildings. Mostly in one piece. And again, she spent months in a cast. This one to support a badly-broken knee. But in true ‘Chris’ style, she never pinned the blame where it belonged. Never offered one word of reproach. Merely suffered silently. But that is my sister.

Have I mentioned that I love her?



P.S. The nail polish spilled on her carpet . . . ummm . . . not me!

Another Fire

Hot times in the Old Town. Milk River

6:45 am.
When most of the world still sleeps, or is just beginning to stir, the ranching families of Southern Alberta are already up and out.
Stock to feed, cows to milk.
Diving into the day’s first chores with unfettered enthusiasm, a smile - brought by the pure joy of work most satisfying - firmly fixed on weather-beaten faces.
Not.
“Spring!” Dad’s first words of the day, spoken with that ‘unfettered enthusiasm’ previously mentioned. There he would be, the light from the hall behind him making him into the shadowy cut-out of some avenging God of mischief, dressed in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, sent to ruin the final minutes of a good night’s sleep.
“Spring!” he would say again, in case we didn’t hear it the first time.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he would disappear. Evil summons completed.
Actually, I just made up that ‘puff of smoke bit’.
The evil summons?
Truth.
This morning began like any other.
A new spring sun just peeping over the horizon filling the clear, blue sky with breathtaking slices of pink and orange.
We humans blissfully ignorant.
Dad’s unfailingly cheerful, completely irritating voice calling happily down the stairs.
The summoned moaning and complaining and beginning to twitch in their beds.
The call came again.
The summoned were throwing off the heavy bonds of sleep by degrees.
Some were actually finding their voices. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet a third time.
The responses growing equally louder and more understandable, “Yeah, yeah!”
And then the final call.
The one sure to either freeze the faithful in their beds, or galvanize them into movement.
“The elevators are on fire!”
I should mention here that the town of Milk River’s elevators stood directly behind us, across our pasture. A short few hundred yards away.
Within toasting distance.
The mere thought of them engulfed in flames struck terror into the hearts of every member of the Stringam family.
Certainly it did that day.
“Yeah, Dad, good one!” A pause. Then, “Dad’ll say anything to get us up!” Laughter.
Perhaps I was a bit more trusting than my brothers.
Perhaps the idea of something exciting happening in our sleepy little town was enough to draw me from my bed.
Whichever.
I scurried into my parent’s room, bounded across their bed and joined my mother at the window.
The entire horizon was a blaze of light.
Two of the six elevators were already burning and, as we watched, a third began to smoke.
Dad was out on the deck, his face a mixture of disbelief, excitement and dismay.
It was an interesting face.
By this time, our cries of . . . disbelief, excitement and dismay . . . had finally drawn my brothers to their window.
“Holy Smoke!”
Truer words were never spoken.
For a moment, fear washed over me.
Were we in any danger from the flames? Those elevators were awfully close.
Dad was quick to reassure.
The wind was favourable for us, pushing the fire, and its attendant sparks to the South, away from the Stringams.
Towards the Garbers, actually. And their barn.
But that is another story.
Chores were given a lick and a promise.
School was . . . poorly attended.
The time was spent watching the fire.
And the fire-fighters.
The entire population of town stood across the street, eyes locked on the incredible sight.
I found my Mom there and went to stand beside her.
“Good thing it’s spring,” I told her. “Harvest hasn’t started.”
My ignorance of the whole ‘grain storage’ thing was woeful.
“They’re right full of grain!” my Mom exclaimed.
As though to prove her statement, a long split appeared in one corner of the elevator nearest us. Followed by a golden stream.
Pieces of flaming elevator began to rain down.
The crowd gasped and stepped backwards.
Our Sherriff tried his best to keep us away.
To keep us safe.
Even going so far as to order all of the kids back to school.
We scampered to obey.
Not.
He couldn’t have driven us away with a stick.
Maybe if he had pulled his gun . . . no not even then.
The elevators burned for days.
When the glow was finally out, the ruined grain was raked into piles and sold for a pittance, for cattle feed or whatever.
But to those of us who witnessed it, the fire would never be extinguished.
Even after the smell of roasting wood and grain finally washed away.
Even after new, modern elevators were built.
All one would have to say was, “Remember the elevator fire?” and a whole troop of memories would come crowding.
It was the most excitement our town has ever had. Before or since.
Okay, so Milk ‘Thrill Central’ River wasn't our town’s name.

And the Stringams were back to hearing, “Spring!” every morning.
Once in a while, Dad would try to inject a little excitement into the day by shouting, “The elevators are on fire!”
But he was never believed.
Kind of like that first time.

Speed-OOOOOO!

Stringam Family - not a speedo in the bunch!

In the Tolley household, Christmas . . . the actual ‘business portion’ which includes frantic tearing of colourful papers and scrabbling through mounds of discarded wrapping, was an event on hold until the father of the household finally succumbed to the pleadings of his numerous children and crawled out of bed. Once he hit the front room, it was every man for himself. Or every woman . . . or child . . . you get the picture.
To facilitate the introduction of said father to the ‘action room’, the children, over the years, graduated from begging, to more . . . proactive methods. As their size, and strength, increased, they finally achieved the impossible. Plucking their sire from his warm downy and carrying him, bodily, to his place of honour.
In an attempt to thwart their . . . growing . . . expertise, their father began to incorporate thought into the proceedings.
He resorted to sneakiness.
With various degrees of success.

Christmas, 2001, began like many others. Tiny noises in the bowels of the house which told us that the natives were stirring and that time for any needed preparation was short. Grant leaped from the bed and, under cover of darkness, began to shed his pyjamas. Not unusual. However, considering that our children would soon be pounding up the stairs . . . well . . . unusual. Sleepily, I noted the sound of fabric sliding over flesh. He was pulling something else on. Then, he crawled back into the bed and snuggled close.
Suspicious, I asked him what he was wearing and he chuckled. “Not much,” he said.
Then the pounding started. “Mom, Dad! Time to open presents!”
“Okay,” he called, cheerfully. Another sign that all was not as it should be. The door swung open.
Slowly.
Several suspicious noses poked into the room, the light from the hallway throwing their shadows across the bed. Remember, these children had been exposed to many different devices in an attempt to discourage them from their desired goal. Catapults, duct tape, air horns, chains with padlocks, duct tape, yards of medical gauze, duct tape.
Okay, he likes duct tape. I admit it.
The group stayed huddled for a moment, afraid to pierce the unknown blackness that pervaded our room. We remained still. Finally one brave soul reached for the switch, flooding the scene with light. We blinked sleepily at them.
Our kids aren’t the only actors in the family.
They moved slowly forward, still tightly packed. A group makes a harder target. Okay the reasoning needs a bit of work, but there is safety in numbers. They approached the bed. Still cautious. Still peering anxiously into the shadows and flinching at every sound. Finally, they reached their father. Silence. Grant’s eyes were now closed, a small, blissful smile creasing his face.
Not a good sign.
One of the older boys grabbed the covers, then paused, gaining courage. The silence stretched. He threw them back.
And disclosed his portly father clad in a ‘speedo’. A bright blue one.
Oh, and a bowtie. Red. With sequins.
Now I would like to take this opportunity to state that the ‘speedo’ swimsuit was created with speed in mind, hence the name. Comfort is secondary, and looks a far distant third. Certainly they look . . . ummm . . . delicious on the trim, incredibly fit men each of us women have drooled over at some point in our lives.
On a middle aged, fairly Santa-esque male. Not as good.
But certainly effective. The kids scattered. Screaming. We could hear one of them moaning in the hall. “I don’t want to open presents, do you want to open presents?”
Another answered, “Presents? What are those? I’m going back to bed!”
My husband chuckled again. “I should have thought of this years ago!” he said.
Mission accomplished.

Our First Christmas

Grant and Diane

The very early days of marriage, of most marriages, in fact, are days of exploration and discovery. Of the combination of ideas and ideals. Of the solidifying of the ties binding the couple together.
So it was in our house. The happiness that goes with simply being together. Peace. Love. Joy. One imagines that it will last forever. And it does. Until . . . The First Conflict.
I use this term lightly, because it really wasn’t a conflict, but more of a steady pull in two different directions. He wanted us to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted to spend it with mine.
I won.
Mostly, I admit because I painted a rosier picture than he did. I snared him with magical words like . . . food, fresh baking, treats, candy, chocolate, sugar, sugar, sugar. Okay, I exaggerated. But my family really did have fun on Christmas Eve. And I wasn’t ready, yet, to miss it.
And my Mom was a really good cook.
He gave in. And so, Christmas Eve found us nestled snugly in the bosom of my family, preparing to enjoy. Unfortunately, the preparing part went on a little too long.
My eldest sister, Chris was home for the holiday and she and Mom, demon bakers both, were lost in their own fragrant world. Admittedly a pleasant place to be, albeit rather ‘calorific’. The rest of us floated by periodically, sniffing, staring hungrily at the stacks . . . and stacks . . . of pies, cookies, cakes, butterhorns, brownies, fudge, cookies, lemon squares, butter tarts, cookies.
There really were a lot of cookies.
Dinner was forgotten as more and more goodies emerged from the cavernous depths of the great ovens. Cries from hungry tummies grew more and more insistent. Also, the younger set was getting impatient. It was time for that games of games, anticipated for a whole year. The annual Stringam bloodbath. The Christmas game of Rummoli.
With real poker chips.
Okay, so it wasn’t a bloodbath. Not even particularly violent. But it was as close to gambling as the Stringam gang ever got. And we really did anticipate it feverishly. Well . . . some of us looked forward to it with excitement. Okay, I really liked it. Geeze.
By 10:30 pm, many had given up the thought of getting ‘Christmas Eve’ started. Baking was still being pulled from the ovens, dinner still hadn’t materialized and even the faint hope of a Rummoli game had long since vanished. My husband looked at me. He was too kind to put it into words, but I was getting fairly good at reading him, and his expression said, “For this, we gave up an eight-course meal with my family?” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to laugh.
It was a weak attempt.
He decided to take matters into his own hands. He got up and wandered nonchalantly past the stack of baking which completely covered the counter and nearly filled the space between the upper and lower cupboards.
Seriously, we’re talking an area eight feet long and somewhere between 18 and 24 inches deep. Covered. With. Fresh. Baking.
His hand snaked out, nabbing a butter tart. Quicker than the eye can blink, it was in his mouth. All of it. The heavenly combination of flavours poured through his soul like celestial honey. His knees grew weak. He brought his teeth together to begin chewing this small slice of perfection. Mom straightened from pulling yet another pan out of the oven, her face flushed with heat and effort.
He was caught. He suspended all chewing movements and tried to look innocent, but Mom could spot sneaky behaviour at 1000 paces. Certainly she could recognize it standing across the counter.
The counter filled with mouth-watering . . . but I digress.
She set the hot pan on the cupboard, placed both hands on her hips and levelled a glare at him. “Don’t eat that!” she said. “It’s for Christmas!”
He stared at her. Then at the mounds of baking that couldn’t possibly be eaten in the next 24 hours. In the next 24 days. He put up one hand to cover his mouth. And the precious contraband that now had a home there. No way was he removing it from his mouth. All sorts of places in his body would have rebelled if he had tried. “Sorry,” he mumbled, slowly backing away, his hands spread apologetically.
We never did get our Rummoli game.
Or supper.
After that, my husband and I saved Christmas Eve for his family. And Christmas morning for mine. It was easier on our relationship.
Oh, and the statement, “Don’t eat that, it’s for Christmas!”
Quoted every time someone pops something into their mouth. Year round.

Gramma Berg’s Crutches

Gramma and Grampa Berg

It was a magical time. Gramma Berg was staying over. For days and days. And she could always be counted on for a snuggle, or a story, or a song, or a treat.
In that order.
She moved slowly. The result of having a shattered kneecap. I only knew that she couldn’t get away from me.
Oh, and that she had crutches.
I loved those crutches. It didn’t occur to my four-year-old brain that they were a necessary part of Gramma’s mobility. I saw only that they were just right for me. I would put the little bar (intended as a hand hold) under my arms and, with the top half of each crutch weaving far over my head, hop from one end of the house to the other. Then back. Then back again.
All day.
Sometimes I would mix it up a little and hold up the left leg instead of the right. Either was exciting. And daring.

Okay, I was four. My life to date hadn’t been filled with momentous events. But I digress.
There was one problem with my fascination for Gramma’s crutches. She needed them. And I usually had them. Somewhere else.
Something had to be done.
My Dad, always excited at the prospect of a new engineering task, saw an opportunity. And took it. He would make new crutches. My size.
Happily, he spent many hours in the blacksmith shop, designing, measuring, cutting. Crafting. Finally, voila! Crutches. Perfect four-year-old size. He brought them to the house. It was nap time and I was blotto on the couch, having passed out during Friendly Giant.
Again.
Not one to let such a minor thing as a sleeping child thwart him, Dad stood me up and thrust the crutches under my arms.
I can picture it now. Small, skinny white-haired child – literally - asleep on her feet. Head lolling to one side. A tiny snore. (Okay, my imagination’s good. I admit it.) Dad holds her up with one hand while trying to brace the crutches under her arms with the other. For this story, a Dad with three hands would probably be advisable. She folds like cooked spaghetti. He tries again. Same result. Finally, defeated, he lays her back on the couch and braces the crutches against it for her to find when she is a bit more . . . conscious.
Which she does.
From then on, my crutches and me were inseparable. They were even tied behind when I went riding. I almost forgot how to walk. Strangers to the ranch would shake their heads sadly at the little crippled child making her way across the barnyard. Then nod and acknowledge that she sure had learned how to move quickly, poor little mite. I feel guilty for the deception. Well, a little. A real little.
Okay, not at all.
I certainly learned to manoeuvre those little crutches. The only thing I never mastered was walking while lifting both feet at the same time. And, believe me, I tried.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Gramma was delighted to have her crutches back. She could get around once more. She could be portable, helpful, useful. All the qualities she found so satisfying. She could even challenge me to a race.
I won.

The Hill, the Rabbit, and Me

The Hill

The Stringam ranch buildings were ringed on three sides by high cliffs, and dominated on the fourth by a high hill. As a result, there were only two entrances to the ranch, on either side of the hill.
As a fortress, it would have been ideal. Easily defended and defensible.
As a playground, it was perfect.
From the top of the hill, one could see, quite literally, for miles. The lack of any trees or large vegetation allowed for a completely unbroken view to any horizon.
And if one climbed up the tower perched firmly, but terrifyingly on top of said hill . . . well the possibilities were endless.
As I well knew.
After much experience.
On many occasions, my heroic mother did the sprint to the top of the hill, scampered up the tower, and plucked her small, but adventurous, daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Death being the sudden stop at the foot of the tower.
I just thought I'd point that out . . .
There was much of the Olympiad in my mother. I think of the numerous air and land speed records she broke, all without the witness of a single stop-watch or measuring stick.
But I digress . . .
The hill was also the resting place for the mouldering bodies of many, many derelict machines, both agricultural and civil.
Parked neatly in rows were such identifiable things as threshers, mowers, combines, tractors, rakes, cars and trucks, all having outlived their ‘best before’ date.
They had all been replaced by something new and improved, but had not been sent to that great ‘tribute to rust’ that is the local parts yard because of the possibility, however slim, of still being useful.
It was this collection of . . . old and intriguing, that drew my brothers and myself day after day.
They, to explore and dismantle.
I to . . . get in the way and fall on something sharp.
Or climb into derelict vehicles and create worlds.
Or finally get bored as they tinkered and start climbing . . . but we’ve been over that.
Our responsibilities were clearly laid out, and we did them with a will.
From my brothers’ point of view, imagine the potential.
Armed with nothing more than a screwdriver, wrench and pliers, you could attack and dismember any of the inmates of this glorious, magical place.
You could tap into engines and other secret places and uncover intricate systems hidden to the incurious and unaware.
You could emerge, covered in grease, but triumphantly holding aloft the flywheel of . . . the . . . the behemoth parked between the car and the truck.
I could really only identify the cars and trucks.
Four years old.
Remember?
Moving on . . .
The three of us spent many happy hours there.
They in their grease and machinery parts.
I in my exploring and imaginary worlds.
For three ranch kids growing up on the prairies, it was perfection. Truly the place where dreams come true.
And then, into our peaceful little world came . . . the rabbit.
It wasn’t anything unusual, as rabbits go. A large jack. Cream and dark brown fur. Long ears and . . . really jumpy legs.
I should mention here that I was - and am - crazy for animals. Any animals. This rabbit would be the perfect pet for me.
At least from my point of view.
It had other ideas.
At first I approached it slowly, hand out, friendly smile firmly affixed. Coaxing.
It sat up and eyed me, nose twitching.
Then when I was still several steps away, it hopped. In the wrong direction.
Stupid rabbit.
I moved closer once more.
It waited until I was, again, several steps away, then it . . . you get the picture.
This went on for some time.
Finally, running short of patience, I increased my pace.
It caught on to the change in strategy with astonishing speed, and also moved faster.
I ran.
It ran.
This was getting us nowhere. I finally flopped down on the ground and scowled at it.
It stopped and looked at me again.
I stood up hopefully.
It ducked into an irrigation pipe.
Ha! My . . . erm . . . strategy had worked! It was mine!
I carefully blocked both ends of the pipe and ran to get Mike’s cage.
A little background here.
Mike was our Saint Bernard.
He was huge.
But he hadn’t always been so.
When he had first come to live with us, he had been a puppy. For about two weeks.
Then he had outgrown his little wire mesh kennel and moved right into the only other place big enough to house him.
The garage.
That had left the kennel vacant.
And totally right for a pet rabbit.
I lugged it to the top of the hill.
Now the tricky part. How to coax the rabbit into his palatial new home.
I opened the door of the kennel and pulled one end of the pipe inside.
Then I went around to the other end of the pipe and began to lift.
Fortunately for my four-year-old muscles, aluminum irrigation pipes are fairly light. I lifted the pipe higher and higher, until I was stretched nearly to the limit of my height.
It wasn’t far.
But it worked!
I could hear the rabbit scrabble for purchase inside the pipe and finally give up and slide downwards.
I smiled broadly as his furry rump emerged from the end of the pipe.
He landed in the cage.
I was filled with triumph.
And elation.
And dismay.
The moment his feet touched the mesh of the kennel, he was off like a shot.
Through the bars of the cage.
Who knew that a four-inch wide rabbit could fit through a two inch wide space?
Not me.
But I was learning.
I watched, disappointed, as my pet headed for somewhere far away.
I kicked at the cage.
Stupid cage. It had let me down.
Then I noticed that some of the rabbit’s fur had caught in the mesh. I plucked it off and examined it. I rubbed it on my cheek.
Soft.
I stuck it in my pocket and patted it tenderly.
My rabbit.
A few days later, when Mom was doing the laundry, she discovered the little patch of rabbit fur in my pocket. But, being my mother, she just shook her head and smiled.
And later, when Dad was loading pipe to start irrigating and found one with an end stuck inside Mike’s old cage, he did the same thing.
After all, they were my parents.
They knew me.
I was back on the hill with my brothers.
On a new adventure.