Sisters in the Gospel

Sisters

Also a Sister

In our church, everyone is addressed either as 'Brother' or 'Sister'.

It gives a fun, family feel to the congregation.

And to the whole 'attending church' scenario.

It was something I was raised with.

Women my Mom's age were Sisters.

Men were Brothers.

Life was simple.

Moving forward twenty years.

Still attending church.

Still addressing each other as either Brother or Sister.

But now, there was a new generation, calling me Sister.

I should point out, here, that when you work in the children's organization, or Primary, you instantly gain rock-star status if your class members meet you outside of church.

Hence, you can be wandering in the mall and a young voice will scream out, "Mom, look! It's Sister Tolley!"

And I do mean shout.

One day, I was shopping with my children, plus a few.

Because who wants to go shopping with just your parents and siblings?

A cry suddenly rattled the rafters of the local Safeway.

"Sister Tolley! I didn't know you shopped here, too! Look! Look! It's Sister Tolley!"

And then a chorus of "Hi, Sister Tolley!" "Sister Tolley, look what I'm wearing!" And the all-important, "Sister Tolley, look what I can do!"

It was adorable.

I oohed and aahed over their clothes and accomplishments and our two groups separated, intent once more on whatever it was that had originally brought us into the store.

One of the boys who had come along for the amazing experience of shopping with two parents and ten children turned to my son and whispered, loudly, "Wow! I didn't know your Mom was a nun!"

Okay. Not something you hear every day.

Or ever.

My Very Short Life as an Entrepreneur

You think these beds look nice . . .
You should see what's underneath!

The world was a magical place!

I was rich beyond my wildest dreams!

And the treasure trove I had just discovered had been right under my bed the whole time.

Who knew?!

Maybe I should back up a bit . . .

My Mom and Dad had taken us kids to The Fair.

Mostly so we could see the cattle competitions, I admit, but eventually, to take in the sights and sounds and tastes of the midway.

First, came the sounds.

And once I got used to the fact that all of the shouting and screams I could hear were actually people having fun, I was able to relax a little.

And take in the sights.

That was a lot for my four-year-old eyes to take in.

There were rides.

Merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, Ferris wheels and tilt-a-whirls.

Adventures.

The haunted house. The pirate's den.

And sideshows.

The alligator man and the girl who turned into an ape.

And then there was food.

I had been too frightened to be coaxed onto any of the rides.

Apart from the merry-go-round.

A quirk that exists to this very day.

But I didn't have to be convinced to try the food.

A foot-long hot dog, heavy with ketchup and mustard. A cob of corn, dripping butter. Several donuts. An ice cream cone.

I was certain that I had never had so much fun in my life.

Or eaten as well.

But the best was yet to come.

Something that I never could have imagined.

A treat that was fluffy and melty and oh, so good.

Cotton candy!

The Fair had just become the most amazing experience of my entire four years.

A memory that I treasured long, long into the future.

Or at least three weeks into the future.

I was looking for one of my toys.

It wasn't in sight.

I decided to look in places that weren't in sight.

Under the bed.

There, I made the most remarkable discovery.

Cotton candy.

Just laying there!

I picked it up.

It was definitely cotton candy.

I set it on the bed and bent over, looking for more.

I don't want to suggest here, that my Mom didn't keep a clean house.

She did.

It's just that a husband, six kids, a couple of dogs, a two-acre garden and several hired men can make it difficult for one to get to the hidden surfaces in one's home.

Enough said.

I scrabbled around under all of the beds in the house and managed to come up with a small mound of the magical substance.

Wow! I could sell this to the kids in the neighbourhood.

The ones to whom, like me, The Fair was a sweet and delightful, though distant, memory.

I began counting pennies in my head.

I carried my treasure out to my Mom.

"Look what I found!" I said.

"Oh!" Mom said. She was as pleased as I was, obviously. "Where did you find that?"

"Under my bed. And Jerry's bed. And George's bed. And . . ."

"Never mind," Mom said. "Here. Let me take care of it." She reached for it.

I snatched it away. Was she crazy? Did she really think that I would just hand her my treasure?

She looked at me.

"Diane, what are you going to do with that?"

"I'm taking it outside to sell to the other kids."

"You're going to sell it."

She was crazy. Couldn't she see the windfall that I held in my two little hands?

"Diane, what do you think that is?"

"Candy floss," I told her. I frowned. What did she think it was?

"Maybe you should taste it," she said.

No problem. I selected a choice bit and pushed it into my mouth.

Okay, first off, this didn't melt like the 'fair' type.

And second . . . ick!

I spit it out.

Mom laughed. "Diane, those are dust bunnies."

I stared at her. Then at my treasure.

No way those were bunnies.

"That's what they're called," she explained. "They're just dirt that has blown into a clump under the bed."

Well, whose idea was that?

Disgusted, I handed her my treasure to dispose of.

I learned some things that day:

1. Things found under the bed are usually there for a reason.
2. And not a good one.
3. If your going to make money, salesmanship scores over taste.
4. In fact, forget taste all together.

The Nutella Protocol

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

My Husby has been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

To say the least . . .

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into emergency.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess.

And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

It kept his motor running.

Gentlemen, raise your spoons!

80s Spell-Checker

Ummm . . . less speller extraordinary

Speller extraordinaire

Our second son is, in many ways, like his father.

It's a good thing.

One of the most notable is his ability to spell.

Anything.

Any time.

It's a gift.

I should mention, here, that I don't have this gift.

Enough said . . .

It was the early 80's.

My brother, Blair, was working on his Bachelor's degree in Engineering.

We had a computer.

He visited.

Often.

Our computer was in our eight-year-old second son, Erik's room.

Blair would work there by the light of a single lamp.

We would hear the clicking of the keys late into the night.

Erik was supposed to be sleeping.

He wasn't.

Occasionally, the keyboard sounds would stop.

Then I would hear the brief sound of voices.

Then the clicking would resume.

Finally, Erik came out of the room, needing a drink of water.

I was tidying the kitchen.

He moved close to me.

"Mom," he whispered. "Uncle Blair can't spell."

Ah. The occasional sound of voices was explained.

Blair was consulting with his spell-checker.

It must have worked.

He went on to achieve a doctorate in Engineering.

Okay, I admit that today's sophisticated spell-checker programs are probably more efficient.

And more easily accessible.

And don't need their sleep.

But none of those programs have personality.

And certainly aren't as cute.

Progress isn't always  . . . ummm . . . progress.

Sunday: Family/Bonanza Night

Tell me you remember . . . sigh!

Yesterday's blog was about fire.

And Bonanza.

And my youngest brother, Blair, reminded me of something that filled us with glee.

When we were kids.

Every Sunday evening.

I should point out, here, that Sundays were family/TV nights.

Our one TV channel outdid itself on that particular evening.

And if we were good . . .

Okay, I admit it, even if we weren't good . . .

We got to watch.

First Disney's Wonderful World of colour.

In black and white and shades of grey.

Then Ed Sullivan.

Eeeee!

Then Bonanza.

The best of them all.

The cherry on top of the Sunday . . . well . . . sundae.

Not a sound would be heard.

We barely breathed.

Pa and Adam and Hoss and Little Joe filled the air around us.

There was room for nothing else.

If you wanted to do something noisy . . .

Like blink.

Or swallow.

Do it during the commercials from the Kraft Kitchens.

Wimp!

But the best part . . .

The best part, was the opening: du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza!

Du-duddle-uh-duddle-uh-duddle-uh, Bonanza is it's name!

We'd 'sing' along happily and wait.

Remember the aforementioned (good word) no breathing.

That would be here, too.

Warning: Hot!

Because the fire was coming.

From the map that burned.

Right there on the screen.

All of us kids would run up and touch the B&W&SOG (see above) flames and then run howling and screaming about the room.

Pretending we had been mortally burned.

Our patient parents would nod and smile and shake their heads and wait for the music to finish.

Because that would be our cue for absolute quiet.

Without either of them having to say a word.

Sunday evening.

With family.

And Bonanza.

It just didn't get any better than that.

They Burn Garbage, Don't They?

That's Entertainment!

On the ranch, in the 50s, we burned our garbage.

It was the only option.

Each week, the trash cans were collected from every room in the house

Carried out to the burning barrel.

Emptied into said barrel.

And set alight.

It was an exciting job.

Okay, well, it looked exciting to me.

Probably because the task came with an 'age appropriate' rating.

And I hadn't reached that age.

Sigh.

I would scurry through the house, collecting bins for whoever was assigned.

Then help them lug everything to the trash barrel.

Then stand back and watch as they . . .

 . . . LIT THE MATCH.

Oooooo!

Most of the time, it only took one.

Match, that is.

I was more than fascinated.

The lit match would be lowered into the barrel.

A curl of smoke would issue forth.

Then the first of the flames.

There was nothing . . . I repeat nothing . . . more exciting.

And I had been to movies.

And watched Bonanza on TV.

Okay, well, maybe I'd better exclude Bonanza.

I mean, who could possibly compete with Pa Cartwright?

And his buckskin gelding.

Ahhh.

I've wandered from the point . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Garbage.

And burning it.

For years, I watched, enviously as, first my parents, then my older siblings got to light the match.

Slowly, the day approached when I would be trusted with the all-important job.

And then, it was here.

"Diane, would you please burn the garbage?"

Eeeeeeee!

I carefully collected every bin.

Toted them all down to the barrel.

Chose one at random and dumped its contents.

Chose another.

And another.

And finally, surrounded by empty trash cans, the magic moment.

I lit the match.

And dropped it carefully into the accumulated trash.

It winked out.

Huh.

I tried again.

Same thing.

This was harder than it looked.

Most of a book of matches later, I discovered that I needed to choose a piece of paper as my first victim.

Light that, then let it light the rest.

Ahhh!

Finally, I had a blaze.

I stepped back and watched proudly.

My first trash fire.

Okay, I admit it, you have to look for opportunities to shine in this life.

Within a few weeks, I was an old hand at 'burning the trash'.

I could collect, empty and light with the best of them.

And use one match.

And then the gloss wore off.

Dad: "Diane. Time to take out the trash."

Me: "Can't someone else do it? I'm watching Woody Woodpecker!"

Blair: "I'll do it!"

Dad: "Blair can help, but Diane has to light the match."

Me: [Huge sigh.] "Okay. Fine."

Blair: "Yipee!"

The fire circle of life.

Horses Are Alike All Over

Go on. Give it a pull!

Horses are fun.

And smart.

They have distinct personalities.

Some are lazy.

Some crafty.

Some love people.

All like to play.

A favourite game when I was growing up was 'tongues'.

You would tickle a horse's lips until he stuck out his tongue, whereupon (good word) you would give it a little pull.

The tongue, I mean.

The horse would whip it back into his mouth.

Then promptly stick it out again.

Pull.

Retract.

Stick out.

Pull.

They loved this game.

They would play it for hours.

Or until you got tired of it.

You can probably guess which scenario usually happened first.

My Husby and I were touring the Buckingham Palace Mews, conducted by the head hostler to the Queen, Edward.

A very proper and pleasant British man.

Who also loved horses.

We were instantly connected.

Moving on . . .

My Husby and I were having a great time.

We had dutifully and happily walked through the coach storage buildings.

And gotten up close and personal with the royal family's famous Gold Coach.

And had headed into the stables.

Ahhh! Heaven!

Horses are intensely curious.

If something is happening, they want to be front and center.

Gawking.

Getting in the way.

Pretending to be startled and fleeing spiritedly.

Coming back to see if there was anything they missed.

For the resident horses, our tour of the stables was out of the ordinary.

Everyone wanted a look.

Heads popped out of stalls the whole length of the building.

One horse, a handsome grey gelding was especially interested.

I should point out here that horses, when they meet another horse, sniff each other's noses.

A much more civilized practice in my opinion than what one would typically see when dogs greet each other.

Ummm . . . back to my story.

The big grey sniffed me.

I sniffed him back, then started to move on.

He moved with me.

I think someone was bored.

I touched his lips.

He licked them.

I pulled his tongue.

His head shot up, startled.

He stared at me for a couple of moments.

Then he stuck out his tongue again.

I pulled it.

He drew it back in.

Then he did it again.

This went on for some time.

Grant and Edward had been standing a little ways off, talking.

The horse and I were enjoying our game.

Then I realized that the stable had fallen silent.

The men were watching us.

Thinking they had finished their conversation, I patted my new friend and started toward them.

The big grey leaned out as far as he could, nickered at me and stuck out his tongue. “Hey! I'm not finished with this game!”

I laughed and patted him again.

Then joined the two men.

Edward was still staring. Finally he shook his head and in his perfectly modulated English accent, said, “I've never seen a horse do that before!”

He looked at me with renewed interest and said,” Any time you want to come back here, you are welcome. Anytime.”

A horse lover knows another horse lover.

And all horses are the same.

No matter what circles they move in.

Dress Up

Tristan - acting evil.

Our family loves to dress up.

Maybe that's the reason we love theatre so much.

It's legal there . . .

For my husby and I, it started in our respective childhoods.

We carried it, happily, into our own family.

Through the years, any excuse to dress up was instantly seized.

Halloween.

NewYear's.

St. Patrick's Day.

Thursday.

As I said, any excuse.

Our costume collection grew apace (real word).

In no time, it outgrew the large cardboard box that I had originally stuffed things into and into its own room.

The kids spent many, many happy hours in that room, playing dress-up.

As they grew, so did their costumes, becoming more elaborate and detailed.

Bunnies, ladybugs and clowns became Elizabethan gowns and chain mail.

And I mean real chain mail.

With gauntlets.

The room that holds the costumes now is bigger than our first living room.

Our neighbourhood has grown accustomed to seeing our family traipsing around, dressed . . . unusually.

It's fun.

And now our grandchildren have caught the spirit.

Sometimes, good things are passed down through the generations . . .

Queen of Hearts

And yes, that's real chain mail. He knits it . . .

Expecting their/our first child/grandchild

A night in Bethlehem

Notice the backpack. Authentic in every way! Not!

My Husby as Teddy Roosevelt

Passing it on to the next generation . . .

Yes. They are PJ's

Chicken Feet

Warning: Graphic chicken action

Mmmm. Dinner!

Some ranch kids end up with a skewed view of life.

Let me explain . . .

Grant was butchering a chicken.

This involves such things as a head and foot-ectomy, removal of several important inner organs, and complete de-feathering.
Our kids had never witnessed this.

I had. (see here)

But, though they had been raised on a ranch, all animals had been sent off site for 'processing'.

This was their first exposure to one of the more graphic of ranch experiences.

I had been a little concerned for their sensibilities.

I needn't have worried.

They were front and center.

And jostling for position.

Grant placed the chosen/unfortunate chicken on the stump and, with one blow, removed the head.

"Oooooh!"

Then he allowed the chicken to go through its death throes.

"Ahhhhh!"

Then the all-important soaking in hot water to loosen the feathers.

"Stinky!"

And the gutting and dismembering.

"Cool!"

Finally, we had, sitting on a plate, what would eventually be our dinner.

The rest of the chicken, the head, viscera and feathers, were gathered together in a sack for disposal.

Then Grant picked up one of the feet.

"Watch this, kids!" he said.

He pulled on a tendon and the foot flexed. Claws closed.

"Wow, Dad, that is the coolest thing ever!"

"Let me try! Let me try!"

They took turns pulling on the exposed tendon.

Squeamish? I think not.

I should point out, here, that we have four strapping sons.

And two gentle, timid daughters.

Not.

Tiana grabbed one of the feet.

"I'm gonna get you!" she hollered at Caitlin.

"Screech!"

And the chase was on.

The two of them spent some time pursuing each other.

Finally, breathless and happy, they relinquished their chicken feet to their impatiently waiting brothers.

Who proceeded to enact act two.

And I had been worried.

Pfffff.

The chicken doesn't fall far from the . . . tree.

So to speak.

Intruder Alert!

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale, so to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual nighttime read.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed.

No one could scream quite like Debbie.

Thinking someone was trying to come in and realizing her state of  'almost-dressed-ness', she scurried out into the front room.

Then she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Thinking something had happened, I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

Something had.

Happened, I mean.

Debbie was collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should tell you, here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

Moving on . . .

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was helpless with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling up her pajama bottoms.

Then she had seen movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her.

She screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a scary sight.

It's a What?!

See? Really old! And mysterious!

On the Stringam ranch, we had an old garage.

Really old.

It was long and single storied with white, stucco siding and very small windows.

At the north end, there was the big garage door.

Opening into a large, dark room.

Which, in turn, opened into the root cellar, described here.

But the root cellar only took up half of the 'basement'.

The other half was a really strange stable.

Well, I thought it was a stable.

It had dividers, forming stalls, though there were no gates.

And it was deeply covered with straw.

The weird thing about this stable was access.

The only entrance/exit was a small window high up in the south wall of the garage.

I often wondered how one could get any animals down there.

Someone didn't plan that very well . . .

No wonder the straw was clean, even though it wasn't fresh.

The small window, however, made an eminently suitable entrance/exit for children.

Like me.

And their toys.

Like mine.

It was my secret place.

My hiding place.

Where no one could find me.

All right, I admit that it was well within hollering distance of the front door of the house.

And that when my Mom wanted me, all she had to do was shout.

But I felt secret.

Hidden.

The single window had no covering, so, during the day, the room was brightly lit. And there was no danger that one could be shut into darkness by a heavy door.

Like in the root cellar, with which I had a history.

Shudder.

Moving on . . .

One could slide in through the window, toys and all, drop into the thick straw, and spend hours in one's own little sunlit, straw-filled world.

Perfection.

It became the place where I parked anything I didn't want the other kids to get into.

And where I hid the stuff I wasn't supposed to get into.

I once lugged in an entire boxful of old pamphlets and envelopes and stationary that Dad had tossed out.

What a treasure!

I would sneak into my secret room to play with it, certain that, if Dad caught me, there would be hell heck to pay.

I felt so sneaky!

I played happily for months in my secret stable.

Finally, I asked Dad what had happened to the door.

He stared at me, puzzled.

I explained that I had to crawl into the little stable through the window. What happened to the door?

He laughed. “That's no stable, Diane. That's the old ice house.”

Ah. Everything was explained.

Not.

“Um. What's an ice house?

Dad tried to explain to me that every winter, the men would go down to the river which just happened to flow right past the garage, and cut great chunks of ice.

Then the ice would be hauled up to the ice house and passed through the little window to someone waiting inside.

The straw was to keep it cold.

Weird.

I suspected that he was pulling my leg because I had played down there for months and I hadn't seen one bit of ice.

“Why would they do that?”

“Well, they needed the ice to keep food cold.”

“Why didn't they use the freezer?”

“They didn't have freezers.”

I stared at him. How could anyone survive without a freezer?

“They didn't even have a fridge.”

Okay, now I knew he was kidding me.

Everyone had a fridge.

Some people, like us, had two.

I shook my head. “Dad. Dad. Dad. That's just silly.”

And I went back to my playing.

But you know something?

He was right.

Sometimes dads are.

Tucked In

Success!

Routines are important.

Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.

The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.

Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.

Teeth brushed.

Hair combed.

Jammies donned.

Stories read.

Family prayer said.

And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.

The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.

I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".

Okay, maybe I will.

Moving on . . .

One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.

Our daughter, Tiana.

She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"

Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.

Then would follow the boosting into bed.

The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.

And the ever important good-night kiss.

Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.

At least until the post-tucking parade began.

One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.

Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.

But notice had been given.

Dad was already on the move.

He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.

Then resumed his chair and his reading.

Tiana re-appeared.

"I'm ready now," she said.

Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said.

"What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!"

"Well, I tucked somebody in."

Tiana ran to her room.

"You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.

Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, I tucked in what was there," he said.

"Dad!"

After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.

She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.

Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.

Clothing.

Toys.

Books.

Homework.

Muffy.

I repeat. Routines are important.

First and Only

- or- Why I never became a smoker . . .

I come from a long line of non-smokers.

Generations of puff-nots.

But my best friend had a cousin staying over for the summer.

A cousin from the big city who had seen it all.

And done most of it.

I was about to get an education . . .

My family lived on a ranch twenty miles from Milk River, in southern Alberta.

Life out there was bliss.

And, because of a lack of outside influences, completely under the control of my parents.

I had seen people smoking.

Certainly I had.

But I had never considered the possibility of being one of them.

Not even for an instant.

Moving on . . .

My parents owned a house in town.

When Mom got tired of driving the twenty miles to take us kids to school and activities, we would move into town.

Until Dad got tired of driving out to the ranch every day to do ranching stuff.

Then we would move back.

It was a fun and exciting way to live.

The benefits of town living.

The joys of the ranch.

But one or the other of our houses sat empty in the interim.

That summer, we were firmly ensconced on the ranch.

So the town house was sitting vacant.

A perfect place for 10-year-old girls to get an education from the 11-year-old-far-more-experienced-and-world-weary cousin from the big city.

My parents had dropped me off at my best friend's house for a - gasp - three day sleep over while they went out of town.

We: my BFF, her younger sister and the Cousin (notice the capital letter) had been knocking around town for most of two days.

It had been an education.

It was about to become more so.

The Cousin bought a packet of cigarettes.

She was going to show us country hicks how to smoke.

Okay, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Our biggest problem lay in finding a secret place in which to do our teaching/learning.

Idea!

My family's empty town house.

I found the key and let us in.

The place echoed emptily.

Perfect!

We went into the main bathroom and dug out the cigarettes.

Cousin proceeded to light up.

Oooh! She looked so cool!

The rest of us were excited to try.

In no time, we each had a cigarette.

She helped us light them.

Soon, my BFF and her sister were blowing smoke in the most approved manner.

It took me a bit longer.

But I got it, once Cousin pointed out that one need to suck.

Not blow.

Oh.

I should point out, here that my parents weren't due to pick me up from my BFF's until the following day.

And, even then, they had no reason to come to this house.

Our smoking education could continue apace.

Without threat of interruption.

But parents never do what they say they are going to.

My BFF's little sister went out to the front room.

And immediately returned, wide-eyed.

"Your parents are here!"

"Sure, sure," I said, taking another puff. "Nice try!"

We all laughed.

A sound that broke off instantly when my Mom appeared at the door.

"Oh," I said. "Ummm . . . hi, Mom."

She looked at me. Looked at the cigarette I held in my hand.

Then turned and left.

Without saying a word.

We quickly cleaned up our mess and headed for the front door.

My parents were waiting in the car.

I said some quick good-byes and climbed in.

For several minutes, my parents said nothing.

Finally, Mom turned to Dad and sighed.

Then Dad turned to me and said, "I very disappointed, Diane."

I was completely crushed.

He didn't know it, but those four words had just killed my cigarette habit.

Forever.

What price education?!

Hands On Reunions

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.

The renewing of ties.

An opportunity to get re-acquainted.

Catch up on family accomplishments.

Additions.

Losses.

Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.

Our eldest son, Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.

He was getting around under his own steam very well.

And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.

For several hours, he wandered around the site.

Exploring.

Eating.

Getting filthy.

All the things that make a little boy so very happy.

He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.

Gorged on hot dogs.

Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.

Spit out the baked beans.

Another story.

Slurped up watermelon.

And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.

He was a happy, filthy little boy.

He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.

I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.

Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.

Really.

I think it was the marshmallows.

Might have been helped along by the watermelon.

I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.

But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.

And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.

Or flippers.

I will admit they were still effective.

He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.

But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.

I went for a wipe.

But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.

While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.

Frodo's bowl.

I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.

And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.

I can't.

By the time I had returned with the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.

In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.

Ick.

And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.

He was happy.

And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water.

Everyone was happy.

Except me.

Hands

My Dad's hands. And Mine.
Look closely. They tell you everything.

Hands tell everything.

I remember sitting in Church beside my dad and comparing my hand to his.

Mine were small, white and smooth.

Unmarked by life and softly innocent.

His were large, square, calloused.

Scarred by barbed wire and by life.

Hands that had wrestled cattle and the occasional bronc.

Hauled hay and grain.

Twisted wire or pounded nails.

Smacked the occasional errant backside.

Prayed.

And tenderly held babies.

Hands that had accomplished something.

I measured my hand against his.

Would mine ever grow to be the same size?

I looked at my Mom's hands.

Long, tapered fingers with close-cropped nails.

Hands that scrubbed surfaces and small, wiggling bodies.

Punched bread and rolled out pie crust.

Cooked and stirred.

Gathered, sorted and folded.

Swept and cleaned.

Prayed.

Hands occasionally stained with ink from her writing.

And also scarred by her forays into the barnyard to help when help was needed.

Hands that soothed when others hurt and applied love and bandages in equal amounts.

And finally folded, blue-veined and fragile, over a still breast in peace.

Hands that had accomplished something.

Yesterday, my granddaughter was sitting next to me.

She placed her hand, soft, white and innocent, against mine.

"Will my hands ever grow as big as yours, Gramma?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"I like to look at your hands, Gramma." She pointed. "What is this scar here?"

"Barbed wire, sweetheart."

"Did it hurt?"

"Probably. But not for long."

"You have lots of scars, Gramma."

"Scars are life, written in your hands," I told her.

"Oh." She turned my hand over. "Lots of scars."

"From doing things," I said.

I thought of the 'things' that my hands have done.

Cooked. Cleaned.

Baked. Sewed.

Wrestled cattle and chickens and pigs.

And small children.

Turned pancakes and pages.

Written.

So many things.

Important things.

I smiled at my granddaughter. "Your hands will do things, too," I said. "Important things."

"Like yours."

"Like mine."

Horse-Trading for Dummies

See what I mean?
Pic from: horseforum.com

At sixteen, I made my first foray into the wide, exciting world of horse trading.

It wasn't a good experience.

Let me explain.

I had been saving my money for months to purchase my first horse.

Okay, yes, we had dozens of horses on the ranch, but none of them had been purchased by me.

See the difference?

Okay, my Dad didn't, either.

Moving on . . .

Some friends of ours knew of a rancher near Waterton Park who had some horses to sell.

Beautiful scenery and a chance to buy my own horse.

It was a perfect world.

We drove into the mountains and left the main road, winding down the mountainside and into the prettiest little ranch I had ever seen.

I was filled with anticipation.

Only the best in horseflesh could come from such a place.

I was wrong.

Just FYI.

The owner introduced us to several horses, but one little bay mare immediately caught my eye.

The rancher noticed.

Perhaps my glassy-eyed stare and drool was a give-away.

He went into his spiel.

Yes. Ranchers have a spiel.

He told me I would love her. Her gait, conformation and performance were perfection.

Here. Let's saddle up and you can take her for a spin.

He did.

I did.

Everything he had said was true.

Sold!

Money exchanged hands.

We loaded the sedate little mare into our handy-dandy trailer and headed home.

Before we had gotten back to the main road, I had a name for my new best friend.

Fancy.

It suited.

Back at home, my Dad got his first look.

He examined her carefully, then shrugged.

I don't know, he said. She looks pretty enough, but I don't know.

Horse sense. Some of them have it . . .

Some of us don't . . .

Sigh.

The next morning, I went out to saddle up my new little beauty.

I got a distinct shock.

During the night, someone had come and switched my sweet tempered little Fancy with a roaring, man-killing beast.

And I do mean man-killing.

The drugs had obviously worn off.

No sooner had I bridled her, then she reared up and struck out at me with her front hooves.

I should point out, here, that hooves are hard.

And can easily be used to cause 'blunt force trauma'.

I watch C.S.I. so I know about B.F.T.

Her first unexpected attack caught me, fortunately on the very top of my head.

Where my skull is the thickest.

She knocked me to my knees, but did no damage.

I struggled quickly to my feet and moved to the nearest far-away place.

Where I watched in wonder as she began her second attack.

Yep. The first attack had been no accident.

But I was ready and she posed no danger at that point.

My decision was made, however.

This horse had to go.

I talked to my friend. The one who had taken me to buy my little whirlwind of terror.

He was very interested.

He should be, he had gotten me into this mess . . .

He dealt with difficult horses and offered, on the spot, to trade me for a horse of my choosing.

This time, I took my Dad with me.

I may be dumb, but I learn quickly.

And we agreed on a nice, black gelding.

Tall. Lively.

But without one important aspect.

He wasn't out for my blood.

An important aspect as it turns out.

'Zee' and I became instant friends.

Something Fancy and I could never be.

Sorry, Fancy.

But it is your fault.

My Favorite Toys

My first/George's third birthday party.
Notice the bull and matador.
How come I didn't have toys like that?

My favourite toys . . . weren't mine.

Because everyone had better toys than me.

Or at least Mom and Dad did.

Their neat toys were all carefully displayed.

On their fireplace mantle.

Okay, I thought it was weird, too.

Especially since they never, ever played with them.

Not once.

I had watched.

There was a plaster matador and bull set.

One of which, had a cape.

And one, horns.

I'll let you sort them out.

They were immensely fun to play with.

Until Mom caught up with me.

"Diane, put those back!"

Sigh.

Then there were the models of bulls.

Horned and polled Herefords.

They were terrific when one wanted to play farm.

Of course, then the matador's bull would have to join in.

Giving the matador just that much more responsibility.

He was tall and strong and handsome.

He could handle it.

"Diane, what did I tell you?!"

Rats.

But the best of all was the bronze horse.

He was glorious.

Standing looking out across the prairie, ears pricked.

He even had a bronze saddle and bridle.

With bronze reins.

"Diane! How on earth did you lug that thing down there! Put it back at once!"

Man, that woman was everywhere!

Mom and Dad's toys entertained me for years.

Until I dropped the matador.

It was an accident!

And twisted the reins off the horse.

Oops. Who knew they would do that?

But I maintain that if they didn't want them played with, they should have put them away.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.