Sunday Suit

We are and always have been, a Church attending family.
We love it.
And I was raised to believe that, to show proper respect, we should always go dressed in our best.
And that included our children.
So from their very earliest days, our girls were in dresses.
Hair neatly done.
And our boys in suits and ties.
Sometimes, when we left, our home was in complete disarray.
Okay, often, when we left, our home was in complete disarray.
But we were neat and clean.
Even the youngest of us.
When our oldest boys were born, I made each of them a white shirt and tie and a three-piece suit; jacket, pants and vest.
They looked . . . dressy.
At least I thought so.
The clothes were handed down to our youngest son, who came some years behind.
So, at the age of 14 months, he was dressed for church in a little brown suit and vest, with a white shirt and dark red tie.
He looked like a miniature accountant.
All he needed was the tiny briefcase.
Moving on . . .
During our worship service, he wet his diaper.
And everything else below the waist.
Rats.
I took him to the Mother's room to make repairs.
Unfortunately, all I had to put him in was a fresh diaper.
The pants would have to go home for cleaning.
Fortunately, all of the upper garments has survived.
Now, my son was dressed in a white shirt and tie. Vest and jacket.
And diaper.
Okay, the accountant image was shot forever.
Or maybe not . . .
We headed back to the chapel.
He, happy to be dry once more.
Me, praying that no one would notice my baby, dressed in a less-than-normal manner.
My prayer wasn't answered.
We quietly opened the door and slipped inside.
So far so good.
We crept towards our bench.
Still well.
I released his little hand to slide into the bench.
And that's when the little cretin saw his opportunity to escape.
Giggling shrilly, he dashed up the aisle towards the front of the chapel.
I started to go after him, but stopped when I realized that the entire congregation was now watching us. I stared after the rapidly retreating shirt, tie, jacket and vest.
And diaper.
Torn between stopping the charge.
And admitting that he was mine.
I should point out here, that our chapel has two aisles, one on either side of the large room, as well as a wide space at the front and back.
My son reached the front and started across towards the other side.
Still shrieking happily.
I studied him, trying to figure out the best and fastest way to knock him into next week stop him.
I realized that when he reached the far side, he only had two options. Go back the way he had come, or start down the far aisle.
I was betting on the latter.
As calmly as I could with the entire congregation now ignoring the struggling speaker and watching the two of us, I walked back up the aisle towards the back of the room. Then began to make my way across, paralleling my son's path.
He turned the corner at the front and started down the far aisle towards the back.
Hah! I knew it!
I cut him off at the pass, scooped him into my arms and disappeared through the far door and into the safe, unpopulated hallway.
Still shrieking.
Him, not me.
Though I was considering it.
I collapsed into a chair.
And sighed weakly.
Mission accomplished.
People thought the whole episode was 'cute' and 'sweet' and 'hilarious'.
They were so understanding.
I and my family however, will never forget.
And now we have a whole new meaning for the words, 'Sunday suit'.

Do As I Say!

Our children learn from what they see.
And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not.
Sometimes, it's just plain fun.
My husby had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
His favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then my husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphamism (real word – look it up!).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged.
Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.
“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
I'm assuming he meant GRant.
His father's name.
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds of movement from the eupham . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Honey!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Honey!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Honey!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Honey!”
His father emerged, still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“More pancake, Honey!”
We had created a monster.

October Blog Hop

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On this blog, you can win ...

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That's it! You are now entered. Now please go visit all my friends on the list below. It's almost like trick or treating!

October Blog Hop Participants

1. Tristi Pinkston 2. I Am a Reader, Not a Writer 3. Bonnie Harris 4. Michael D. Young 5. Misty Moncur 6. Debbie Davis 7. Mandi Tucker Slack 8. Mary Ann Dennis 9. Deanna Henderson 10. Laura Bastian 11. Kristy Tate

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My OCD was given to me

Better Meals!

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.

I admit it.

Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.

And I cleaned my room/living quarters.

Again when my Mom told me.

Mom was a clean nut.

But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.

And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.

Really clean.

Let me explain . . .

We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.

It was exciting.

Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.

For purely logistical reasons.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Moving on . . .

We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.

We stepped into the entryway.

And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.

The house was filthy.

I mean filthy.

You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.

We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.

I stopped in the doorway.

Frozen.

Or stuck.

It was hard to tell the difference.

Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.

The stove was unrecognizable.

Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.

Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.

Perhaps that was a blessing.

One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.

And under the table.

My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.

"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.

Or garden.

Or feed lot.

Huh. Speaking of feed lots. And cleanliness . . .

But I digress . . .

"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.

Well in hand?!

I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.

"Diane, come and help us."

Mom had noticed my hesitation.

But had somehow missed the rising green colour.

"Thanks, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."

I remember her look.

Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm really not feeling very well."

She came over to me.

I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.

She put a hand on my forehead.

"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."

The mess went on?

I couldn't bear to venture further.

"No, I really think I'd better go outside."

I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.

"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.

My eyes widened. I could only imagine.

"Um, no. Just some fresh air."

I bolted towards the door.

And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.

Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.

Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.

With the family dog.

He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Music Says It All

Son and Grandson

My second son is a large man.

Large.

Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.

And he is a body builder.

He works as a cop in our fair city.

Let me put it this way . . .

No one argues with him.

They just nod politely and do as he asks.

His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.

Size is important.

But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.

And tons of fun.

Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.

And he drove a big truck.

These two points are important.

Moving on . . .

One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.

His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.

He looked every inch the soldier he was.

He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.

I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.

And sunglasses.

In a monster truck.

But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.

And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".

He stopped at a stoplight.

Still grooving.

Then he glanced to his left.

A small pickup was just pulling up beside him.

With three teenage boys in the seat.

All of whom were staring at him.

Up at him.

Their expressions were . . . interesting.

My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.

The light changed and he drove on.

But the small truck stayed where it was.

I think he frightened them.

Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?

Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Summer in a Quonset Summer's End

Settled. Finally.

As the summer progressed, new items were hauled into the quonset from the old ranch.

Our summer home began to look more and more like the back yard of a junk dealer.

Soon there was only a foot path past the 'clinic' to the 'living area'.

We had to do more and higher leaping over this and jumping over that to find items that we wanted. But we finally became so efficient at finding things we almost knew which box contained what.

It was like watching a movie to see all the different expressions of our clients as we met them at the door.

I often wonder what went though their minds as they drove up to the quonset and faced that huge sliding door with the shingle hooked to the latch which said: Dr. Mark Stringam. Veterinary Office.

They always knocked and waited. So if they felt a little over-whelmed, they at least had a little more time to assemble their mixed feelings and shattered thoughts.

A quick survey never failed to bring a look of shocked amazement.

It usually took a few seconds to pull themselves together.

"Everything is sure handy, isn't it?"

"Imagine! Everything you own right here!"

"Sure is cozy in here!"

We had set up our clinic in a corner of the quonset next to the double doors.

And right next to our 'living room'.

Our examining table was three boards on two saw horses.

Clients brought their animals to be examined and we dispensed drugs right there.

One day, we had just managed to straighten the bed covers when we heard a car drive up.

A friend knocked, and then brought in his dog for a distemper shot.

Before we could guess the animal's intentions, he had made a bee-line for the corner of our couch, lifted a leg, and sprayed all over it.

Our friend was so horrified, he apologized for his dog every time he saw us for months afterward.

But all good things must come to an end.

An early snow storm was predicted.

The quonset was chilly in the 'warmer' summer months. What would it be like with the world around it encased in ice?

Sub zero.

And that would just be a start.

There was only one solution. We had to move into our unfinished house.

Throughout the day, with the clouds piling up on the horizon and looking more and more threatening, I carried loads of household goods from the quonset to the car and then drove them across to the house.

It was hard, tiring work, but one look at the horizon would always serve to steel my muscles and lengthen my stride.

By evening, we had a cozy set up in the basement, with a tidy fire crackling in the new fireplace and stuff sitting or hanging everywhere.

We could hardly move!

But at least we were warm!

The promised storm swept over us, howling in frustration as it flew past the windows and chimney, trying to find a crack.

But the house was solidly built and we stayed warm and comfortable inside.

Imagining what life would be like back in the quonset on this night.

For the children, this was just another phase of the adventure.

For me, it was a glimmer of hope that one day, soon, I would again have running water and flush toilets.

And a bath tub!

Sheer luxury!

Summer in a Quonset Part Eight

All the amenities of home. In a shed!

As the summer progressed . . .

Our five-year-old, Anita had almost free run of the 'house' and she had learned to dial the telephone.

She couldn't read the numbers but she could count, and, beginning at one end, she could count the holes and dial the number.

I didn't know she could do this and I very innocently rattled off the number of a girl friend upon her request, thinking, "No harm! She couldn't dial it anyway!"

The next thing I knew, she was talking to her friend.

"We are going to visit Mortons this afternoon. You know Mortons. MORTONS! (Very indignantly.) "Mortons! Mortons!" And then in exasperation spelling it out . . . "T-I-T-T, Mortons!"

Well, I discovered she could count, but she couldn't spell. Yet!

She appointed herself Chief - in charge of almost anything - and one was Telephone Answering Service.

When she first appointed herself to this assignment, we were more than a little dubious about her ability to handle the clients. But we didn't want to come right out and tell her that we thought she might not be capable of handling the job - so when the telephone rang, we just tried to get to the phone first.

It turned out to be a race sometimes and we knew that she was beginning to get the message but she wasn't about to give up, either!

So, after a brief counsel, we decided to let her take the calls. Only we would have to give her more advice.

For one thing, there would have to be a little more consideration for the customer.

The Office Secretary would have to change her answering procedure from 'Hello. My Daddy is not home. Goodbye.' to 'Hello, Dr. Stringam's office. He is not here at the moment, but he will be in at such-and-such a time. Can I take a message?'

Then, since she couldn't write, it was difficult to keep everything stuck together right and some of the messages came out mighty strange . . .

"The man said . . ."

"What man?"

"I don't know his name, but he said his cow had pushed herself inside out and would Dr. Stringam please come and push her in immediately!"

We had a man out there somewhere with an emergency! He would have to call back and, hopefully, I could reach the phone first!

Or another time . . .

"A man called."

"Did you get his name?"

"I forgot his name, but his cow is having a calf and he wants Daddy to come right away."

Fortunately, with that one, we found out later that his cow had managed to get into the granary and engorged herself with grain. The 'calving' was a case of bloat!

But we had more counseling with the Answering Service.

The result?

"Hello. Dr. Stringam's shed. He is not here right now, but his mother is! Here she comes now!"

Generally, our customers were very patient with Anita and would exchange a little conversation with her and then ask for me.

Or if I wasn't immediately available, they would leave a number to call. (Though this, too presented a bit of a problem sometimes because the number wouldn't come out exactly right.)

With all of this, it was probably a miracle, but very seldom did a client become irate.

Summer in a Quonset Part Seven

The only existing picture of Mom's 'kitchen' in the quonset.
Behind her are The Shelves.

Our popping bolt friends announced the rising of the sun and we found we didn't need any other alarm. In fact, we weren't just exactly ecstatic about rising at 4 A.M.!

Sleep became impossible as flocks of birds began their daily effort of trying to gain a foot hold on the slippery dome of the shed.

They chirped excitedly as they scratched and slid.

We could see the shapes of their fluffy little bodies and wings as they lit on the sky light.

They were having such great fun sliding and flying.

We snuggled down in our warm beds watching and listening.

Soon, our bull chorus greeted the day with their lusty song.

Where is everybody this fine day!

Where is my breakfast, my grain and my hay?

We quickly shivered into our clothes and rushed through breakfast.

I filled my canning kettle with cold water and set it on the stove to heat while we ate.

I was always anxious to finish dishes and straighten our 'apartment' before a veterinary client came.

On this particular morning a Matt Clemens was bringing his cat for a rabies shot.

He brought him in a sack.

Mark laid the sack on the clinic table (three boards over two saw horses), put on some leather gloves, and began rolling the top of the sack down to the wild cat in one corner.

Two beady eyes gleamed from the depths of the sack.

Before the cat could spring, Mark clamped one hand on the neck and head, and the other hand on his back through the sack.

He extracted the cat and held him out flat on the table.

Then it was my turn to hold the creature.

I had done this many times but my courage had not improved with the practice.

In each hand, I clamped two legs just above the claws and wedged my wrist on the neck of the cat, forcing the jaw over and the vicious teeth away from me.

He flexed every muscle as he strained to be free making a desperate attempt to turn his head and slide it out from under my arm. His head was small and he could turn it almost completely around.

Like an owl.

His sharp teeth were just grazing my wrist.

Just as the needle penetrated into the muscle of his hip, I moved my arm a little to try to get a more secure clamp on the cat's jaw.

The movement released the animal just enough for him to twist his head a fraction more and he clamped his teeth into my wrist.

“He's got me!” I whispered, transfixed as numbness crept through all of my muscles.

Very slowly, Mark said, “Let . . . him . . . go . . . both . . . hands . . . at . . . once . . . quickly!”

I couldn't move!

The cat couldn't move!

There was no pain.

“Let . . . him . . . go . . . now!”

I suddenly came to life and obeyed.

The cat, too, came to life. Extracted his teeth and shot like a bullet off the table and across the floor and up to the highest far away place.

Which happened to be the steel shelves where I had all of my dishes and kitchen supplies.

There he sat, with every muscle tensed for a spring, looking down on us with all the venom of a rattle snake.

Our 8-year-old, Blair, had been watching all the proceedings with much interest.

He suddenly grabbed the sack and said, “I'll get him Dad!”

For a moment, we were so astonished we couldn't move.

The he advanced towards the cat.

I climbed a ladder at one end and Blair climbed the table at the other end and held the sack open near the cat's head.

The creature turned its head and looked at me and leaped right into the sack!

Well.

I thought I had a face that would stop a clock, but I didn't know it would scare a wild cat!

At that moment, my arm began to give me the most excruciating pain.

Feeling faint, I lay down for a moment while Doc called the M.D.

He advised us to get a tetanus shot immediately, which we did.

Three or four hours later, my arm was aching from my finger tips to my shoulder and the swelling was beginning to move into the upper arm.

As night came on I became increasingly nauseated and dizzy.

I can't remember too much about the next three days except the pain and dizziness.

I spent most of the time in bed.

However all 'good things' must come to an end.

At the end of the third day, I was out pulling weeds in the lane of new trees we had planted in May.

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!