Summer in a Quonset Part Six

Quonset and nearly completed house.
There's a garden in that yard somewhere!

I thought I would have so much time for various projects as the lazy summer stretched out before me, but as the days lengthened, so did our stride!

There was no grass to cut or watering got do, but there was a garden to hoe and we discovered we had planted it in the original garden of Adam and Eve.

The one they had when Heavenly Father punished them for being disobedient by sending them weeds so they could 'work by the sweat of their brows all the days of their lives'.

I decided that Adam hadn't tended his garden very well because there were a great many prolific varieties there that had undoubtedly sprouted from seeds of plants he had not pulled.

I crawled on my hands and knees trying to sort out my tender green vegetables from all the other abundant growth.

And then there was the rain.

It seemed like every time I thought I had a few minutes for my garden, it would rain.

All summer we alternated between a cold drizzle or a down pour. (The word COLD became part of us like our arms and legs. We had cold noses, cold toes, cold fingers, cold ears, cold tongues. Our whole internal tract must have been COLD.)

Rain sounded like several million marbles on the ribs of the quonset.

The first time I heard it, I thought it was hail. I ran anxiously to the door and discovered that it was only a light rain falling softly on the pasture grass.

When it became a downpour, the sound really rattled your brain.

One evening, we had just settled into our beds for the night when we heard the sound of thunder in the distance.

Would it come this way or would it pass?

Faint flashes of lightning lit the sky light and seconds passed before we heard the thunder.

I began to count the time between the flash and the crash. When the flash and crash came close together, I hid under the covers.

Unfortunately, it didn't shut out the sound.

We had given our children some instruction on what to do if there was lightening - stay away from fences or puddles or trees.

Just lately, we had added 'don't touch the side of the quonset'.

So when there was lightening, even in mild form, our children would pull their beds away from the walls.

We must have spread the alarm very impressively because they moved their beds about 16 feet from the wall!

This storm moving in on us sounded like a particularly violent one.

We could hear a roaring sound with the approaching rain.

When the pellets hit the shed, we knew it must be hail.

We covered our ears trying to cut out the awful sound.

It was like being inside a barrel with a million hammers pounding on its side.

Just when we thought we would surely go mad, the storm quit and we found the quiet almost as hard to adjust to as the noise.

This was our first experience with a hail strike in the middle of the night.

We felt we had been punished in a strange way and we fell into a restless sleep as the moon again lit the skylight

Summer in a Quonset Part Five

More of the story, as told by my Mom, Enes. From her journals . . .

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four.

It takes a great deal of courage to meet the challenges in our lives without any discrimination of our fellow beings - how much more courage we need with it.

I believe our children were faced with an overload.

I certainly admired them for their determination and diplomacy. They were in constant contact with the human element and from my observation, carried on beautifully.

"Are you really living out there in the shed?"

"Why yes, we are. We love it out there. Everything is so convenient and we have lots of fresh air and no grass to cut! We can just step into the car and drive out or our friends can drive in! We only have to walk a few steps and we can pet the animals! We don't have to worry about our muddy boots, though Mom does insist that we leave them by the door. We have great times playing hide and seek among the crates and boxes and the hopping game is the best of all. That is when you hop from box to box without touching the floor. We only play that game when Mom isn't around!"

By this point, the little friend was so entranced she couldn't wait for an invitation.

"May I come and stay with you sometime?"

"Sure. You can come any time you like," was the superior reply.

And the children did come and they danced about in happy glee. They fetched and carried and made the beds. They swept the floor, washed and dried the dishes and tidied the living room.

They helped me make pies and set the table. It was a happy, carefree experience.

And they left wishing they lived in a quonset.

There were problems with the clothes washing and the baths, but somehow, everything seemed to work out.

We 'borrowed' the bathroom of a friend.

Mom's 'home away from home'.

But the twice weekly trip to the Laundromat was an experience in itself.

I never knew there were so many interesting and unusual people in the world.

They must all frequent Laundromats.

I was constantly amused, entertained or shocked.

Laundromats seem to have a way of revealing and exposing personalities.

For instance - some people are very careful with their washing. The clothes are sorted in batches as to colour and material. White with white, dark with dark, nylon fabrics and socks and overalls separate. Warm water for most fabrics and especially wash-and-wear materials. The shirts and towels were washed separately and the white shirts and under clothing usually went about half through the cycle before the synthetic materials were added and so on.

Very particular.

Then there was the careless type who threw all the clothing into the washers in reckless abandon. Lumps and tangles with no thought of colour or material. The water temperature was set on hot and the sheets and dainty under things sloshed around with the overalls and socks. This type usually relined in a corner with a package of cigarettes, a bottle of coke and a tabloid magazine.

There was obviously no communication with the bread-winner of 'clothing provider' in that household. It must have been a monumental task to provide enough money to replace all the 'shrunk up' socks, 'shredded' underwear. And TV dinners.

The Laundromat was also frequented by frustrated young fathers with baskets of dirty diapers. The rude awakening from the romantic courtship and few short months of happy wedded bliss had left its anxious furrow forever etched on their foreheads. The diapers were dumped (lumps and all) into the washers and the wastes gradually wore away in the water. If they hadn't dissolved, they were left in the washer or caught in the dryer or dried on the diaper to be peeled off at home, before the baby wore it again.

I had a pleasant conversational exchange with many men and women, young, old, or medium.

Many revealed all their family secrets with was sometimes embarrassing. I couldn't help but think that it would be convenient, sometimes, to have a little switch that would cut off anything you didn't want to hear!

One old retired gentleman would come in with his small bundle of smelly laundry and the only family he had in the whole world, a skinny red Irish setter. He would dispose of his varied assortment of clothing into the washer and then he would settle himself on a bench and look about hopefully for a willing ear. Having found one, he would unwind and unload all his experiences of the last 75 years.

Many times, I provided the 'ear' for him and often wished I had more time to listen to him. He always talked me right out the door and I always felt as if I had very rudely left in the middle of the conversation. All the way home and most of the day I would chastise myself for not giving up a little more time for the sake of the poor, lonely old man,

Several times I invited him to come out and visit but he never came.

One day, I happened in as a young mother was taking her clothing out of the drier. She had thrown her husband's wash-and-wear trousers into the washer and set the dial on 'hot'. You never saw such a wrinkled up mess in you life.

She was almost in tears. "What can I do?" she whispered.

I tried to console her. "Maybe if you washed them again in warm water, the wrinkles may come out."

They never did and her husband must have been furious with her.

Summer in a Quonset Part Four

Coldest summer on record - and no heat!

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here. Part two. Part three.)

Mornings were always very chilly - as was the whole summer!

With the exception of about two hot days, who could have foreseen the coldest summer in history?

Well, maybe Grey Eagle Child who forecast the coldest summer or fiercest winter every year. Sooner or later, he's right!

We never lingered over dressing in the morning, for with a Swish! Swish! on would go our clothes, socks, sweater, snow boots and usually jacket.

I would shiver my way over to the stove and turn the oven and all four burners on at once, even if I only needed two.

They must have given psychological heat because any heat calories were certainly lost in the voluminous stratosphere of the shed.

All plates and bowls would go into the oven while I prepared the meals and in order to conserve every calorie of heat.

And every one would be seated at the table and the blessing asked before the plates and food were brought out.

Then, if we hurried, the first mouthful of food would be too hot and the last one would be too cold!

Most of the time, we could see our breath. Our youngsters had great fun huffing and puffing about.

Every day brought a whole new series of unusual experiences.

Friends dropped in regularly for a momentary cheerful exchange and we enjoyed their ribbing.

"When's the auction?" one asked as he came through the one huge sliding door.

"Should get a blueprint of this," said another. "House, barn, shop and garage, all in one!"

Meanwhile, our new house was slowly taking shape.

Our amiable carpenter was trying to keep a dozen people happy by spreading his services around so thinly that he managed to put three nails in our house each week - and I believe sometimes he only managed two.

It was most frustrating and when the rain poured down along with the temperature, my temperature rose.

"Oh, what I would like to do to that carpenter," I fumed.

However, there were other days.

We were constantly amused by the sudden flood of traffic past our 'summer' home.

Necks would crane and eyes would stare.

One gal drove clear off the road!

Usually we made an effort to give them value for their effort.

I would come out with a bin full of garbage or we would scoot one of the youngsters out to the outdoor privy.

It was most interesting to watch the children on the school bus.

When it stopped, there would be a sudden surge of eager youngsters to the 'viewing side' and the bus would lurch dangerously over the roadside ditch.

I would dispatch our youngsters with a cheerful smile and a kiss and a tiny prayer in my heart that they would not be ostracized from humanity.

Summer in a Quonset Part Three

Yep. We were living in the feed lot.

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here. And part two here.)

The Long First Night

It was long past our bedtime before we managed to get everyone settled.

The shed had become very chilly with the setting of the sun and we found that we had to dig out many extra blankets.

It was really quite snug in our beds.

There is really something quite special about your own bed. If you could take it with you wherever you went, any place would feel like home.

As we lay there quietly listening to the last sleepy little giggle, though no words were spoken, I know we shared the same thoughts. Surely this was the most unique experience of our lives and certainly a satisfying solution for now.

And we were soon asleep.

I woke with a start!

Something had awakened me.

Something weird.

The shed was very dark and all I could see was the sky-light.

For a moment I couldn't seem to collect my facilities.

Where was I?

And what had startled me?

It was very still - a deafening kind of stillness.

Then, suddenly, a scream pierced the silence.

It was half wail, half screech and it was very close.

My hand clamped on my husband's arm and he stirred.

Then we were mesmerized by another wail - much longer than the first.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"I don't know!" he replied, "but it sounds like an animal of some kind."

Again the night stillness was shattered by this weird weeping sound.

It was right outside the shed wall.

We must surely have invaded the private territory of some wild beast. His voice was fraught with angry indignation.

I imagined a huge cat-like monster, his teeth and eyes glistening.

"What are we going to do?" I gasped.

"I'm going out to shoot him!" said my practical husband as he proceeded to dress in the dark. "I have a gun in the pick-up."

I lay back, shivering and pulled the bed clothes up around my chin. "But he might . . ." I couldn't manage to form the words.

"I'll be careful," was his parting shot and I watched helplessly as his dim form vanished into the thick darkness towards the door.

The door slid open and shut.

The screaming had stopped.

The stillness was awesome.

Every nerve and muscle tense, I huddled under the covers.

Suddenly, the moon shone through the cloud cover and the sky light brightened. I could see the monster shapes of furniture in the dim light.

One of the children stirred and laughed weirdly in his sleep.

The shed was suddenly like a huge, black cave and I felt unknown things lurking in its murky depths. At any moment, bats would descend in a cloud, their sharp teeth and claws poised.

Another scream echoed through the night. This time, its creator seemed to have moved away toward the river.

Where was my husband?

The clock on the head board of our bed said 1:30 A.M.

For an eon, I lay there waiting for the sound of the snarling monster attacking.

I could just picture my helpless mate walking into a trap.

One apprehensive hour later, Mark returned and as he undressed and slid his cold feet into bed, I learned through a whispered exchange that he had spent the whole eternal hour observing safely from the cab of the truck!

He had seen nothing.

The children slept through it all. The events of the day had tired them more than we thought.

Some time in the wee hours of the morning, I slept.

But with the coming of daylight, the young bulls to the south of the shed began to test their voices in preparation for the 'bull chorus'.

Further sleep was obviously out of the question.

First we had the deep bass. Then the baritone. Then the alto.

Then the tenor broke away in careless abandon. He sounded like the braying of an ass.

Morning also set off another reaction.

As the early sun's rays hit the quonset, we became the unwilling audience to the pop-pop-popping conversation of hundreds of bolts in its ribs.

The temperature change had obviously set off a chain of protests from our little bolt friends.

Day had come.

Summer in a Quonset Part Two

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here.)

Home!

I drove right into the quonset and parked close to the living room area.

My thoughtful husband had already arranged the living room furniture in an orderly manner - complete with end tables on each side of the sectional couch.

It looked . . . inviting.

I wanted to drop my weary bones into the nearest chair!

However, there was no time.

Everything else there was chaos. Packing crates, boxes, and furniture everywhere.

Doc was busy setting up beds and improving bedrooms with dressers and wardrobe cases for partitions.

The electrician had been busy and two deep freezers were already humming their normal tune whilst preserving the family food.

My stove was being set up in the kitchen area east of the living room space, and it was comforting to know that I would be able to use most of the electrical conveniences I enjoyed.

Two tables were set up in the kitchen - one to be used as a work table and the other for eating our meals.

A set of steel shelves had been erected beside the tables for storing dishes, bowls, kettles and all my baking and cooking materials.

We had found an old cutlery drawer and it came in very handy when it came time to sort all the various kitchen tools.

I covered most of the articles on these shelves with tea towels. We discovered, with some annoyance, that the cement dust settled everywhere.

No amount of sweeping seemed to solve this problem.

In fact, I think it aggravated it!

We covered most of our furniture with grey flannelette sheets and old bed spreads. They stood like great, hooded monsters in the fading light.

It was nearly time to have our evening meal and the thought of food was farthest from my mind.

Our children were dancing about the crates and boxes in gleeful abandon and I hated to intrude upon this carefree joy with restrictions.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

A dear, sympathetic neighbour brought in a hot, steaming casserole of peppered steak and a crisp green salad. (I shall always have a soft spot for hot, peppered steak and a thoughtful friend.)

We suddenly discovered that we were not only hungry, but ravenous.

Just to smell this delicious food set our taste buds to dancing. We set the table quickly and all sat down together to share a moment of thankfulness and enjoy this wonderful food.

It had been a long day, this 23 of June. A warm, sunny day after the refreshing rain of the night before.

It was a day full of sound and activity, of confusion and frustration.

A day ending one segment of our lives and beginning a new one in a long chain of segments - each one an event that would shatter, frustrate or console us as we met new challenges.

Summer in a Quonset Part One

Everything Under Construction

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals:

The red letter day was here.

There could be no more stalling - no more postponing - no more compromising.

We had sold our house three months before and we just must move!

All the planning and indecision washed over me like a cold shower.

Nothing had been resolved, though all angels had been considered.

While our new home was being built, should we move into a motel? To a trailer? Rent a house?

All of them were ticked off for various reasons - too expensive, too many children (six when our eldest was home), and homes to rent were not available.

There was one alternative, however.

My rancher/veterinarian husband had built a quonset.

A huge quonset (100 feet by 40 feet).

And it had a cement floor, smooth in the center and rough at one end where he eventually planned to build a barn with stalls for convalescing animals. (The rough floor would keep the animals from slipping.)

It had a cold water outlet and a sewer outlet at the rough end.

I don't know how the great light dawned, but we suddenly came up with this fantastic idea.

Why not move into the quonset for the summer?

We could assemble our living area in the center near the water outlet and carry all our waste water to the sewer outlet in the future barn space.

It would work.

We still had many misgivings about living in 'the shed' and they seemed to multiply as the day for the move drew nearer.

So, it was with many the doubts still swimming through my head that I set myself to the task of packing.

The confusion grew as the moving van arrived and it progressed steadily through the length of the day until by late afternoon my mind and limbs were numb.

Finally, though, I was looking about the nearly-empty home I loved.

It was as if I were viewing a funeral procession of a dear friend.

The car was packed to the roof. There was room only for me as the driver, and my littlest child, Anita, on a heap of articles beside me.

Thank goodness the others were all in school and didn't have to witness this agonizing transformation. (Although I had reason to suspect that they were entranced by the whole idea - anything so unusual would be a great adventure!)

They could not possibly perceive all the 'mechanics' of the operation. And definitely would not experience the re-organization and planning that would have to be done before our family would resume a smooth day-to-day living.

No one could help me with this.

I felt as if I had been prepared for slaughter and my unwilling body was being swept toward the surgeon with scalpel poised and grinning teeth mocking me.

Life's necessities and comforts had gone.

I had to accept that.

So, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and quivering lip clamped firmly in my teeth, I shifted the family car into reverse and drove resolutely toward my 'summer home'.

Never Anger the Ranching God!

Blair. Getting a haircut. And shave.
By Mom, the barber.

The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a quarter of a mile from the ranch buildings.

Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.

But a marathon in length when you were pushing sick, weary stock.

Dad came up with plan 'B'.

Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.

Genius.

In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent (good word) to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition.

Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.

They were heavy-duty. Solid.

And could be set up at a moment's notice.

The answer to all of our prayers.

Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.

Moving on . . .

We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.

I can't tell you how easy it was.

Okay, I probably could, but . . .

Ahem.

All was going well.

Never say that when ranching.

Because Alfred, the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.

And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.

On this particular day, he sent Nature.

Capital 'N'.

Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.

I witnessed (and lived through) the great Edmonton Tornado of 1987.

But that is another story.

Today's storm was a bit different.

There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.

Or rain.

There was only lightning.

And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.

I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.

My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.

We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.

The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.

Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!

There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.

It exploded.

No, really.

It was there one moment.

Then gone the next.

A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been.

It was rather hard to ignore.

We all froze in our various positions.

Dad and I outside the corral.

Blair stuck in the middle.

With several head of cattle.

Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.

“Freeze!” Dad barked.

Blair did.

The cattle weren't as obedient.

Now that I think about it, cattle never are.

Obedient, I mean.

But I digress . . .

Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?

They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.

“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”

Sometimes I hate it when people are right.

Again, the greenish colour.

Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!

Again the exploding.

But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral.

That green lightning magnet.

Completely helpless.

I know I did do some praying then.

That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one.

And then the storm moved away from us.

We started breathing again.

Moving.

Blair lost no time in sprinting across the corral and vaulting the fence.

Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.

For several minutes, we just stood there.

Outside the corrals.

Thankful to be alive and safe.

It was sometime before Dad could convince us to get back to work.

Not an unusual challenge.

But this time we had a good excuse.

It's a Pie Day!

My Mom. Doing what she did best!

Pie.

That king of treats.

The amazing union of lightly browned and flaky crust and yummy filling.

And topped with a delicious scoop of iced or whipped cream . . .

It's like heaven.

In your mouth.

Spilled on the floor and reduced to its sticky, disparate parts, it's not as good.

But we won't go there.

And I just finished cleaning.
So . . . pie.

Today is pie-making day.

Whenever our family celebrates, we do it with pie.

It's a long-standing tradition that spans one generation.

Okay, we started it, but it's still a good tradition!

So, because tomorrow is the launching of my new book, Carving Angels, and every party requires pie, I will spend today making it.

Pie, I mean.

I love making it.

My Mom made fantastic pie. 

Sweet. Flaky. (This is the only place where 'flaky' is a good thing.)

And utterly delicious.

And so, when I make it, using her recipes, it's like spending time with her.

I even have a picture, which I prop up and talk to.

Okay, it's weird, but she's been gone for nearly a decade and I miss her.

And now, in honour of this grand occasion, I am including some of my favourite 'pie' quotes:

1. "Keep your knives, we're having pie!"  ~My Dad. Just before Mom whacked him.
2. "Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie."  ~The proprietress of a diner to the Duke of Edinborough.
3. "A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around."  ~E.W. Howe
4. "It is utterly insufficient (to eat pie only twice a week), as anyone who knows the secret of our strength as a nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents, the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished."  ~EDITORIAL New York Times, 1902
5. "But I, when I undress me
   Each night, upon my knees
   Will ask the Lord to bless me
   With apple-pie and cheese."
               ~Eugene Field
6. "Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes."  ~Arcadia   Robert Green, 1590
7. "In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."  ~ Isaac Asimov
8. If all the world were Apple pie, And all the seas were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What would we have to drink?  ~ Unknown

I have to go. My Mom is waiting.
Happy pie day!

Even Cowgirls Love Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.

1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.

2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.

Oh, and . . .

3.      Poor guys.

I was herdsman for my Dad.

A simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.

My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.

Much like a mother hen.

On horseback.

It was the perfect job.

The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the field.

Okay, groups of young men weren't a normal, or unwelcome, sight in our part of the country.

And these were seismic crews  in groups of ten or so who were more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.

So, riding past them wasn't a difficulty, really.

Okay, it was a bonus.

But I did feel like I rather . . . stuck out

Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.

On this particular day, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.

In full view of about ten pairs of eyes.

Sigh.

I smiled, feeling rather . . . exposed, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.

I wasted no time in moving to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.

It didn't happen.

By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.

And with nothing to do but watch me.

Perfect.

I dismounted and opened the gate.

Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.

I led my horse through.

“Can I help you with that, Miss?”

I turned.

One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.

I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him.

“Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”

I handed him the post and stepped back.

He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.

The post, I mean.

It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.

I should point out here that a barbed wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire, one top and one bottom. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on the lead post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.

The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.

With the swat of one hand.

His manhood was now on the line.

He pushed, while trying not to appear that he was pushing.

Still no progress.

He began to get red-faced.

He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.

Still a gap of two or three inches.

A mile in 'gate' terms.

I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.

He did so.

And was still an inch out.

Oh, man.

He had offered to help me.

And he couldn't.

I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.

I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”

And gave him my biggest smile.

Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.

A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.

It was fastened.

I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.

At least I wasn't around to witness it.

But I will always be grateful.

He was a true gentlemen.

And even a cowgirl appreciates that.

If You Want to Be Clean, Stay out of the Corral!

Oh sure, she looks clean now . . .

I've decided that ranching is not 'clean' work.

I had been herdsman for my Dad for several months.

This combined my favourite activity, riding, with various other responsibilities.

Like checking the herd every day for cows that were calving.

Cows that looked like they were about to start calving.

Or cows that looked like they were thinking about starting to calve.

Ranching takes a lot of head work.

Also helping them when it became necessary.

And hauling feed.

Cleaning pens.

And grubbing around the barnyard doing whatever Dad came up with.

Yep. Not clean work at all.

This day, though, I was determined to stay . . . unsoiled.

My new boyfriend was stopping by and I wanted him to see me as the picture-perfect cowgirl. 

Sun in her hair and smelling of the outdoors - grass, sage, and fresh air.

Things started well.

I buckled the riding pad on my horse.

Thus eliminating the possibility of being covered with hair when he arrived.

I rode out to the calving pasture.

It was a bright, fresh morning with just a bit of a breeze.

Perfect.

I finished my initial sweep.

The easy, treeless part of the field.

No cows inconveniently doing messy things.

I started back, this time through the brush and small trees.

Still nothing.

Everyone was grazing happily, or contentedly lying down, chewing their cud.

It was a peaceful scene.

A clean scene.

I rode into the last copse (real word, I looked it up) of trees.

And there she was.

That one cow determined to undermine my perfectly planned morning.

Obviously calving.

And just as obviously having trouble.

Rats.

I rode over.

Yep. Trouble.

The calf's head and feet had emerged, but the little creature was obviously caught at the shoulders.

Poor thing.

Thoughts of my pristine wardrobe disappeared as I considered my next move.

The cow had to be herded to the ranch buildings.

And quickly.

We made it in record time, considering she was in heavy labour.

Finally, she was enclosed in the nearest empty corral.

I slid off my horse and quickly erected a 'pen' of plank walls around her, further hemming her in.

Then I reached for the calf's little white feet.

But this cow didn't want my help.

And certainly wasn't disabled by any discomfort she might be feeling.

I should have realized that a cow who had made the trip from the field to the ranch building at the speed she had, while in labour, was actually Supercow.

As my hands closed firmly over her calf's feet, she made a leap, flattening my hastily-erected fence and pulling me through the rubble.

Now a normal person probably would have let go at that point.

I guess I'm not normal.

Because I didn't.

Let go, that is.

Instead, I desperately hung on to those feet as the cow pulled me around the corral.

Through the dust.

And a couple of icky pools.

And that's when the calf . . . fell out.

Soon, mother and baby were happily together.

And I was headed to the ranch house.

I needn't tell you how I looked.

From head to foot.

My boyfriend's truck and I reached the front gate together.

It's all about timing.

7X7 Links Challenge

Delores of The Feathered Nest has chosen me for the 7X7 Links.

This is so exciting!

Here's how it works . . .

You go through your past posts and find one that fits each of the following criteria (good word!):

1.  Most beautiful. Never thought of any of my posts as beautiful, but that was the word most used to describe this one!
My River

2.  Most popular. Way ahead of all the others for sheer number of views.
Naked-ing the Clothed

3.  Most Controversial. A tie here. Disgusting frog dissection. Or disgusting Dog digestion. Take your pick.
Students and Froggies
Dining with Dogs

4.  Most Helpful. A little travel advice. From the experts.
The Terrible, Awful No Good, Very Bad Trip

5.  Surprisingly Successful. Who knew that The Simpsons could be so educational?
Important Lessons From the Unlikeliest Places

6.  Most Underrated. One of my favourites. From the early days of my blog.
The Root Cellar

7.  Most Pride Worthy. This blog helped me connect with the wonderful descendants of the world's best teacher.
World's Best Teacher

And now seven blogs that I most enjoy. Visit them. You'll be glad you did!
Jen at Bless this Mess
Ginger at inSERIOUSLYsane
Laura at Living A Big Story
Mama Zen at The Zen of Motherhood
Red at Amazing Australian Adventures
Bella at Bella's Place, Bella's Space
Jamie Brooke Thompson at Jamie Brooke Thompson

And a special mention to Pearl. A real treat!
Pearl at Pearl, Why You Little

The Golden Rule

Me. Far right, second row. Renee, directly behind me.
One of us was perfectly dressed.
It wasn't me.

I'm a horrible person.

I mocked/made-fun-of someone.

I have repented.

It was my first day of school.

I was breathlessly, happily, finally in grade one.

I had just enjoyed my first bus ride.

It was bumpy and dusty.

But magical.

I had been duly delivered to the sidewalk outside my brand new school.

Where I stood in indecision.

Okay. The other kids were lining up at the doors.

I followed.

A tall, slender woman was calling for all of the "Grade Ones!"

I saw several kids about my size line up beside her.

I followed.

The bell rang and Miss Warnoski turned and went into the school.

We all followed.

In Miss Warnoski's room, we toted our book bags (mine was homemade by my Mom) to our first desk.

I was in the second row.

Second seat back.

It had my name pasted onto it.

D-i-a-n-e S-t-r-i-n-g-a-m. I spelled it out by tracing with a finger.

Yep. That's me!

I watched to see what the other kids were doing.

Unpacking.

Okay. I could do that.

I began to pull out thick, red pencils and half-lined scribblers.

Cool. There was a cubbyhole under the desktop that could hold a mountain of stuff.

Soon it was home to my stuff.

I hung my bag over the seat back, sat down at my desk, folded my hands together on top, and let my legs swing.

School was a breeze.

Miss Warnoski began to teach.

Okay, not such a breeze.

Then, it was time to line up for Recess.

Capital 'R'.

The great unknown.

I followed.

We filed back outside. And kids began to run and play.

This was Recess?

Pffff. What was I worried about?

This was just like playing with kids at home.

In fact, I recognized some of the kids from playing at home.

Suddenly I was in my element.

And that's when the trouble started.

I should point out, here, that I didn't always get into trouble during recess.

It just seems like it.

Moving on . . .

There was a tall, very slender girl in my new class.

Renee.

She had long, silky, platinum-blond hair, perfectly groomed.

And she was dressed in the very pinnacle of fashion.

Something that would remain a trademark with her throughout our school years.

And something that would pass me by throughout . . . you get the picture.

Today, she had on a poofy pink dress.

Which I secretly thought was very pretty.

And of which two or three of the other kids were making fun.

They called out jeers and snide remarks.

A five-year-old's version of insulting.

And none of which I can remember.

Probably a good thing.

But it looked like fun!

I would join in.

"Renee, you look like a big, poofy candy floss!"

Renee just smiled. As she had been doing all along.

And suddenly, I didn't feel all that clever.

In fact, I felt stupid.

I had made fun of someone.

And I didn't like it.

I handled my new feelings of embarrassment and chagrin with aplomb and maturity.

I went and hid.

Till the bell rang and Miss Warnoski came to gather all of us.

I've forgotten much of what I was taught in grade one, I'm sure, but one thing stayed with me.

Don't say anything you wouldn't want said to you.

Okay, I never had to worry about anyone teasing me about my 'candy floss' dress. Or any dress for that matter.

But you get the point.

Ranch Cats

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was night.

And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.

Something she did a lot. At night.

We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.

It was annoying.

Finally, I got up to see what could be bothering her.

Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby.

A cow bawling.

Water running in the canal.

Crickets.

Dumb dog.

I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport.

It had two walls, one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.

The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.

It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.

Something I usually did.

Tonight I . . . didn't.

I don't know why.

I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.

There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.

And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.

My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.

Still barking.

Stupid dog.

I sighed and pushed the screen door open.

I hesitated.

Then did something I had never done before.

I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other garden tools.

Then I walked between the cars towards my frantic dog.

I paused at the edge of the carport.

Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased.

I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.

And I do mean shattered.

It was the scream of a cougar.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.

It's . . . scary.

This scream was five feet away.

Above me.

At the very edge of the carport roof.

See? Shattered.

I froze instantly.

Then started to back up, one step at a time.

Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.

I called my dog and she came running.

Still barking.

The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.

Now, I should point out that the main door of the ranch house was never closed, let alone locked.

Except when I was out on my first date with my husby and my Dad didn't want me back.

But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”

I was staring out the window.

Cheetah was now standing behind me.

She continued to bark.

“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.

“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”

“Are you sure?”

I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”

“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.

I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.

My dad appeared. Calm as always.

“Where?”

“Well it was on the carport a few minutes ago.”

“It'll leave.”

I stared at him.

“You're not going to go out after it?”

“Not while it's on the roof.”

Good point.

Dad got a flashlight and pointed it out the window towards the carport roof.

Empty.

I cautiously opened the door.

Cheetah shot through the opening and into the night.

Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and towards the foothills.

Our visitor was obviously headed home.

The first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.

Or being offered a warm meal.

Oh. Wait.

I guess that's a good thing.

Stay on the Sidewalk Where it's Safe

My rocketship.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.

The one in town.

It was a whole different lifestyle for me.

I had a tricycle.

Red.

Sturdy.

With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.

Which I did.

Often.

I was the master of the universe!

I could go anywhere!

As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.

The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.

There were dragons there.

Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.

It was so much better.

So, back on the tricycle.

I rode it endlessly.

Doing laps of our block.

The different homes were categorized according to points of interest or what foodstuffs could be procured there.

Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.

It was paradise.

For me.

I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their sidewalk on her trusty steed.

At least they were kind.

And polite.

But I knew that there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.

Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel in search of anything else.

It just didn't make sense.

So I stayed on my sidewalk.

And was safe.

Most of the time.

There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.

Occasionally, it was used for vehicles.

Go figure.

Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.

And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.

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

On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.

Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.

I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.

For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.

But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.

In size at any rate.

I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.

I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.

In fact, they barely had mirrors.

Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.

Or my tricycle.

It could have been a disaster.

I pulled into the alley entrance,

And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.

This was different.

Closer. Closer.

Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.

I did so.

The truck kept backing.

Backing.

There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle.

Huh. There's something you don't see every day.

The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.

He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.

I watched him go.

Then looked at my tricycle.

Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.

Sigh.

Dad would fix it.

I ran home.

Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.

Brighter red.

And two little tassells instead of one.

And I think he made it a little bigger.

Dads could do anything.

Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.

Conquering worlds.

Staying safe.