Mary (a short story) Part Four

We never got the chance to help.

Two days after that visit, my husband's mother suffered a bad fall, breaking her hip and causing considerable extra damage.

We spent several weeks alternately sitting by her bedside and arranging for her housing and care.

Finally, we were once more on the road home.

Mary's house appeared in the front window.

My husband made the now-familiar turn quickly and we found ourselves parked beside a strange vehicle.

Mary's car was nowhere to be seen.

We looked at each other and I felt a shiver.

We both knew it.

Something was wrong.

We got out quickly and hurried to the front door.

As had happened on so many of our visits, it was opened before we had even reached the steps.

A young woman stepped out, one hand shading her eyes from the setting sun.

"Hello?"

We climbed the few steps and approached her.

"Hello. I'm Mary and this is my husband, Frank . . ." I began.

"Oh, it's you!" the young woman exclaimed, reaching out both of her hands towards us. "At last you've come!"

I raised my hand, doubtfully and felt it gripped tightly.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" the woman said. "Mary will be so glad!"

"What's the matter" Frank spoke up beside me.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Of course you don't know!" The woman dropped my hand and twisted both of hers together. "It's really quite sad."

"Yes?" Frank prompted.

"Well, she . . . she's . . . dead."

The words went through me like a bolt of electricity.

"Oh, no!" I whispered.

The woman turned to me. "I'm afraid it's true."

"But how? The last time we saw her, she was fine. Happy!"

The woman smiled. "Yes. She was." She took a deep breath. "And that's something I need to talk to you about."

She turned towards the door. "Please, come in."

We followed her into the sweet, familiar home with dragging feet.

How could this be?

My mind struggled to take it in.

The young woman paused just inside the door and turned towards the fireplace.

Instinctively, my eyes followed hers.

There, framed neatly above the crackling flames, was a large picture of Frank and me. The two of us were leaning towards each other and smiling broadly for the camera. Behind us, through clear glass windows, one could see the mountains, close up and falling away into the distance. The sun was just setting behind the furthest ones.

It was a beautiful picture.

Obviously the one taken by Mary with her ancient camera on our very first visit.

"Oh," I said, rather ineffectively.

Frank gripped my arm tightly.

"I think I need to sit down," I said.

He guided me over to the familiar couch and the two of us perched there.

The young woman took a seat in Mary's chair.

"First, I should probably introduce myself," she said. "I'm Mercy Roberts. I'm from the church congregation that Mary attends. Er . . . attended."

I murmured something polite, my mind still reeling.

She cleared her throat. "Anyways, Mary drove into town a few weeks ago to do some shopping. But while she was there, in the grocery store, she had a heart attack."

"Oh, Mary!" I said.

Mercy nodded. "It was a bad attack and she didn't make it to the hospital."

I put my face in my hands.

Frank rubbed my back.

"So, a few weeks ago?" he asked.

"Yes."

"It must have been shortly after we were here the last time."

"I don't know about that," Mercy said.

"But the picture," I whispered. "What about the picture?" I lowered my hands and looked up at it.

Frank and I, smiling politely at the camera for a woman we had just met.

"Well, that's the thing," Mercy said. "We, none of us, knew who you were. Mary talked about her new, wonderful friends named Frank and Mary, but she didn't ever tell us your last name."

She, too, glanced up at the picture. "After she had been . . . cared for, our Pastor came here to try to help settle her affairs. You know she had no other family."

I nodded.

"Well, as soon as he walked through the front door, of course he saw the picture. He figured that it must be a photo of the new friends she was always talking about."

"Oh, Mary!" I moaned.

"And then the search was on to find the two of you."

"We live in the city."

"Yes, we figured that," Mercy smiled. "But it is a rather large city!"

"It is," Frank agreed.

"Finally, it was decided that one member of the congregation should come here to the house each day and wait for you to show up."

"Oh, I'm so sorry that you had to go to so much trouble," I said.

"Oh, it's been no trouble," Mercy said. "In fact, it's been a pleasure. It's so quiet and peaceful here." She looked at us. "And it's so nice to be able to finally meet the people who brought Mary such happiness in her final days."

I reached into my purse for a tissue.

"We did that?" Frank's voice sounded . . . choked.

Mercy smiled. "Yes. You did." She glanced over at the nearly finished quilt on the far side of the room. "You know Mary. She was always sweet and kind, but before you came, she was . . . rather sad. Lonely. Afterwards, she was so much better. Brighter. Looking forward to the future and your visits."

"I never realized," Frank said.

"Yes. Well, it's true."

By this time, I was sobbing into my scrap of tissue. "Oh, Mary!"

"So you don't know anything more about the picture," Frank said softly.

"Well, no. It was there when the Pastor came . . . afterwards. Like I said."

"But the one she had up there before? The two kids?"

"Oh, that one is hanging in the spare bedroom, now," Mercy said. She again looked up at the picture and smiled. "She always said that this spot was special. Reserved just for family."

Mary (a short story) Part Three

As our visits continued, we quickly came to discover the positive, independent attitude and irrepressible sense of humor that marked our new friend.

"Mary?"

A scream, then sounds of a struggle. Then . . . gurgling.

"Mary are you all right?"

A rather breathless, "Come in! Come in! I'm here in the kitchen!"

I set my newest addition to her plant collection on the floor and the two of us quickly made our way through the inner door.

There we found our friend collapsed in a chair, head on the table, obviously convulsed with . . . emotion.

Her large, grey cat was sitting on the table beside her, poking at her hair with a soft paw.

I hurried to her side and put a hand on one shaking shoulder.

"Mary, are you all right?"

A blackened face appeared, with two bright blue eyes looking out of it.

She scrubbed at some clear, wet streaks on her cheeks.

"Oh, Mary, Frank, you're just in time!" she gasped out.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

"Whoop! Nothing - that a person with a stronger stomach than I - can't take care of!" she chuckled.

I realized that her shoulders had been shaking, not with tears as I had first imagined, but with laughter.

I stood back. "What happened? What can we do?"

Still chuckling, she scrubbed at her face, smearing the wet, teary streaks. "Well, I guess for one thing, you can get me that coal scuttle over there." Mary waved a hand, indicating the ancient metal bucket beside the stove.

Frank hurried to bring it over.

"Oh, and the broom and dustpan." Mary glanced down and, for the first time, I realized that we were standing in a light carpet of ashes.

I stepped to one side, feeling the slight crunch as my foot came down on still more debris.

"Ick," I said.

"Good word!" Mary said, "and totally appropriate."

"But Mary, what happened?"

"Well, I was working on my quilt when I heard the most awful scrabbling sound here in the kitchen."

"Scrabbling sound?" Frank said.

"I don't know how else to describe it," Mary said. "I hurried in here and realized that the sound was coming from the chimney."

"Oh, dear," I said. "A bird?"

"Yes. The screen around the chimney must have blown loose or something and a bird got in there. Poor thing. I didn't have a fire going as I had been planning on cleaning out the ashes later today, but there must have been some residual smoke or something because, as I was trying to figure out how to help it, it quit struggling and I heard it fall to the bottom of the chimney."

"Oh, the poor thing!" I said. "So did you reach into the stove to help it?"

"Well, I tried. But when I opened the door, there was no bird in sight. So I decided that maybe it was just buried in the ashes. I brought the coal scuttle and a candle and peered into the stove. I discovered that there are a series of bars across the bottom of the chimney, where it joins the stove."

She shook her head. "I put the light further in and could see . . . something lying against those bars. I reached in . . ." again her shoulder began to shake with laughter.

"Mary, what happened?"

"I grabbed what I thought was the bird's foot, thinking I'd just pull it out. But what I got was the bird's beak."

She laughed again.

"I don't know why, but it seemed so much more . . . personal . . . than a foot. I screamed and pulled my hand back, then lost my balance and landed, face-first in the ashes." Her eyes twinkled from their sooty frame. "Then all I could do was laugh. That's when you two came in."

We stared at her.

What would this marvelous, independent woman think up next?

She got to her feet. "I'd better get this cleaned up."

"Please let us do that for you!" I said.

She sat back down. "You know what? I'm going to let you," she said.

Frank and I swept the normally spotless floorboards clean, dumping the ashes into the coal scuttle and setting it back beside the stove.

The Frank grabbed a small shovel and broom from hooks on the wall and proceeded to sweep the rest of the ashes and soot from the stove, adding them to what we had collected from the floor.

Mary got up again and moved over to the counter. She picked up a small mirror and peered into it.

"Oh, my!" She traced one sooty finger across her equally sooty face, then looked up at us.

"You have to admit, this is an improvement!" she said, her eyes twinkling.

She dipped steaming water out of the reservoir attached to the side of the stove and, pouring it into a little pan in the sink, quickly washed the ashes and soot from her face, hands and arms.

Finally, looking a bit more like Mary, she dried herself on a towel.

"There. That feels better!" She turned and looked at Frank, who was just finishing with the stove.

"Oh, thank you, dear boy," she said. "You are so kind!"

Frank set the coal scuttle beside the stove and walked over to the sink to clean his hands.

Then Mary grabbed some pieces of wood from a stack beside the cupboard and quickly laid and lit a fire.

Closing the stove door, she turned and looked at me. "Well this was hardly the way to welcome my friends into my home!" she said, smiling.

"Maybe, but at least we'll never forget it," I said.

She laughed. "Let's have tea!"

"First, where can I put those ashes," Frank said.

"Oh, just leave them there. I'll tote them out later."

"No, I like to finish my chores once I start," Frank said.

Mary smiled. "Well. all right."

She moved to the doorway of one of the bedrooms and pointed. "There's a door to the outside behind that curtain," she said. "You'll find a pit for the ashes not far from the back of the house."

Frank lifted the scuttle and disappeared through the door.

"Now, you set yourself right there at the table and I'll get the tea together, dear," she said to me.

Obediently, I settled into the chair she had just vacated. We chatted while she bustled around.

By the time Frank came back through the door, carrying the now-empty bucket, she had laid everything out on a tray and was dipping water out of the reservoir into her little teapot.

"Everything's just about ready, my boy," she said. "Now you two go out into the front room and I'll follow."

The tea tasted especially good. Maybe because it contained even more love than usual.

We were sitting quietly during the drive home, each of us busy with our own thoughts.

"Do you know that Mary doesn't have a bathroom?" Frank said suddenly.

"What?"

"Bathroom. Mary doesn't have a bathroom."

"I rather guessed," I said. "I didn't see one on our initial tour and none have sprung up since then." I looked at him. "But did you just discover this? You've been all over that house, tinkering."

"Well, I just never thought about it. I never went into her bedroom, and I just sort of assumed that there must be a little one in there. You know, joined up to the kitchen or something. With a little pump . . ."

I looked at him. No plumbing in the kitchen and you thought she would have it in a bathroom?"

"I know. Silly, right? Anyways, she has an outhouse, probably built when the rest of the house was built, out behind."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's stone, like the house and really is quite nice."

"But it's still an outhouse," I said.

"Well . . . yeah."

"Not very pleasant in the winter."

"Definitely not." He looked at me. "And another thing. She has a big washtub hung against the back wall. And a scrub board."

"I didn't know you knew what a scrub board was."

Frank made a face at me. "Of course I know what a scrub board is. I've seen them played as instruments."

"Oh, that would explain everything!"

He laughed. "Anyways, I think that Mary scrubs her own clothes and takes a bath in that washtub."

"Medieval!"

"My thinking exactly!" He frowned. "The thing is, I can't help but think of what her life must have been like, living in the city with its obvious amenities. And then, when she is in the winter of her life, moving back here, were there really aren't any comforts at all."

"Well, she does appear to love it," I said, doubtfully.

"No phone. No plumbing. Fireplace and stove for heat. The only modern convenience she has is electricity, which she hardly uses." He looked at me again. "My point is - how can we help her?"

Mary (a short story) Part Two

For the next several months, we stopped in for a visit with Mary nearly every week.

Her windowsills were soon lined with little potted plants (I like plants) and every light bulb in the place had been replaced at least once and most of the doors and windows adjusted. (Frank likes to tinker.)

She would show us the amazing quilt she was currently working on and talk about the eventual recipient.

Then she would serve us tea.

Take our picture.

And talk.

Week by week, we got to know this marvelous person.

"I haven't told you how Ray and I met," she said, sitting back in her chair and taking a sip of fragrant tea.

"No, that's one story we haven't heard yet," Frank said.

Mary was silent for a moment.

"Are you comfortable with telling us, dear?" I said.

"Oh, yes! I just need to gather my thoughts," Mary said, smiling.

She set down her tea cup and leaned toward us. "We weren't suppose to be there, either of us."

"Where?" Frank said.

"At the dance."

"Dance?"

"Maybe I'd better start at the front," Mary said, smiling. "There was a big dance. For New Years. The war was on and people needed some . . . diversion."

"Ah. The war," I said.

"Yes," Mary nodded. "It was 1944 and we thought the war was never going to end. So any chance we got to kick up our heels and forget for a little while was welcomed. The only problem was that these affairs usually got rather out of hand."

"People tried a little too hard to forget?" Frank said.

"Exactly."

"Understandable."

"Yes," she smiled, "but not very . . ." she puckered her brow, ". . . I guess 'classy' is the only word I can think of."

I smiled at her. "I take it your parents didn't approve?"

"Definitely not. Especially because my best friend, Bea, had gone to one of them and ended up getting married."

I frowned. "Getting married isn't so bad."

"Well, not when it happens normally. You know - planning, family invited. The problem was that Bea and her beau got married the night they met."

"Umm, okay that is a bit different."

"How is that possible?" Frank said.

"Well, closer to Vegas, I don't think would have been a problem," Mary said. "Here, in Alberta, it wasn't strictly legal. But it was done and the young couple certainly acted as though it was a real and proper ceremony. By the next morning, there was nothing else to be done but have another ceremony. This time with witnesses. And very quickly because the groom only had a 48 hour pass."

She smiled. "So the rest of the parents in the town were a trifle . . . gun shy. So to speak."

"I can certainly understand that," I said.

"Anyway, back to the dance." Her eyes twinkled. "Neither of us was supposed to be there. Me, because I wasn't quite 18 and Ray, because his parents didn't approve of dancing."

"So how did you end up there?"

"Well, I crawled out my window and Ray told his parents he was going to the library."

I laughed. "You rotten kids!"

Mary smiled. "Yes, weren't we? Then we both felt so guilty about what we had done that we just hovered in the shadows on the outskirts of the party."

"And that's when you met?"

"Yes. Out on the fringes of 'Guiltsville'.

Frank and I laughed.

"Go on," I said.

"Well, this handsome soldier saw me standing there, tapping to the music and he came over and asked if he could get me a drink." Mary smiled. "I didn't drink, but I was afraid to tell him, so I just asked him to bring whatever he was drinking. He grinned and disappeared. A couple of minutes later, he handed me a tall glass."

Mary snorted softly. "I remember staring down into that liquid and ice cubes and thinking about how flawed my plan had been. Then he leaned closer and whispered, "It's just ginger ale", into my ear. I was so relieved! We spent the rest of the evening perched on the table furthest from the dance floor, and talking."

Her eyes moistened. "It was the beginning of over fifty years together." She looked up at us. "And we never did stop talking."

"What a beautiful, wonderful story, Mary," I said.

"Thank you," she said. She looked away. "The only thing that dimmed our happiness was the fact that we never could have children."

"Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry!" I said.

She shrugged. "Yes, well, life is what it is."

We were silent for a few moments.

Frank looked at the picture over the fireplace. "But I thought . . ." he didn't complete the sentence."

Mary followed his gaze. "You thought they were my children?"

"Well . . . yes."

She smiled. "Well, they are, in a way."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I saw that picture in a store and loved it. So I bought it and placed it there, where pictures of one's family should go." She smiled at it fondly. "So they are my family. My 'pseudo' family."

I touched her hand and smiled.

"Well, enough of that!" Mary sat up and gave her grey head a shake. "More tea?"

Mary (a short story) - Part One

It was a small cabin, hewn from the very stone upon which it stood.

It stood some ways back from the main highway, perched precariously on a small cliff, where the road cut through part of the mountain.

We had blown past it many, many times.

It had always appeared deserted.

Admittedly, we had allowed ourselves only the briefest of glances, hurrying to or from family obligations.

But one could take note of the empty windows. The vacant chimney.

Now, quite obviously, its unoccupied state had changed.

The cabin had come to life and it was showing a brave, cheerful face to the world.

The wide front porch, with its single rocking chair and stone tubs of red blooms looked open and inviting.

Windows gleamed.

The square central chimney blew merry puffs of smoke into the clear air.

My husband slowed down, peering upwards. "Hey, Mare, looks like our little cabin is occupied."

I smiled at him. Our little cabin? I, too, looked up. "It does."

"I've always wondered how one reached that cabin," he said.

"Me, too," I said.

He glanced behind us.

Here, near the cabin, the road twisted through the narrow cutting, disappearing almost immediately behind us. Oncoming traffic was invisible until it was only a couple of car lengths away.

It was a dangerous spot to stop.

My husband pulled over to the right as far as he could and slowed to a crawl.

I could feel the rough stones of the shoulder beneath the tires.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Exploring."

"Here? Someone's going to come around the corner . . ."

"We'll be fine," he said.

I rolled my eyes and clutched the little potted plant I held, but said nothing.

He was studying the steep cliff beside us.

Suddenly, he pointed. "There!" he said.

A small opening had appeared in the wall of stone.

Barely wide enough for a car.

No wonder we had missed it.

He turned into it.

"What are you doing now?" I said.

He grinned. "Going to see our cabin."

"But, honey, we don't know who lives there!"

He glanced at me. "You've always wanted to see it, right?"

"Well . . . yes."

"All right, then."

We were silent as the car labored up the short, steep drive.

It opened up suddenly and we were on a wide ledge of stone.

The cabin stood directly in front of us.

My husband pulled next to an ancient car parked there and shut the engine off.

He opened his door. "Coming?"

I stared at him, then set my plant on the seat and reached for the door handle. "I guess so."

I slid out and stood for a moment, looking at the cabin.

From this angle, it looked solid.

Square.

As though it could meet any challenge.

Withstand any threat.

I started to close the door, then spied my plant on the front seat.

For some reason, I reached out and picked it up, cradling it in my arm as I closed the door.

My husband frowned. "What's that for?"

"I'm not sure."

He shrugged and the two of us walked around to the porch, then up a small set of stone steps.

Just as we reached the wide front door, it swung inwards.

Just a crack.

"Are you lost?" a sweet little voice asked from the darkness on the other side of the door.

"No," my husband said. "We drive past here weekly, on our way to my mother's home . . ."

I glanced down at the plant I was still clutching, originally intended for said mother-in-law.

My husband was still speaking, ". . . and we couldn't help but notice that someone was living here. We thought we'd drop in and say hello."

"Oh." There was a pause, then, "Well, that's nice. Please, come in."

The door swung wide. A tiny, stooped old woman appeared in the opening.

"I don't get many visitors," she said.

My husband stepped back and let me go through first.

I sank into a thick, hand-knotted rag rug covering most of the wide, polished floorboards in the entry/living/family room which took up the entire front of the house.

Windows ran on three sides of the room, offering glimpses of the wide porch, the road below and the purple mountains fading into the distance.

A fire crackled cheerfully in the stone fireplace across from the entrance. A large, grey cat was asleep on the hearth in front of it.

A long, horsehair sofa, brightly covered in a beautiful, hand-stitched quilt, was pushed under the windows to our right with a low, highly polished wooden table in front of it. A single, winged chair with a matching footstool held the place of honor in the center of the room, within toasting distance of the warm flames.

A heaped workbasket stood beside it.

The opposite side of the room was taken up by a large quilt frame. An intricate, half-finished quilt was fastened to it.

The walls, stone and wood, were bare, except for the lone picture of two smiling, apple-cheeked children over the fireplace.

It was a warm room.

A cozy room.

I felt instantly at home.

I turned back to the woman, who had just finished closing the door, and got my first good look at her.

She looked . . . soft.

Cuddly soft.

Her figure was plump and gently rounded. Her face unlined and pleasant.

Snow-white hair was drawn gently back into a loose bun at the back of her head. She had a straight, small nose and a tiny bow of a mouth which smiled readily.

Faded blue eyes regarded us with a merry twinkle.

Her whole being seemed to shine with good will and happiness.

I held out my hand. "I'm Mary," I said, "and this is my husband, Frank."

The tiny woman grasped my hand firmly. "Mary is my name, too," she said, smiling. Her blue eyes twinkled. "I won't have any trouble remembering that!"

She pressed my hand between both of hers, then turned towards Frank.

"And Frank. So nice to meet you!"

He shook her hand as well, then cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Now that he had gotten us inside, he seemed to be at a loss.

I shook my head. My big, strong explorer.

Obviously, it was up to me.

I held out the plant. "This is for you," I said.

"Oh!" she clasped her hands together. "Oh, this is lovely!"

She reached for the small pot with trembling hands, then held it tightly and smiled at me. "Thank you, my dear!"

I smiled back. "You're very welcome." I scratched my forehead, feeling suddenly awkward. "Ummm . . . Mary, we're sorry to barge in like this, but we have always admired your home here and wanted to just come and take a peek. We really didn't mean to disturb you."

Mary smiled. "It's no bother," she said. "I watch the cars go past on the road and often wish someone would stop to say hello." She waved a hand towards the front room. "Please. Take a look around."

I stepped towards the sofa and glanced out the window. "You have a lovely view," I said.

"Oh, yes. That is what I love most about this place," Mary said. "My husband, God rest him, couldn't stand it here. Said it made him feel . . . hemmed in."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, turning back to her. "Has he been gone long?"

"A few weeks now," she said. "But don't feel bad. We had a long and happy life together." She looked around. "This was my parent's home. I was born here."

"Oh, how nice!"

"Yes, but when I married, my husband's work took us to the city and we lived there until . . ." she paused.

"Until he . . ."

"Yes," she said.

I patted her arm.

"Come. See the rest," she said. She showed us proudly through the little house. The old-fashioned kitchen with its hand pump beside the sink and its wood stove.

The two tiny bedrooms, one on either side of the kitchen, with their equally tiny beds covered several layers deep in more of the hand-made quilts.

It was like stepping back in time.

I had to keep glancing at the electrical wires, obviously a later addition, tacked neatly to the stone and wood walls, to remind myself that we were still in the present.

Mary led us back to the main room. "Please sit," she said, indicating the sofa, "and I'll make tea."

"Oh, I don't think . . ." I got no further.

"Sit."

Obediently, we sank down.

"Could I at least help with something?"

"You are my guest," Mary said. "I'll bring in the tea." She disappeared into the kitchen.

"Now see what comes of being nosey," I whispered to Frank.

He gave me a lop-sided grin.

 In a very short time, Mary was back, with a laden tray. She set it down on the low table, then picked up something.

An old camera, in a worn, leather case.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, "but I get so few visitors that I'd like to record it."

"We don't mind," Frank said.

The two of us put our heads together and smiled obligingly.

The camera clicked.

Mary set it back on the tray and proceeded to serve us tea.

An hour later, we were once more back in our car, waving at the little, old woman as she smiled at us from her porch.

"Well, that was an adventure," my husband said, as he negotiated the narrow drive.

"I thought it was lovely," I said. "After the initial discomfort."

The Language Barrier

Our Engineer - the one on the left

Our second son, Erik, enlisted in the army corps of engineers.
For a boy from a devout Christian home, it . . . took some adjustment.
He enjoyed the brother/sisterhood that sprang up around him the moment he walked in the door.
He loved the work and the action.
And disassembling/cleaning/reassembling guns.
I know, he's weird.
But the one thing he really had to adjust to was the language and personal habits of the men and women he was now associating with.
Most particularly the language.
Although I have had my moments in the past (see here), we are not, as a whole, a cursing family.
Neither are we anxious to push our beliefs/customs on anyone else.
He would just have to learn to deal with it.
And he did.
Without following.
Which he also did.
Let me explain . . .
Erik and several other soldiers were changing the tracks on one of their squad's tanks.
A heavy, though not necessarily complicated task.
It required brute force and patience.
Both of which my son had endless experience.
He was manipulating one of the wrenches, trying to loosen bolts which had obviously become a part of the track and/or frame.
Failing to budge them by normal means (repeated pressure and positive thinking), he resorted to harsher methods.
Body weight and periodic jumping up and down on the wrench.
The results were negligible.
He continued on, undaunted (good word).
Grasping the wrench, he threw his whole weight onto it.
The wrench slipped.
And caught his finger between it and the track.
Between a hard and a harder place, so to speak.
Something had to give.

One of the culprits . . . with some buddies

Let's just say that neither tempered steel member of this meeting was about to.
Give, that is.
That left his finger.
The world went purple.
Then plaid.
It does that.
Erik dropped the wrench, grabbed his sadly assaulted finger and did the dance of pain.
For several moments, he hopped and jumped, cavorting gracefully around the yard.
"DZE! DZE! DZE! DZE!"
I'm not really sure how to spell it, but that's how he describes the sounds he was making.
Moving on . . .
Minutes later, with the pain at more or less manageable levels, he returned to his task.
He lifted his wrench.
Only noticing, then, that the entire yard full of soldiers has stopped what they were doing and were staring at him.
Speechlessly.
He looked at them. "What's the matter?"
One of the soldiers stepped forward. "Geeze, Tolley, even then you didn't swear!"
Erik had no idea anyone had noticed his expressions of choice.
Obviously, they had.
Even a good thing gets noticed.
Sometimes.

What Put the 'Ghost' in 'Ghost Town'?

Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And Virginia City.
It sounded . . . Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
But I do remember stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.

Then being carried by said Mom.
That's when it got exciting.
We were in an old fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts.
There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heart-felt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
And, because my husband is an historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia.
But what I most took note of was anything that suggested 'horse'.
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens.
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended.
All too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building.
A drug store.
Or at least that's what Mom called it.
It didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
I was bored.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again.
Things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
Okay, I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Ahem . . .
Mom stopped beside the cabinet.
With the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door.
What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath.
What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.

Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
How could they top that?

Our Worst First Job

Not his favourite picture!

It was my husband's first job following our marriage.
He was . . . excited.
Foreman of a home-building company.
Sounded prestigious.
And it would be.
Once they got the plant built.
His new boss had a plan that would cut down on initial costs significantly.
They would remodel the boss' pig barn.
It was the right size.
It was in fantastic shape.
Perfect.
It just needed a few touches.
First, and most important, the removal of the pigs.
Then, and nearly as important, the cleaning of the sewer system, still full of . . . ummm . . . sewer stuff.
For those who don't know, a pig barn has little ditches running through it. Ditches that are covered by grates and which catch all of the 'icky' stuff.
When the system gets too full, a truck is brought in.
A special truck, with a large tank and hose.
This hose is inserted at the proper place and all sewage is quickly and cleanly removed.
The truck drives away and discharges its load onto the nearest farmer's field, providing nutrition to growing plants.
Not a pleasant job.
But a necessary one.
And it needed to be done before the building of the building factory could continue.
Grant's boss brought in the truck.
The two of them made quick work of draining the sewers.
Then, the next step.
The discharge.
Normally, this would be the easiest part.
You would simply remove the hose.
Reverse the switch.
And stay upwind.
Things started out well.
Sewage was being discharged at a normal rate.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Oh the motor was still running strongly.
It's just that nothing was coming out.
Cautiously, the two of them leaned over to peek into the discharge valve.
"Ah!" Grant's boss said. "I see the problem. Look. It's plugged right there." He pointed. He straightened and began to walk around, kicking at the dirt.
Finally, he spotted a large stick and brought it back to where Grant was still waiting.
"I can fix it," he said, cheerfully. He poked the stick into the valve.
"No, wait . . ." Grant started.
He got no further.
Kaaaablooooie! Or words to that effect.
Let me put it this way . . . neither of them had time to get out of the way.
I'm sure I don't need to describe the scene.

There is an addendum.
It was nearly time for Grant to get home from work.
I was just checking on our evening meal when his truck pulled into the yard and ground to a halt.
Ah! Early. Good. We could have a visit before we sat down to eat.
I glanced through the window.
Just in time to see my young husband, in his underwear, leap from the truck and scamper towards the house.
I admit it. My first thought was, 'Wow! Eager!'
He whipped open the door, tossed me a brief, 'Hi!' and headed directly for the bathroom.
There was the sound of the shower, then a loud, "Ahhhh!"
Now there's something that didn't happen every day.
I walked into the bathroom. "Hard day, Honey?"
"I'll tell you about it!" he said over the sound of the water.
And he did.
I thought it was hilarious.
He didn't.
Extra note: Grant's hastily shed clothes remained in the box of the truck until weeks of weather made it possible for them to be removed to the trash.
But the memories remained.
Some things you just can't wash out.

Our Family Vehicles

Ralph, who started it all
With, from the left, Flint, Iggle and Muffy

I love cars.
Especially old ones.
We have owned many vehicles which have taken our family, in it various incarnations, to many places.
Most of the cars worked.
Some didn't.
All were old.
And all had a personality of their own.
In the early days of our marriage, my husband and I had a Dodge Colt.
On which my Dad had made the down-payment before turning the monthly payments over to me.
My husband used to tell people that he married me for my car - and got the payments.
Moving on . . .
And we had an old beater of a truck.
For which my husband paid $200.00.
The Colt, we called The Pumpkin.
Because it was orange.
The truck we named Ralph.
Because.
Both were dependable.
One had character.
I know you're wondering, so I'll tell you.
It was the truck.
Ralph would start completely without a key, which was notable.
And under any conditions.
In Alberta, Canada, that could mean anything.
Ralph's horn honked when you pulled out the ash tray.
Really.
I have to admit, here, that the horn renovation was my husband's handiwork.
He liked character.
Ahem.
After Ralph and The Pumpkin, we went through a steady stream of vehicles.
An Impala that looked really, really good, and was only missing one part.
A transmission.
Let's just say that transmissions are really, really important and move on.
An old Chevy van (with a home-made bench seat bolted to the floor), that we got by trading in a rusted set of harrows.
A station wagon that we got by trading in the van.
Actually, that station wagon, an old brown Chevy, was interesting to start.
Oh, it would.
Start, I mean.
It just took a little 'coaxing'.
And by coaxing, I mean that Grant would have to crawl under it with a hammer and give the solenoid a little tap.
For those who do not know, a solenoid is a little wire coil that theoretically acts as a switch or relay between the car battery and the motor.
In reality, it is designed to act as aggravation for the car owner.
Especially when it is pouring rain or is -40.
As often happens in Alberta.
On consecutive days.
Continuing on . . .
We traded that old brown wagon for a newer blue one.
Then we traded that one for a 12-passenger Beauville.
Trust me, we needed the space.
Then, as our family began to move out, we traded the big van for a nice car.
A really nice car.
Buick.
Root beer brown. My husby's favourite colour.
For a few wonderful years we knew what comfort was.
But, like us, it aged.
And finally, pooped out in our front drive.
Sigh.
We could never replace it, so we did the next best thing.
Replaced it with an almost new Olds van from some good friends.
Which is still running today.
Oh, and my Dad's old Sonoma truck.
Which isn't.
Some days I wish we were back where we started.
So to speak.

The People Who Taught Me

Okay, a bit older than our car, but you get the picture.



At some point during our junior year in high school, we were required to take Driver's Education.
We didn't have to be forced.
Though most of us were farm/ranch kids and had been driving since we could see over the dashboard, none of us had ever been allowed to drive on a real road.
Okay, well, I have to admit here that some of us had.
Driven on a real road, I mean.
It's just that our parents didn't know.
Ahem.
So it was to be our first experience driving on a real road . . . officially.
The anticipation mounted as we completed every session of pre-driving training.
The lectures and films grew longer and more boring.
More and more, we craned our necks to glance outside at the shiny new car that would soon become ours.
We were getting feverish to actually take the wheel and floor the accelerator.
Finally the day came.
In groups of three, names were drawn.
And then it was my turn.
My time slot allotted.
My waiting at an end.
All right, yes, I still had to wait, but at least I knew just how long the wait would be.
Sheesh.
My group was scheduled to go out in a couple of days, after the end of the school day.
I counted the minutes.
And finally, it was our turn!
The other two students from my group slid into the back seat.
Our instructor, alias: my biology teacher, and I got into the front.
And that was when I discovered that this wasn't quite like any other car I had ever seen.
For one thing, it had two sets of foot pedals.
One on my side.
The other on his.
Weird.
We started out.
Slowly.
Though every gram of me (and that was a lot of grams) was itching to stomp that gas pedal to the floor.
We made a circuit of the town.
So far so good.
I was instructed to head out of town along the highway.
Obediently, I followed my instructions.
All went well.
We made a safe (it can be done . . .) U-turn and headed back towards town.
As we were approaching the town limits sign with its stark and very pointed suggestion of speed, I turned to my instructor. "Does that mean we need to start slowing down when we get to the sign, or should we be going that speed when we reach . . .?"
I got no further.
My teacher decided, then and there, to teach me what the second set of floor pedals was for.
He stomped on the brake.
Whereupon (good word) I had a heart attack.
Fortunately, my varied experiences on the ranch had taught me that I could still function, even when my heart had left its usual parking spot and taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
Did I panic?
Well, yes. Although I also remained in control.
But the lesson was well and truly taught. One didn't begin to slow down when one reached the all-important sign. One must have already achieved the strongly suggested speed limit.
Point taken.
After a few tense seconds of hands-over-the-face whimpering, both I and my teacher, we were once more off.
The rest of my turn passed without further incident.
Which was probably a good thing for my heart.
And my passengers.
We stopped back at the school and one of my team members exchanged seats with me.
I could officially relax.
For some time, we drove around the town.
Then, as we were following the dirt road north, on the far east side of town, our Social Studies teacher approached and flagged us down.
He did this is a subtle, yet clever way.
He drove past, honking, then pulled over to the right directly in front of us.
Our young driver squeaked out, "What do I do?"
Whereupon (that word again) our instructor told her to pull over behind the other teacher's car and put our car into 'park'.
Done.
She sighed and leaned back against the seat.
The four of us watched our social teacher walk around to our instructor's window.
The window was rolled down and the two began to visit.
Meanwhile, our driver was looking forward.
Towards the other car.
Which appeared to be getting . . . closer.
She stomped on the brake and quickly discovered that it wasn't we who were moving.
Ah! The other car was rolling backwards.
Need I mention that we were pulled over directly behind it?
Our driver began to shriek, "Ooh! Ooh! What do I do?! Should I back up?!"
Both teachers looked up.
Just as the 'parked' car collided with us.
Shock warred with embarrassment on both faces.
It was quickly ascertained (another good word) that no damage had been done, either to property or personnel.
And everyone went back to what they were doing before our social teacher had entered the picture.
We completed our training.
Receiving full credit and accolades.
And all of us received our driver's licenses.
It really wasn't that difficult.
Look at the guys who taught us.

The Best Mother

The only surviving picture of Andrew

Ranching is wonderful.
Most of the time.
You get to spend your days outdoors, working in the pure, sage-stuffed air.
See the heat shimmer on the tops of hills.
Watch the prairie grass bend in the breeze.
You witness births and new life. See groups of calves, and sometimes their mothers, cavort and snort and play.
And see the milk cow try to run with the deer.
You can bury your face in your pony's thick, warm winter coat and just breathe in his 'horsey' smell.
You have long, wonderful talks with family members as you ride to or from.
And while you're working.
Together.
It's a peaceful and serene existence.
And the scenery breath-taking.
But occasionally, it gets pretty gritty.
There are disasters.
Pain.
Death.
But even these can result in something beautiful.
Let me explain . . .
As occasionally happens, a young heifer (cow that hasn't yet produced a calf) got 'exposed' to a bull.
She caught. (Became pregnant)
But something went wrong.
Perhaps because she was so young. Perhaps because she had some physical and undetected abnormality.
Whatever the reason, she was dying and there was nothing that could be done to save her.
And her calf was just days away from being born.
My Dad had to make a quick decision.
He decided to take the calf early and then put the suffering mother out of her misery.
Fortunately, in times like these, a trained veterinarian can work very, very quickly.
One life saved.
Another let go.
And we had a new little bull calf.
An extremely healthy and active little bull calf.
I called him Andrew.
Because.
But Andrew didn't have a mama.
Normally, this doesn't present too much of a problem.
You simply adopt the calf onto another mama.
It isn't easy, but it's worth the effort.
Unfortunately, there were no 'mamas' available.
Bottle feeding was indicated.
Now any of you who have bottle fed a puppy or kitten or other young animal know that it's a time-consuming and constant thing.
Not so with calves.
They only need to be fed three or four times a day.
Fairly simple to work around.
And fun for the kids.
So we dug out our bottle and formula and gave our little man his first feeding.
He sucked strongly. A good sign.
On to the next hurdle.
Finding him a place to bunk.
Firmly rejecting our son's offer of his room, we decided on the corral.
There was only one problem.
The corral already had an occupant.
Old Bluey.
Bluey was an older appaloosa mare, gentle and slow.
Her mottled black and grey hair gave her a distinct 'blue' colour.
Thus the name.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Back to the problem . . .
We decided that Bluey probably didn't propose much of a threat to our little Andrew.
We carried the calf into the pen and set him down.
He stood there for a moment.
Blinking.
Then he spied Bluey.
Bawling loudly, he headed towards her.
She stared at this little apparition.
And moved away.
He kept on coming.
Again she moved.
This went on for some time.
Finally, deciding that Andrew would be all right, we left them together.
A few hours later, I took a new bottle of formula to our little orphan.
And received the surprise of my life.
There stood Bluey, with the calf beside her nursing loudly.
Nursing?
I should point out here that a horse is generally considerably taller than a cow.
Certainly, Bluey was taller than Andrew's mother had been.
In fact, to simply reach the mare's udder Andrew had to stretch as far as he possibly could.
But he was doing it.
And Bluey was letting him.
It was a miracle.
Another thing I should mention is that a calf is a lot rougher while nursing than a colt. Calves get very 'enthusiastic'. And if the milk slows down, they butt their head into the cow's udder.
Not so with colts. They are quite gentle. Even mannerly about their feeding.
I probably needn't point out that Andrew was a calf.
And an extremely enthusiastic one.
I watched as he butted his head into Bluey's udder. I could almost feel her wince.
She raised her leg and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she lowered her leg and let him nurse again.
It truly was an amazing sight.
Throughout the summer, Bluey nursed Andrew.
Once, we left the calf in the corral and took Bluey out to bring in the herd, intending to capture them in that same corral.
As we drew close with the herd, someone opened the gate.
Little Andrew came running out, searching for his 'mother'.
And bawling loudly.
Bluey nickered back at him anxiously and he quickly found her and took up a position at her side, following along happily.
Eventually, in the fall, all the calves were weaned, taken from their mothers and put into the feedlot together.
For a day or two, there was a lot of bawling and angst.
Then they discovered the feed troughs.
And discovered, too that they had very short memories.
Peace was restored.
Bluey, too, resumed her peaceful life as though it had never been interrupted.

There is an addendum . . .
I checked Bluey's udder once while she was with her little adopted boy.
She had no milk.
None.
She had done all of that 'Mothering' with an empty udder.
The pain must have been exquisite.
But she did it.
Cheerfully.
What a mother!
And what an example she is to me.

Dough Snakes

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm.
Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour. Just saying.
Moving on . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.

Lethal Guardian

I had finished college.
I was now a college graduate.
This meant several things.
1. I was no longer a student.
2. I had to earn my own living
3. I had no idea how to do it
4. I was a bit frightened
My Dad knew the people who published 'The Canadian Hereford Digest'.
Yes, it's just as exciting as it sounds.
And yes, they would give me a job.
Their offices were in Calgary (population 450,000+ in 1975). This necessitated me moving there.
It was a bit larger city than I was used to.
A bit.
Okay, I admit it. Our family had been living outside of Fort MacLeod. Population 3500.
On a ranch.
Population 6.
I don't know what the percentage of difference is.
My estimate would be: large.
I packed up my little, orange Dodge colt and my six-month Old English Sheepdog puppy, Muffy, and headed out.
My best friend, Debbie was living in Calgary, in a comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I could move in with her.
In a matter of hours, it was done.
In a matter of days, I had gotten used to the change of pace that working and living in a large city entailed.
In a matter of weeks, I could fly across said city like a native, making use of the myriad (good word) back streets and little-known avenues.
I was officially a city girl.
I enjoyed my work and the people I worked with.
I got along famously with Debbie.
I was earning $300.00 a month. A fortune!
There really was only one thing that stopped me from being completely happy.
I was still a bit frightened.
Lets face it, Calgary just wasn't a ranch in the Porcupine Hills.
For one thing, there were . . . people . . . everywhere you looked. People I didn't know.
And a complete lack of cows.
I did have my dog.
And I found a place to board my horse.
But somehow, that didn't make all of the strangers in my new world any more familiar.
Or friendly.
One Sunday night, I was just returning to my apartment from a weekend at the ranch.
I really hadn't been excited about leaving, so I had put it off until very late.
Very late.
My Muffy and I pulled up in front of the building about 2:00 am.
Now this wouldn't have been a problem back on the ranch. In that safe little world, the most I would have had to worry about was my parents . . . worrying.
Here, there was the unknown.
Suddenly the dark street looked, you know, dark.
And rather scary.
I got out and started unloading my suitcase and boxes of food and donations from my Mom.
Then I proceeded to lock the car door.
Suddenly, Muffy growled.
A deep, forbidding sound.
Then she pressed back against my knees, pushing me against the side of the car.
I stared down at her in surprise.
I should probably mention, here, that Muffy was the gentlest dog ever born.
Her own bark startled her. And I had never heard her growl.
I didn't know she could.
But there, still pressing me back against the car, and still growling deeply, was my gentlest of dogs.
I stared down at her.
A sound intruded.
Footsteps.
I looked up.
Just in time to see two men walk past on the sidewalk.
The far side of the sidewalk.
Both of them were looking at Muffy.
She was definitely looking at them.
Her head was lowered, her stance rigid and the hair on her neck and back, standing up threateningly.
She was almost unrecognizable.
For several moments, we stayed like that.
Muffy, me, and the car.
Which was beginning to dig into my back, by the way.
The men continued on their way, perhaps even quickening their pace a little.
They had disappeared before Muffy quit growling and looked up at me.
Her back end began to wiggle happily once more.
I let out my breath.
We made very quick work of gathering our stuff and getting inside the building.
After that, I made sure I returned, if not in the daylight, at least at a decent hour.
And, oddly enough, I discovered that I was no longer frightened.
Especially when there were lots of people about.
And as long as I was accompanied by my guardian.
Gentle Muffy.

Draw Winner!

I'm very happy to announce that the copy of Carving Angels was won by Mary Preston of Australia.
Congratulations!!!

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

Only a few more hours to get your name in for a free copy of Carving Angels!
Welcome to the October Blog Hop, where you can visit new blogs, enter to win prizes, and have a great time!

At the bottom of this post, you'll see a list of participating blogs. Just click on each link, check out the prize, and follow the easy instructions to enter. You can enter on each blog, so it's possible to win multiple times. It's frighteningly easy.


On this blog, you can win ...

To enter, all you need to do is:


1. Become a follower of my blog.

2. Leave a comment on this post and tell me why you'd like to win this prize. If your e-mail address isn't visible through your Blogger profile, please also leave it with the comment so I can notify you if you win. You can enter until midnight MST on Saturday night, October 15th.


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

12. Kristy Wilson 13. Jennifer Debenham 14. Jenny Moore 15. Elizabeth Hughes 16. J. Lloyd Morgan 17. Close Encounters with the Night Kind 18. Billy Boulden 19. Scott Bryan 20. Maria Hoagland 21. Shirley Bahlmann 22. Shelly Brown

23. Marcy Howes 24. Lynnea Mortensen 25. Jaclyn M. Hawkes 26. Diane Stringam Tolley 27. Gail Zuniga 28. Betsy Love 29. iWriteNetwork 30. Canda's InkBlast 31. Stacy Coles

Learn more about October Blog Hop here.
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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.