Bow City Spectacle . . . er . . . Parade (A Short Story)

Part One:

It was the most exciting Christmas Parade in our town's history.

Just not for the right reasons.

Maybe I should explain.

Our town, Bow Bank, Alberta, lies nestled in the crook of a branch of the Milk River.

It's a quiet, sleepy little place that really hasn't changed much in the past 50 years.

Families live there. Worship there. Grow there.

The current mayor, Hector Mayor, is a happy fellow, with a large heart and an equally large girth.

And endowed with a great sense of humor.

Well let's face it, with a title like Mayor Mayor, a sense of humor is rather important.

He's been in office for over fifteen years and rules our town with a fatherly and liberal hand.

His council has followed him in every decision he's ever made.

Well, until recently, that is.

In October, rumors started swirling through the Ladies Aid that things were not as they should be among the place holders on council.

And the rumors proved to be true.

It turned out that Rand Digby, he of the sweet wife and seven children, had eyes for another of the council members.

First timer, Karen Makepeace.

Fortunately, she was not like-minded and stopped him in his tracks.

So to speak.

But the scandal hit the air waves, being the hottest topic of discussion at the Ladies Aid, over the latest charity quilt and accompanying cups of herbal tea and tiny petits fours.

The result was that Mrs. Digby and her brood abruptly pulled up stakes and fled to her mother's.

Rand followed shortly, apologies spilling forth.

But the damage was done.

His wife refused to return to the scene of her humiliation and the now-repentant Rand refused to return without her.

When the dust had finally settled, a council seat was vacant.

A by-election was called and two people threw their hats into the ring.

Jenna Grace Chappell (Not like the church, mind! Two 'l's' and two 'p's', thank you very much!), the local librarian.

And F. Rodney Digby (or F. Roddy, as he preferred) the elementary school principal and younger brother to Rand, he of the slippery morals and newly-repentant spirit.

The by-election was set for January

The contest was on.

Snow

George and Me.
One of us was smart . . . and the other has her hair in curlers.

I never was a particularly timid child.

In fact, if one were searching for words to describe me, 'timid' probably wouldn't have even been considered.

Boisterous. Cheerful. Loud. Noisy.

These all would have been correct.

But timid?

No.

And yet, there were certain times when 'timid', even fearful could have been used with complete accuracy.

Let me explain.

We had a TV.

It was the fifties.

We also had one channel.

Which came on the air at 10:00 in the morning.

And left the air at midnight.

I often watched as 'Oh, Canada' played in the morning.

Because I had already been watching the Indian Head test pattern for half an hour, waiting for Friendly Giant.

I never got to hear the playing of 'God Save the Queen' at midnight.

Because, let's face it, I was four.

By that point in time, I had been in slumberland for hours.

Moving on . . .

When the TV station was not airing, we had 'snow'.

And not the good kind.

White, yes, but that is where all similarity ended.

It was static-y.

And, when your brother turned the volume up loud . . .

Scary.

My brother discovered this early.

And used it often.

If he was playing in the living room and didn't want any Diane-shaped company, he would turn on the TV, confirm quickly that there really was nothing on, and turn up the volume.

Whereupon (good word) I would run, shrieking, from the room.

Heh. Heh. Heh.

Mom couldn't get after him because he hadn't said or done anything to me, personally.

Simple.

Genius.

Fool-proof.

And the room was cleared for another half-hour of uninterrupted fun.

Until Diane forgot everything that had just happened and ventured, again, into the front room.

TV. Volume. Repeat.

So you see where the word 'timid' comes in.

Unfortunately, the word 'brainiac' never applied.

Who Put That Tractor There?

My victim. Again.

-or-  I'm in Reverse! Everything Stay Out of My Way!

Dad had bought a new tractor.

Painted bright yellow, it was a thing of real beauty.

Or so the men in my family thought.

Pffff. Men.

It was parked proudly between the shop (formerly our home - see here) and the pasture, wherein my horse was . . . erm . . . pastured.

The tractor stood there in lonely glory, awaiting the delivery of two more back wheels.

Now it was unheard of, at that time, for a tractor to have more than the requisite two.

Back wheels, that is.

But this one did.

Or soon would have.

Each of the existing wheels had three feet of extra axle sticking out in happy anticipation.

This is important.

And I didn't care.

I was getting my horse ready for a show.

I needed to load up my tack.

This entailed maneuvering the car between the pasture fence and the shed door.

Easily done.

I could see the tractor.

I could see the fence.

I could see the shed.

All was well.

Back.

Back.

Back.

Crunch.

What on earth had I hit?

There was the shed.

There was the tractor.

There was the fence.

All in perfect sight.

 I pulled forward and got out to inspect the damage.

I should point out here that this was the same car that I had only recently filled with diesel fuel. My stock had dropped considerably over that event and hadn't had the chance to rise very far. This new stunt guaranteed that it would never rise again.

Sigh.

I walked to the back of the car.

To see six inches of extra axle poking into the rear car fender.

Oh.

The extra axle.

That would, one day, support extra wheels.

In all of my careful looking, I had forgotten to look up.

To the stupid axle hanging in the air three and a half feet above the ground.

Rats.

Once more, I drove to the house to show my dad.

Who labeled me a driving menace.

He was right.

It Moved! It Did!

The Behemoth

Things move.

Big things.

They move.

I have proof.

On the ranch, we had a large power pole.

Full sized.

Firmly planted.

It had been there since the beginning of time.

So . . . for quite a while.

It stood in the very center of the turn-about.

People driving in would go around it, conduct their business and complete the turn as they drove out.

Simple.

Unless you lived there.

Then you would have to drive in and park.

Preferably somewhere out of the way so the next person would have a place to drive in and turn.

At times it got a little . . . tricky.

I lived there.

I had parked.

I needed to leave.

This entailed backing the van up, maneuvering into the lane, then completing the turn to head out.

I should probably point out here that our van could quite easily have been described as a behemoth (good word!). It held 12 passengers.

Or two parents and six children, neatly spaced to avoid argument-age.

Well to try to avoid argument-age.

Well . . . never mind.

I loaded in the kids.

I sorted out the first argument.

I started the van.

I sorted out the second argument.

Good so far.

The third argument started.

I began to unknot that disagreement just as I stepped on the gas.

The van reversed, as it should.

Straight back.

All of us inside were concentrating on the ongoing conversation.

None of us noticed the pole directly behind the van.

Well, not until we smacked into it.

Oops.

I pulled ahead and got out to survey the damage.

The bumper had a lovely crease in it, bending it towards the van and forming a point that made it impossible to open the back door.

Double oops.

Later, when I showed my husband, he shook his head and simply sawed the top point off the dent. Just enough so the door would clear it.

But leaving the dent for all to see.

Sigh.

The conversation went like this . . .

"Honey, didn't you see the pole? The large one that has been standing in the center of the yard since forever?"

"Ummm . . . I don't know how to answer that question."

"You did know about the pole, didn't you?"

"Ummm . . . yes."

"You did see it?"

"Well, it was like this . . . I was backing out carefully . . ."

"Yes."

"And then that nasty old pole just jumped behind me."

"Jumped."

"Yes."

"Right out of the ground."

"Yes. It was the weirdest thing!"

"I'm going to go lie down."

True story.

I also have an experience with Cuba and move-age. But that is another story.

I'm Back!!!

Sorry for the wait, blogging friends.
 Finally, here are some pictures of this year's pajamas!
As modeled by our eldest son and his family, and our youngest son and his family.
Both families are expecting new additions in the New Year!

Eldest Son and family

Youngest son and family

The Pajama Game

We have a tradition in our home.
Well, several, actually.
But I'm only going to talk about this one . . .
Pajamas.
On Christmas eve.
And spaghetti, but that is another story.
So . . . pajamas.
Every year, Mom hunts up the most distinctive pattern she can find and everyone is forced excited to wear it.
So, in honour of this very special time, here are a few examples from the past.
Enjoy!

 Christmas, 2002.  And no, that isn't a cow print couch . . .

Christmas 2003. And yes, we do look like escaped prisoners.

2007.  Little jump, here.

2008 and our numbers are increasing.
You can't see the striped socks, but they're there!

2009. Things are changing radically . . .

2010. What a mob!

And that brings you up to date.

You'll have to wait until tomorrow to see 2011's PJs.

They'll be worth the wait . . .

Merry Christmas to all of you, my blog friends!

I'm so happy to have gotten to know you this year.

You've made the year special!

Thank you!

The Skiing Conundrum

Future skiers/blessed people

I love winter.

I just don't like cold.

I love snow.

But not on roads which then become icy and slippery.

And I have a hard time with high places.

Being born and raised on the prairies as I was.

So explain to me why I would drive, weekend after weekend, on slippery, snowy roads, up into the mountains, to slide repeatedly down high slopes.

I know. It makes no sense to me, either.

But I loved it.

My brother, George, and I would rise at the unbelievable hour of 4:00 AM on a Saturday, drive to West Castle, and spend the day going up and down.

Then drive home again.

Yup. 'Nuts' pretty much describes it.

Most of the time, the roads were fairly passable. Plowed and sanded.

But occasionally, they weren't.

And therein hangs a tale.

So to speak.

George and I had happily spent the day on the slopes.

We were starting the drive home in a pleasantly exhausted state.

All was well.

I don't quite remember what happened next.

It pretty much a blur.

Perhaps I should describe the scene.

The road to West Castle is narrow.

Occasionally, the road twists and turns amongst a heavy growth of trees.

But in many places, a sheer drop to the bottom of a rather tall mountain is the only thing awaiting anyone who ventures out onto the non-existent shoulder.

And I do mean sheer.

Remember what I said about heights?

That would be here.

Someone lost control of their vehicle.

George reacted with his usual skill, twisting and correcting all in one smooth movement.

But our little blue Toyota truck decided, arbitrarily, to go for a spin.

And not in a good way.

Not a good thing on a narrow winter road, high up in the mountains.

I closed my eyes as we slid towards the edge.

Then, miraculously, we felt the crunch of gravel under the tires.

Gravel.

Not air.

Strange.

The vehicle stopped abruptly, facing the wrong way and definitely on the scary open-space side of the road.

I opened my eyes.

George was staring straight ahead, his hands still in a white-knuckle grip of the steering wheel.

I looked to the left.

We were definitely off the road.

So what could we possibly be sitting on?

I cautiously turned to the right.

 Nothing but open space.

Okay, that didn't look good.

George looked at me. "Did you know there was a little pull-out here?"

I stared at him. "Pull-out?"

His question was answered.

He opened his door and . . . stepped out.

I watched him.

Then he indicated that I should open my door.

I stared at him like he was a lunatic.

He indicated again.

Cautiously, I opened my door and . . . stepped out onto solid earth.

Huh.

I hurried around to the safer side of the scene.

And glanced back.

Sure enough, there was a little jut of shoulder, just big enough for our little truck.

And we had slid onto it sideways.

With perfect precision.

We collected our thoughts and calmed ourselves a bit, then climbed back into our truck and continued the drive home.

A bit more slowly and with a great deal of gratitude.

Yep.

Skiing requires snow.

And high places.

And driving.

We do our best to stay safe.

But it's nice when Someone Else is in charge.

I'm a Winner!!!

Isn't he cute?!

Look what my good friend, Delores of thefeatherednest sent me!
He sits proudly on my Dad's handmade clock in my front hall.
I'm so excited!
I think I'll call him Earnest.
I love owls!

Funnier Than a Sack of Hammers

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam. Where the humour comes from . . .

My Dad has a great sense of humour.

He came by it rightly.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was in Lethbridge, running errands, shopping.

He stopped by the local hardware store.

There, in a bin just inside the door, was a pile of hammers.

Ordinary, wooden-handled hammers.

He stopped.

He was a rancher.

Hammers were in constant use.

Building.

Repairing.

And they were just as constantly disappearing.

He could always use another one.

He reached out, picking up the one on top.

And made an important discovery.

These weren't normal hammers.

They were light rubber.

But painted so perfectly that they could easily fool even the most scrutinizing (real word) glance.

The only way to tell was to actually pick one up.

Dad picked up several.

In fact everything the store had.

On his way home, he stopped off at his parent's comfortable house near the center of the city.

His father, George, a man past eighty, was seated in his recliner in the front room.

Sounds and delicious aromas were emanating tantalizingly from the kitchen.

Obviously, Dad had come at a good time.

He walked in, tossing a greeting to everyone in general, then entered the front room.

And whacked his father on the knee with one of the hammers.

Grandpa jumped.

"Oh!" Then he chuckled. "I thought you had lost your mind!"

Dad laughed.

Grandpa reached for the hammer. "Well. Isn't that remarkable!" He turned it over and over in his hands.

Then he leaned back in his chair. "Vina!" he called.

My Grandmother bustled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. "What is it, George? Dinner's almost . . ."

That's as far as she got.

As soon as she came around the corner, Grandpa threw the hammer at her.

"Oh!" she said as the soft rubber bounced off her chest. She put one hand to her chest. "I thought you'd lost your mind!" she gasped, unconsciously repeating Grandpa's words.

Grandpa chuckled as Grandma picked up the trick hammer and threw it back at him.

Yep. Humour is inherited.

My Best Childhood Christmas

Christmas Elf: Caught in the Act . . .

It started out ordinarily enough.

Dad waving from the driveway as he started the long drive to Lethbridge to begin his Christmas shopping.

I should point out, here, that Dad always began and ended his shopping on the same day.

Christmas Eve.

He had a thing about children sneaking into his closet to peek at presents.

Not that I ever did.

Personally, I think it had something to do with his own childhood and his own childhood foibles and tendencies.

Ahem.

We waved happily to him, then went back to helping Mom with the Christmas baking.

Our duties were carefully delineated.

She mixed.

We watched.

She finished mixing and dug out cookie sheets and baking pans.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and began to spoon/scrape.

We waited.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and finished spooning/scraping.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We licked the bowl.

Literally.

She shooed us away and started again.

She mixed.

We watched . . .

You get the picture.

But when pans started coming out of the oven, yet another duty was added to the roster.

Tasting the now-baked deliciousness.

And so it went.

Everyone had their responsibilities clearly outlined.

And we did them whole-heartedly.

No slackers in this bunch.

Sometimes, though, baked goodies actually made their way past the ravening hordes children to the fancy Christmas platters set out to receive them.

Not often, I will admit, but frequently enough that we realized what those platters were for.

But I digress . . .

Other duties included:

1. Hiding when the baking was finished and clean up was indicated.
2. Giggling loudly during hide-age.
3. Sitting under the tree and periodically shaking/squeezing packages.
4. Teasing younger siblings that Santa Claus would never be able to find our ranch.
5. Re-arranging Christmas ornaments.
6. Breaking said ornaments.
7. Hiding again . . . because.

It was a busy day.

Mostly for my Mom, but why haggle over details?

Finally, just as we were getting ready to climb into bed for the long, sleepless night, we would hear Dad's car pull into the driveway.

And then would begin another whole round of excited children doing the dance of joy.

Sleep was further away than ever.

But, finally, we were herded into our beds and the doors firmly shut against peekage/sneakiness.

The wait was on.

I shared a room with my younger brother, Blair and my younger sister, Anita.

Somehow, I managed to keep them bottled up until some of us (not me) were ready to fizz over.

About 5 AM.

We could wait no longer.

Now the rule in the Stringam household was 'Look, but don't touch until Mom and Dad's feet hit the living room floor'.

On this particular Christmas, looking was especially exciting.

Because Dad had strewn his gifts over the living room floor.

The entire living room floor.

From the soft light of the Christmas tree, we were able to make out strange, long objects arranged at intervals from the doorway all the way to the tree itself.

What could they be?

We knelt down, trying to get a better view.

Weird.

Had he opened a crate of something and left the boards flung about like flotsam?

Normally such behavior was reserved for the younger set.

Double weird.

Just when we were ready to burst with the excitement and curiosity, we heard our parents make their way up the hall towards us.

Finally!

Dad reached around the corner and snapped on the light.

Our eyes were glued to the newly-revealed treasures.

Skis!

The entire floor was littered with skis!

Beside each carefully arranged set of skis were a pair of poles and leather ski boots.

We hopped and skipped carefully around the room, checking name tags and finally settling beside the set that bore ours.

Mine were blue.

With long, silver poles.

And black leather ski boots.

I don't remember what else I got that year (sorry, Family).

Nothing could compare with my shiny new and wondrous skis.

Then I discovered that the excitement didn't end there.

The rest of Dad's gift included a week-long family skiing trip to The Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

The first of many such trips.

And the beginning of a whole new chapter for the Stringams.

Yup. The best Christmas ever.

Now, it's your turn. What was your best childhood Christmas ever?

What Am I Bid . . .?

Tall. Long. Exceptional Herd Sire Prospect. 

And you thought a Cattle Sale merely meant selling cattle!

My brother, Blair and I were getting cattle ready for the annual Stringam Production sale.

Which was held . . . ummm . . . annually.

This was quite a process.

The sale was held in the fall.

And was the culmination of many, many months of work.

All of which was accomplished by the family slaves . . .

Dad!

Moving on.

The first sign of the approaching sale was always the appearance of our Father figure with 'The List'.

Let me point out here that this was usually only a couple of months after the last sale.

Sigh.

But I digress . . .

Dad would plunk down 'The List', a stack (and I do mean stack) of envelopes, and a row of new pens.

"Okay, kids, time to get started!"

Which was our cue to pull ourselves away from whatever hot pastime we were currently engaged in (from the two channels on the TV, to this week's current riveting novel) and drag ourselves to the kitchen table.

Whereupon (love that word) we would each be handed a pen and a part of 'The List'.

And told to get busy.

While Dad found something else to do.

Hmmmm.

I should explain that 'The List' consisted of the names and addresses of people who had bought cattle in the past. People who might buy cattle in the future. And people who had once seen cattle.

It was endless.

I'm sure you were on it.

I should also explain that computers hadn't been invented yet.

Every envelope had to be painstakingly (the word 'pain' is in there for a reason) lettered by hand.

Double-checked by our editorial department (Mom).

And stuffed with an assortment of pamphlets and catalogues.

Have you ever seen a cattle sale catalogue?

It's riveting reading.

Pictures of . . . cows.

With catchy, informative descriptions: Long. Tall. Beefy. Impressive. Good producer. Great mother. Exceptional herd sire prospect.

Oh there were other pictures as well.

Mostly of us humans, standing behind the aforementioned long, tall, beefy, impressive, good producing, motherly herd sire prospects.

The bigger they were, the less of us you could see.

Probably a good thing.

Back to my story.

Once we had finished addressing and stuffing and stamping the envelopes, they were left in a pile for the shipping department (Mom) to take care of.

Then we were free to start on the real work.

Preparing the stock for the sale.

This consisted of feeding, cleaning up after, shuffling, and tucking them in with their jammies and teddy.

This went on for months.

As the time for the actual sale grew closer, we got even more proactive.

Checking the sale barn to make sure it was properly cleaned and that the bleacher seats were dusted and in good repair.

Because one couldn't have one's customers guests receive a splinter or a dusty bottom.

Pregnancy testing. (The cows, not us.)

Semen testing (I won't even touch this one.)

And finally, washing and/or air-grooming the stock.

Washing is pretty self-explanatory.

Air grooming consisted of running the animals into a head squeeze (Actually, it clamped shut on their neck just behind the head and held the animal in a standing position) while we moved freely around them, using a high-powered blower (think leaf-blower, but stronger) to redistribute any dust, dirt, or small animals that may have been making a home in the red and white hair.

It was a fun job, if one remembered to stay away from the business end of the blower.

If one forgot, and we frequently did, one ended up as the new home for all of the dislodged dust, dirt and small animals.

Thus, a day spent with the blower was inevitably ended with a trip to the showers.

Blair and I had reached the dirt-blowing stage of the whole production.

We had rigged a series of panels to move the animals from point 'A' to point 'B' as effortlessly as possible.

All was going well.

Dad had purchased a bull at another production sale a couple of years earlier.

Ranchers did that.

Bought cattle from each other on occasion.

Ostensibly (real word) to 'improve their line'.

But actually to encourage the other ranchers to return the favour.

The bull's name was Victor. He was tall. And long. And beefy. And an 'Exceptional Herd Sire Prospect'.

He was also stupid.

Notably stupid.

And when an animal stands out in a cow herd as 'stupid', you have to know that he is remarkable.

And not in a good way.

We got Victor into the squeeze.

We blew all of his little tenants away.

As well as a couple of pounds of dirt.

And some of his precious few brain cells.

We opened the squeeze.

Now, up until this point, all of the cattle had obediently made their way along the corridor we had created (by wiring some sheets of plywood together), happily returning to their familiar paddock and lunch.

Victor was . . . different..

Remember? Victor was . . . stupid.

Victor wanted to go . . . somewhere else.

Did I mention he was tall?

He simply lifted his head and went through our carefully erected barrier.

Four sheets of it.

Oh, he didn't hurry.

None of this running wild stuff.

No.

He walked.

Forward.

Crushing solid wood panels as he went.

We shouted and waved and finally resorted to beating on him with our hands.

We might as well have been something small and gnat-ty.

Because that's all the notice he took of us.

When he had pushed through the final barrier, he simply turned and looked at us.

Then wandered out into the corral and the sunshine.

The wrong corral, I might point out.

Stupid bull.

We did manage to get him back to where he belonged.

Some time later.

And when he felt like it.

Two days later, Blair and I were both present when he was sold, loaded into a trailer, and taken from our lives.

Sometimes, good comes from bad.

It was a satisfying lesson.

Join the Army. Get an Education (3rd and Final)

A guest post by Erik Tolley

There are also some other trades that you could join, like the Military Police, Intelligence (I still can't get any answers as to why they call it that . . .), Logistics (nobody will tell me what they do, either . . .), Medics, Marching Band, Cook, etc.
Unfortunately, I've never seen anybody from these trades, so I can't elaborate on what they do.
Not that anyone in the Combat Arms does much, either.
After selecting your preferred trade, you will be given several pounds of forms to fill out, a medical examination (thank goodness the doctor didn't need a rubber glove), and an aptitude test.
This all finds out if you are in good health, or if  you need to come back when you look less like an overstuffed sofa, or if you can at least remove the overstuffed sofa from your fat butt so the doctor can finish the examination.
Now, when that's all over and done with, you will be told whether you qualify for your preferred trade or not.
If you do, you will be given another annoying pamphlet with an attractive picture and a catchy slogan, which will describe in detail what you will learn to do in Basic Training.
Here is a list of some of the things that it will tell you:
Marksmanship
Fieldcraft
Discipline
Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence
Rifle Drill
Navigation
First Aid
Rank Structure
Battlecraft
Communications
Everything Else

Strangely, this annoying pamphlet doesn't list many of the other things that you will learn while on your Basic Training course.
These other things are just as important to military life as the things listed above.
To correct this, I have added a few of my own ideas of what should be placed on future annoying pamphlets:
Swearing
Dirty Jokes
More Swearing
Female Anatomy
Male Anatomy
Alcohol Abuse
Vomiting
Washing Vomit Out of Your Clothing
Dragging Drunken Comrades Back to Base
Standing At Attention When You Blood Alcohol Content is 0.25
Scaring Civilians

Who says the Army isn't educational?

Join the Army. Get an Education (Part Two)

A guest Post by Erik Tolley

Infantry
In the infantry, you will be subject to many different forms of violent death, such as getting shot, stabbed, burned, shredded and eating field rations more than twice a day.
The sad thing is, these will all be inflicted by your own troops.
I won't even mention what the enemy will do to you.
Basically, you will be a moving target, which is a lot more fun than a paper target, but a lot harder to patch up afterwards.
You will also get to freeze, starve, sweat, stink, roast, and stay up long enough that you will begin to hallucinate about giant pink bunnies running circles around you singing songs from 'Lion King'.

Engineers
In the Engineers, you will get to do almost all the same things as in the Infantry, but you will also get to play with explosives.
EXPLOSIVES.
Powerful explosives.
At least your targets are made out of something stronger than paper.
Unfortunately, the pink bunnies now hum the tune to 'Star Wars'.

Armoured
In the Armoured trade, you will be able to drive and service large, cool-looking vehicles, often fitted with big guns that make loud noises and wake up the Infantry and the Engineers, if they happen to be asleep, which seems unlikely.
You will also be able to go places that no other vehicle can go, and get stuck in places that no other vehicle could even reach.
Then you send for the Infantry and the Engineers, who are conveniently awake, to come and dig you out, while you sit and play cards.

Artillery
In the Artillery, you will get to shoot big guns.
If anyone in the Artillery is reading this, please call me and let me know what else you guys do, because there are a lot of people who really want to know.

These are the trades known as the Combat Arms trades. I don't know why they are called this, because practically everyone's arms can be used as weapons.
Oh, well.
I guess that's why I'm in the Army.
If I knew, I'd probably be smart enough to still be a civilian.

Join the Army. Get an Education

Superik to the rescue
Drawn by Erik in Grade Nine
During Math class.
Don't ask.

Guest Post by Erik Tolley

Upon first sight, the army looks real cool.
The recruiting posters depict big, brawny, attractive soldiers (and strong, beautiful women soldiers, too) all dressed up in their warpaint and carrying automatic weapons and squelching about in the mud as if they're doing something constructive and enjoying it, too.
The posters usually include some sort of catch phrase like "Join the Army  - See the World" and "Be a Part of the Armed Forces, and You Could Look Like One of These Attractive Young Soldiers, Instead of the Lumpy, Greasy, Smelly, Disgusting Couch Potato You Are", which usually makes you want to improve your lifestyle by joining the army and squelching about in the mud, wearing warpaint and carrying an automatic weapon.
Unfortunately, the thought that mud, grease, and gunpowder don't necessarily improve you lifestyle all that much usually doesn't occur to people until after they're actually in the army.
This is why most civilians think that soldiers are idiots.
They are.
I can speak from experience on this one.
I'm an idiot and I'm in the army.
Enough said.
I first decided to join when I saw an ad in the newspaper. If I hadn't seen it, I might have gone on to lead a normal productive life. I might even have been a manager at an A & W restaurant by now. (A management position at McDonald's being too ambitious for me).
But such was not my destiny.
Oh, well.
When you first go into the recruiting center, they ask you what trade you were thinking of.
At this point, you blurt out whatever first comes into your head, because the only part of the army that you've ever heard of is the Infantry, and you don't want to stand there looking like an indecisive idiot while the paperwork-person stares at you.
So, you say Infantry.
Fortunately, the paperwork-person has seen dozens of morons like you every day since he or she joined the army, and he or she will give you a cute little pamphlet with another attractive picture and catchy slogan on the front, which outlines the basics of all the different trades in the army.
This will help you to decide better what you want to be, otherwise the army would be made up thousands of Infantry soldiers, and one clerk named Homer.
Strangely, this little pamphlet doesn't point out the actual tasks that you would be forced to carry out in an actual war zone, such as getting shot and tortured.
For clarity, I have provided you with a little more information that will be invaluable in determining which trade to choose, or rather, which trades to avoid.
To be Continued . . .

Texting Through Time by Christy Monson

Looking for a good sci-fi story for your tween?

You've found it.

Texting Through Time by Christy Monson.

"When 12-year-old Micah “borrows” his father’s experimental time-travel phone, his hopes for seeing the future are dashed as he and his sister, Alicia, end up trapped in the past at Brigham Young’s boyhood home. This book is a fun way to discover Church history and learn that no matter what time period you are in, God is still aware of you."

I love a good time travel story!

There is something exciting, intriguing and mysterious about exploring the past.

Living the stories of history.

Seeing them become reality.

And that is what happens in Texting Through Time.

Micah and Alicia are trapped in the past with a time-travel device they don't know how to control. As they struggle to understand, they pop through important times in Brigham Young's life, beginning when he was a boy.

Through prayer and faith (and a lot of texting) they discover that their way back home wasn't as impossible as they imagined.

That one can learn a lot when one is trapped in the past.

And sometimes, being in the past isn't as frightening as it first appears.

I loved that the story begins with the need to research Brigham Young and discover just why he became known as the Lion of the Lord.

Research in my past consisted of dragging out heavy, dusty tomes. Then it progressed (happily) to 'Google'.

Maybe time travel is the next logical step?

Thank you, Christy. I will be recommending this to all of my friends seeking 'middle grade' readers!

Hands on Spirituality

We were listening!

Hands on Spiritual training.

Really.

On Sundays our family regularly attended church.

For three hours.

It was divided into three sections.

Sacrament meeting, the most sacred.

Sunday School.

The 'classroom' portion.

And Relief Society.

The Women class.

The men also had their class, but who paid attention?

Moving on . . .

The class portions of our meetings were usually quite lively.

Sleep was impossible.

But the Sacrament portion, the most sacred meeting, featured speakers taken from the congregation.

Some were fantastic.

Some . . . weren't.

On those occasions, sleep was not only possible, but inevitable.

Distraction was needed.

Oh , nothing that would detract from the sacred spirit or nature of the meeting. Just something that would keep the hands busy, while freeing the mind to concentrate on the speaker.

At least that was the theory.

Some kids looked at picture books featuring the Saviour.

Some had picture books featuring other things, like animals.

Some had dry cereal fed to them.

One cheerio at a time.

Some played quietly with toys.

The operative word there, was 'quietly'.

My brother and I drew.

Pictures.

We took turns.

I would draw something silly.

He would reciprocate.

We kept our giggles to a minimum. Mom had been known to snatch and stash our drawing equipment without warning.

But as long as we were quiet, she was satisfied that we were soaking in what needed to be soaked.

So to speak.

It got us through many a dry meeting.

And I think we still learned a few things . . .

Forward several years.

To my own children.

Who entertained themselves hugely with pencil and paper.

In Sacrament meeting.

They were a bit more creative than my brother and I had been . . .

Caitlin drew fantasy pictures of dragons and unicorns.

Tiana drew episodes of Intiana Jones, a tiny stick figure with a hat and whip.

And Erik reciprocated with installments of Superik.

Supposedly called sup-ERIK, but which his sister-in-law titled SUPER-ik.

I will admit, here, that the stories they created were not as spiritually uplifting as what was being said at the pulpit.

But often more entertaining.

What did they get from those meetings?

Well . . . they still attend.

With pad and pencil in one hand and their child's hand in the other.

But they are attending.

Spiritual training and umm . . . tradition, all in one package.

It's a good thing.

Superik to the rescue!

Memories of My Home Town

My home town!

Southern Alberta small town life in the 50s.

Crime hadn't been invented yet.

It was, literally, an entirely different world.

Our doors were never, ever locked.

Every house contained numerous children, who ran hither and yon (good term) all day long. In and out of each-others' yards and homes and refrigerators.

Mom, like all of the other moms, worked in her home, cooking, polishing and cleaning.

She would come to the door at meal times and call out into the street, whereupon (another good word) her various offspring would head home for home-cooked food.

Canned soup was something new and wonderful.

At some point during the day, one of us kids would be sent downtown with a pillowcase to the local post office to retrieve the mail.

Shopping inevitably meant going to one of the two (yes, we had two) grocery stores, or, if clothing or dry goods were required, Robinson's.

The drug store ran a tab (a sheet of paper with our names written on it) for chocolate bars purchased.

At ten cents each.

Freshly-roasted nuts could be procured from the display in the centre of the store.

Trips with Dad to see the insurance agent inevitably meant a Hershey chocolate bar, because the bottom drawer of Mr. Hofer's desk was full of them.

We had our own cobbler, and I loved to go with Dad to his shop because it was fascinating to watch him fashion greats hunks of leather into real shoes.

A trip to one of the two local car dealers turned into an adventure when he showed us his brand new Polaroid camera.

That magically developed its own pictures while you waited.

Every Saturday, Dad would send us to the movies with fifty cents. Twenty-five for the movie. Ten for popcorn and ten for a bottle of Grape Crush with a straw.

With five cents left over.

Until I discovered that the five cents could be spent on a package of licorice. Whereupon (that word again), I started coming home empty-handed.

But happy.

The theatre also had 'cuddle seats'. Double sized seats at both ends of every other row.

Perfect for two sweethearts to cuddle in together while they watched 'Santa and the Martians' or 'Sinbad' or 'Lassie'.

All candy contained sugar and natural flavours.

Most of it was made on this continent.

Our clothes were mostly cotton.

Easily wrinkled, but pressed into shape by Mom's ever-present iron.

Easter Sunday was an opportunity to wear one's new spring hat and matching outfit.

And absolutely everyone attended church.

Thanksgiving was a chance to gather, not only one's own enormous family, but any and all extended family members. Somehow, the entire mob was shoe-horned into any available space.

At Christmas, an enormous, real tree was erected in the centre of the intersection of Main and First streets.

The traffic happily drove around it for the entire season.

The arrival of Santa, a much anticipated event.

And, once again, everyone went to church.

Midnight mass with one's Catholic friends was a special treat.

We rode our bikes down dirt - then gravel – roads.

One always held one's breath when a car went past until the dust cloud following it settled down.

Cars always drove slowly because the streets were inevitably teeming with children (or better known by their technical name - 'small fry').

There was only one channel on the black and white TV set, so if the program airing didn't appeal, there was literally nothing on TV.

In the evenings, when one wasn't involved in cubs, scouts, or CGIT, one was home with the family, watching the one TV channel or playing games together.

Mom always made treats.

Yummy ones.

We had whole neighbourhoods of Hungarians, Germans and Japanese.

And all of them were terrific cooks.

Funny how so many memories revolve around food . . .

Sports events were exactly that.

Events.

Ball games were played in a dirt lot and the crowd sat on the ground or brought their own chairs to enjoy the fun.

Basketball was huge.

The whole town would pack the high-school gym to cheer on our teams.

Winter sports were limited to home-style rinks, or the town rink, and only when it was cold enough to support ice.

The curling rink, with its refrigeration unit, was always popular.

'Bonspiel-ing' was a sport in itself.

The town was founded on and supported by, farming and ranching.

Most of the vehicles that rumbled down the streets were dusty farm trucks, many containing a farm animal or two.

And everyone knew everyone else.

Their address, phone number, family members.

Even pets.

It was a wonderful way to grow up.

Like an enormous, caring family.

I loved growing up in Milk River.

It was a perfect life.

And it's largely vanished now.

Oh, one can catch glimpses of it.

Friendly neighbourhoods.

Caring neighbours.

But the absolute freedom of those days is gone.

Replaced by something . . . darker.

More suspicious.

It's a great pity.

What are your memories of growing up?

Things That Go Bump in the Night

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.

Haunted.

Really.

Demons lived there.

Witches.

Hags.

You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.

We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.

Even in broad daylight.

With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.

Even so, I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams coming from it.

And no, they didn't come from me.

Sheesh.

At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.

Situated about half-way down the block.

A family had lived there.

Mother. Father. Children.

But that was where the 'normal' part ended.

At least that is what my friends had informed me.

Often.

One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.

It was dark in the cellar.

He had lighted a match to see more clearly.

And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.

I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dangerous.

And why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I wouldn't know either.

Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.

But I was four.

Who was scrutinizing?

I was too busy shivering in delight.

Moving on . . .

So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.

It lit up like a huge torch.

The kerosene, that is.

He and his family barely got out alive.

No one knows what happened to the cat.

The family then disappeared.

Never to be heard from again.

Ooooooooo!

Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.

It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.

The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.

But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.

Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.

Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally burned cloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.

We were horrified.

And ran from the house screaming.

I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.

The house was eventually demolished.

Mainly to keep us from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.

But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the 'haunted house'.

Where the family lived.

Before the fire.

And maybe they're there still.

Making noises and screaming at odd hours.

The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Food 'Allergies'

The Bean Man . . . and family.

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.

Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.

We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.

Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.

There's a difference.

But what a scheme!

My kids tried to use it, too.

Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.

His particular nemesis?

Beans.

Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.

My personal favourite.

And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.

Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.

Mmmmm.

From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.

Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.

Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.

“Father in Heaven.” Grant.

“Father in Heaven.” Mark. (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)

“We thank thee for this food.” Grant.

“We thank thee for this food.” Mark.

“Because it's so yum.” Grant.

“Because it's so not yum.” Mark.

Laughter (Grant).

More laughter (Mom).

Grin (Mark).

And so it went.

For 19 years.

At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.

He excitedly prepared to go.

I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”

“What?”

“Bean Town.”

His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”

“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”

He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.

“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”

“Oh.”

He went anyways, brave boy that he was.

And returned two years later.

We met him at the airport.

We had sent our little boy.

We brought back an adult.

The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.

His response?

“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”

Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .

Mark eats beans today.

Mostly to show his children it can be done.

But he doesn't wage much of a battle.

His oldest daughter, Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.

Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

Apologies . . .

The Culprit

I am so sorry that I haven't been able to post regularly these past few days.
I'm really missing it, too.
And visiting all of your blogs . . .
But this book-signing tour has kept me so busy that I just haven't had any time.
Plus I've been spending all of my days smiling and being nice to people.
Tough work!
I use up all of my 'nice' before I get back to the apartment . . . :)
But, the end is in sight.
I am going to be on TV tomorrow morning. ABC4, Good Things Utah, sometime between nine and ten AM.
Then I have a signing.
Then another signing on Wednesday.
Then I'm done.
For now.
Wish me luck!!!

Part Two: They Call the Wind . . .

I know how it feels.

Wind is hell awful.

In Southern Alberta, farmers and ranchers plant three rows of trees.

The first row, furthest outside, is a row of caragana bushes.

They grow the fastest and protect the other, slower-growing trees.

Next come the poplars.

Not quite as fast-growing, but faster than the pines, which form the third row.

The three rows together form an effective, natural wind break.

But they take a while to mature.

Sigh.

My brother, Jerry had a dream.

He wanted to raise hydroponic tomatoes.

He had done his research.

Tested the water.

Literally.

I guess hydroponics have certain water requirements.

Besides 'wet'.

He was ready.

He built two large buildings. Frames really, which, when covered with heavy-gauge plastic, became hydroponic barns.

Perfect for growing wonderful, delicious tomatoes.

He set up his equipment.

Rows and rows of it.

And planted.

And tended.

And watched as his crop grew, flowered and produced little tomatoes.

Which continued to grow.

And were nearly ready to pick.

Remember at the beginning of the story, when I mentioned wind?

This is where that comes in.

Jerry's barns were at the top of a small hill.

His windbreak was in its infancy.

So a plank wall had been built.

Surely that would protect his precious crop.

The wind began to build.

The heavy plastic was billowing in and out.

A great gust went over, kicked up into the air over the barns by the impermeable wooden wall.

It sucked the plastic up with it.

Jerry was standing in his barn when it happened.

In a split second, he saw the walls of plastic lift six inches from the ground.

He had only a moment to consider what he could do to save his barns and his precious crop.

Nothing.

The next gust took the great plastic covers with it.

His crop was destroyed in seconds.

What was it I said about wind?

The Southern Alberta winds yearly cause a lot of damage.

I have lived away from them for over three decades.

I still can't sleep when the wind blows.