Are You Really Going to Drink That?

Del Bonita.
Home of the Jones family.

The Stringam Ranch was situated on the Alberta/Montana border, midway between the town-opolis of Milk River and the village-opolis of Del Bonita.

My father elected to send us to school in Milk River.

Because it was minutely larger.

West of us, and somewhat closer to Del Bonita were the Jones Family Ranches.

Whereon (oooh! good word) my best friend, Debbie Jones, lived.

Her father had elected to send her and her siblings to Del Bonita to school.

Because.

I envied her.

Not only did she get to attend a country school, but, after grade 9, she got to bus to the heretofore (another good word) unknown wilds of Magrath, Alberta.

Where there were lots and lots of boys.

Amazingly attractive boys.

Well, according to Debbie, there were lots and lots of amazingly attractive boys.

The number one draw for a high school.

Listed just before such frivolities as: teachers. Classes. Facilities.

All that stuff.

Moving on . . .

For my final semester of my final year, my parents gave their permission for me to attend school with Debbie.

Ostensibly (I’m just full of good words today!), to further my Language Arts.

In reality, to check out the . . . umm . . . neighbourhood.

For this, I was sent to live with the Jones family.

Probably the most fun family – ever.

They welcomed me as one of their own.

Put me to work as one of their own.

Teased me as one of their own.

Nursed me.

Fed me.

Comforted me.

Generally made me feel like I was one of the family.

With all of its privileges/duties.

One of said duties was helping with the evening meal.

Cooking.

Stirring.

Tasting.

I needn’t tell you which I excelled at . . .

Debbie’s most fun job was supplying the evening beverage.

Usually Kool-Aid.

I know, I know, that sounds rather . . . unexciting.

Except the way Debbie made it.

Oh, she’d add the important ingredients.

Water.

Sugar.

Kool-Aid.

And then she would get creative.

Out would come the food colour.

I soon learned that the appearance of the beverage in one’s glass could be radically different from the taste of said beverage.

Case in point:

Debbie had mixed . . . I think it was lime . . . Kool-Aid.

Then added a drop of this and a spritz of that.

What she ended up with looked nothing like lime.

Or anything drink-able, for that matter.

Her father lifted his glass, letting the setting sun shine through it.

Then he set it back down with the words, “I don’t know if I can drink that. I think I stepped over a puddle of it when I was in the barnyard a couple of minutes ago.”

I felt his pain.

Even though I had seen her mix it and knew what it contained.

Thinking back, Martha Stewart could have learned a lot from my friend Debbie.

Perhaps a good thing they never met.

Bringing Families Closer - One Dance At a Time

Husby and our Middle Son, Duffy.
Spinning music.

Every weekend for over twenty years, Mikey’s Music Machine entertained groups of families.

It was a DJ company.

Catering particularly to school, church, community or reunion groups.

My Husby spun the music and the kids and I danced.

Teaching as we went.

Everything from the old time Virginia Reel, Butterfly and Schottische to the modern line dances.

What our family did, other families followed.

It was . . . marvelous.

Through the years, we had many, many wonderful experiences.

But one stands out.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had been booked by a school in Canmore, Alberta.

Near Banff.

We were setting up.

A matter of twenty minutes or so.

During that time, a man stood watching us.

Finally, he approached.

“This’ll be a fun evening,” he said sarcastically. “Why on earth did the school invite the kids?” His mouth twisted. “How can the adults have any fun if there are kids running around?”

I stared at him.

Mikey’s was all about adults and kids.

Having fun - together.

How could I answer that?

“Ummm . . . we encourage the parents and children to dance together,” I said.

He snorted. “Oh, that’ll be fun!”

He walked away.

I turned and continued to run wires.

A few minutes later, a young girl (about 10 or so) came up.

“Well this dance is going to be a total loss,” she said.

I looked at her. “Really?”

What else could I say?

“Well, we’re not going to be able to have any fun with all of the parents here!”

Her lip curled daintily over the word, ‘parents’.

“Oh, well, we’ve found that, actually you can have lots of fun,” I said, trying to be hopeful.

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

I finished what I was doing.

And walked over to my Husby.

“This is going to be a tough crowd,” I whispered into his ear.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve already had two complaints and we haven’t even started yet.”

He grinned. “Let’s change attitudes, shall we?”

He flipped the switch.

My kids and I walked to the middle of the gym and started dancing.

Usually, we had the dance floor to ourselves for that first song, our Mikey’s Music signature song.

Grant spoke over the music, explaining, briefly, how the evening would go.

Then he moved into the Twist.

The first of many contests for the evening.

“Okay” he said, his voice loud over the speakers, “Now this is a dance that everyone knows. The Twist! It’s also a contest song. We will give a prize to the family (he emphasized the word) who can do the very best twist!”

I should point out that we usually gave away suckers and other wrapped candies.

People would dance themselves silly for one.

Moving on . . .

The floor was immediately crowded.

Families forming small groups, all twisting madly to earn a prize.

The song ended.

The prizes awarded.

And Grant moved into our second contest of the evening.

It began by teaching everyone the Old Time Waltz.

“Okay grab a partner for this one. Once we learn this dance, we’ll have another contest. All you have to do is count: one, two three; one, two three!”

My kids and I were already demonstrating.

People watched for a moment.

Then joined in.

The song ended and they were ready for the contest, which began with each couple receiving a sheet of newspaper and spreading it out on the floor.

“Now all we want you to do is dance the Old Time Waltz on the newspaper,” Grant would say cheerfully. “Carefully! There are no prizes for torn papers!”

Okay. That’s easy.

They began.

The music floated around for a few moments. A Strauss Waltz.

Happily, the couples, mostly a parent and a child, danced carefully on their piece of newspaper.

Grant stopped the music and everyone looked at him.

“I forgot to tell you one last thing,” he said. “When I stop the music, you have to jump quickly off your paper . . .”

People did so.

“. . . and fold it in half.”

A groan from the crowd, then laughter as they complied.

“Now hop back on and we’ll dance some more!”

Everyone continued to dance on a rapidly shrinking ‘dance floor’.

“There are no rules,” Grant added, “other than both of you have to be on that piece of paper. No heels or toes can touch the floor!”

People got more and more creative. Usually resorting to one carrying the other, or employing other supporters to . . . support.

Slowly, couples dropped out as they succumbed to gravity.

The awards were given.

And Grant drifted into another old time dance, the Heel-Toe Polka.

And that’s when we got our touching surprise.

Remember the man who had approached us as we were setting up?

And the girl?

The two of them danced past me at this point.

Together.

Working out the steps to the polka and laughing.

I watched them go by, then glanced at my Husby and raised my eyebrows.

He looked at them and grinned.

That father and that daughter spent the rest of the evening on the dance floor.

Together.

I will never forget the look on their faces as they, perhaps for the first time, became friends.

Mikey’s Music Machine.

We had so much fun and created so many memories.

For so many reasons.

You Can Dress Them Up, But . . .

Everybody repeat after me: Mmmmmmm!

I was kicked out of a restaurant.

Once.

Oh, not literally.

It was more a politely-worded, “Would you please leave.”

But it amounted to the same thing.

Only with less violence.

But it was the irony of the situation that’s most memorable.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I were out with a group of family/friends.

All parents.

I thought I should point that out.

Moving on . . .

We had just finished a lively dinner and were working our way through an equally lively dessert.

I probably should also explain that we were dining at that greatest of all restaurants, the A & W.

And that we were the only grown-ups in the whole building.

Just FYI.

Someone said something that was laudable (good word).

I can’t remember what it was, but it was definitely toast-worthy.

We all lifted our glass mugs of frosty-cold root beer in the traditional manner.

As seen on TV.

“To­­­_______!”

Like I say, I can’t remember what it was.

The pertinent point comes now.

With the gentle clicking together of said glasses/mugs.

Something none of us had ever done before.

Did you know that, to the uninitiated, the touching of glasses in a toast is tricky?

Well, it is.

The person across from me swung her drink back and . . .

Really? You have to swing?

 . . . jammed it into mine.

Two hefty (guaranteed unbreakable) glasses . . . broke.

Amidst applause, laughter, and liberal dousing.

And then the ironic part.

Suddenly, standing beside our table was a young woman.

A very young woman.

We’re talking . . . thirteen? Fourteen?

Silence settled across the table as each of us turned to stare.

“I’m sorry, but you are disturbing the other customers,” she said, firmly. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I looked around the room.

Every teen-ager in the place was looking at us.

Disgust uppermost in every expression.

Ahem.

We left.

Quietly.

What else could we do when popular opinion, under-aged though it was, stood so squarely (and justifiably) against us?

Sometimes even parents need correcting.

Embarrassment ensues.

But lessons learned.

Spare! - or - When the Supervision gets Lax, the Creative get . . . Creative

What did you do during Spare?

Spare.

The best part of the school day.

The period when one catches  up on things.

Gossip.

Flirting.

Sleep.

Okay, I admit it, one could even catch up on school work.

If one was so inclined.

I, however . . . never mind.

In Junior high, Spare was always supervised.

Nominally.

For the supervising teacher, it was also a time to catch up on things.

Reading.

Marking papers.

Sleep.

The class would steadily grow noisier and more unruly.

Until things reached a certain pitch.

The teacher would look up. “Okay class. Settle down!”

And the whole process would start over.

One time, the teacher had just lifted her head.

But before she could utter the fateful, silencing words, another teacher (obviously misled by the noise level), appeared in the doorway.

“Who’s babysitting you guys!” she demanded.

Loudly.

Then realized that her friend and fellow teacher was properly seated at the ‘supervisory’ post.

Oops.

As we got older, supervision became more and more . . . Slapdash? Haphazard? Cursory? Superficial?

I’m going to go with Non-existent.

We were required to police ourselves.

It wasn’t too bad.

By this point, there were several of my classmates who actually wanted to finish their homework.

Weird.

They would shush us if we got too noisy.

Kill-joys.

But we had nothing on my Dad’s class.

Oh, they weren’t noisy.

Or unruly.

Just . . . creative.

Case in point:

A girl in Spare was reading the newspaper.

For those of you in the virtual world who are unfamiliar with the word ’newspaper’, it was a collection of news and advertising, published daily, and printed on very large sheets of paper.

The girl was engrossed in an article in the top right-hand corner.

Her absorption left the entire bottom half of the paper unguarded.

Normally, not cause for concern.

But, remember – Dad was in the room.

As she read, he approached quietly.

And, squatting down beside her, lit the bottom left corner of her paper on fire.

Yes.

On fire.

So . . . creative, he definitely was.

Cautious?

Not so much.

The girl soon realized that something was amiss.

She glanced down.

Her paper was rapidly being consumed.

She blew on the flames a couple of times.

Then dropped the paper and stomped them out.

Spare.

The best part of the school day.

For so many reasons.

More of Mark's Marks

Dad was attending school in Glenwood Alberta.

Sixth grade.

The school building had been constructed when there were far less students.

Every available space was pressed into service.

Every available space.

Dad and his classmates were meeting in what had originally been the foyer.

The big front doors had been fastened shut and covered with several layers of ‘train car paper’.

I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds tough.

And durable.

An eminently suitable to serve as a wall in a school.

Not.

Dad and his friend were seated at the back of the classroom.

Against what was once the front of the school.

They had finished their work.

And they were boys.

Mischief was indicated.

But Dad was still smarting from his last escapade.

He decided to keep said mischief to a manageable level.

He and his friend commenced playing Tic-Tac-Toe.

On the wall.

Okay, it seemed reasonable to them.

Moving on . . .

After several games, the teacher looked up.

“Boys, what on earth are you doing?”

Dad looked at the wall.

Then back at the teacher.

Wasn’t it obvious?

“I want the two of you to stay after school and erase every one of those marks!”

Dad and his friend sighed.

But obeyed.

The classroom emptied.

Dad worked diligently with his eraser.

This was going to take forever!

Why does something that takes such a short time to do, take such a long time to undo?

He wore a spot in the paper.

And realized there was clean paper underneath.

Hmmm.

Dad glanced around.

The teacher had left with the rest of the students.

Dad pulled at the little hole.

The paper came away easily.

Leaving a clean, unmarked surface.

He and his friend worked quickly.

Stripping away every inch of the soiled paper.

And disposing of it in the stove.

The wall stretched before them.

Pristine.

A clean-sounding word.

And clean was what he wanted.

He dusted his hands as the teacher came back into the room.

“All done, teacher,” he sang out.

She looked surprised.

Then walked to the back of the class and inspected the wall closely.

She shook her head and then smiled at them. “Well done, boys!” she said. “You may leave.”

Dad and his friend wasted no time.

Their crime was never discovered.

But they were careful not to mark the wall again.

Life provides just so many ‘do-overs’.

Better not to push your luck.

Thirty years later.
And still full of mischief . . .

Baby Named? Just a Starting Point . . .

'The Beanster'.
And a friend.

We had a good friend, Peter.

Whose parents, when he was small, called him Petey-Pie.

He thought that was his name.

Petey-Pie.

On his first day of school, there was some heated discussion about what name he should respond to.

The teacher won.

And Peter, he became.

I thought Petey-Pie was a cute name.

I used it.

Often.

To the point where he regretted telling my husby and me the story.

Moving ahead . . .

We had given our first daughter a very nice name when she was born.

Caitlin Diane.

Very nice.

It suited her.

Until she started getting around.

Unlike most toddlers, who . . . toddle . . .

 . . . she hopped.

Everywhere she went.

My Husby began to call her ’Tigger-Pie’.

It suited her.

Thus, she became Caitlin ‘Tigger-Pie’ Tolley.

Until it was time to prepare her for her first day of school.

Remember Petey-Pie?

Those lessons would apply here.

We had been careful to make sure our little daughter knew her first name was ‘Caitlin’.

But we hadn’t realized that she now thought her middle name was ‘Tigger-Pie’.

Sigh.

For weeks, I tried to explain to her, “Caitlin Diane Tolley.”

To which she would respond.

Loudly.

“Not Diane! Tigger-Pie!”

Drat.

She finally figured it out.

Slowly.

Recently, I saw her little daughter, Erini (also know as ‘Rini-Bean’, or ‘Beanster’ for short) hopping across the room.

“Wow.” I said. “Beanster, you remind me of your mother!”

She laughed.

And then I realized what I had said.

Sigh.

Here we go again . . .

My Second Novel!

Read the first Chapter!

My second 'traditional' novel has been announced!

Kris Kringle's Magic, from Cedar Fort Publishing, will hit store shelves in October.
It is the story of the boy who became the man . . .
. . . and then the legend.
Have you ever wondered how Santa Claus ended up at the north pole?
With Elves?
Magic tells the whole story.
Through the eyes of his wife, Rebecca, it describes the fatherless boy who spent his life righting wrongs.
Helping the helpless.
Feeding the hungry.
Fighting injustice and prejudice.
Caring for those in need.
And in a final bid for freedom and peace, following those he loves to the vast, untouched wilderness that is the north pole.
It is a story of love.
Of friendship.
Of family.
A perfect Christmas story.
Watch for it in October!

At finer bookstores.
Or on Amazon and B&N.

Making His Mark . . . So to Speak

The scene of the crime
University of Guelph
Notice the tower in the back.
That's all. Just notice it . . .

I don’t want you to get the idea that my Dad, Mark Stringam, was a trouble- maker.

Okay, maybe I do.

Dad was a trouble-maker.

I think it had something to do with being born on April 1.

If the theory that ‘the day makes the child’ means anything.

Okay, yes, I just made that theory up.

Moving on . . .

So Dad was born on April 1 and thought it was as good an excuse as any to be . . . mischievous.

His pranks at home and in grade school are many.

And varied.

And will be dealt with in future blogs.

This story is about a prank from his college years.

One where foresight would have been helpful.

Another of his smellier pranks is illustrated here.

Back to my story.

Dad went to Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph.

Named for the beautiful province of Ontario, where it resided.

Okay, so creative naming wasn’t their strong suit.

It was an excellent college.

It managed to take a young goof-ball.

And turn him into a learned, young goof-ball.

Don’t tell him I said that . . .

He graduated in 1948.

It was a date worth celebrating.

So his classmates did.

With bottles and glasses of things alcoholic.

But Dad didn’t drink.

He had to get creative and endanger himself in a whole different way.

Something he accomplished by hanging (with a couple of friends) from the water tower and painting a large ‘Grad 48’ on the side.

Dad’s 'celebrating' could be seen for miles.

He was very proud.

Not everyone saw the beauty and creativity in Dad’s accomplishment, however.

There were words.

Loudly and irately spoken.

By people in authority.

Which Dad ignored.

And then a team of steeplejacks was brought in from Toronto to paint out his sign.

And obliterate what the management considered his lack of creative and artistic talent.

Pfff. What does management know?

Dad watched the men clamber around on the tower.

Taking hours to do what had only taken him minutes.

But he learned something:

1.      1.   Jobs requiring you to dangle 100 feet off the ground should be undertaken with safety apparatus.

2.      2.  Any job worth doing is worth doing well.

3.      3.   Steeplejacks make more money than veterinarians.

Oh, I’m not saying he internalized what he learned.

He just had fun learning it.

Sing We Now While Camping -or - What is your family's most annoying camp song?

'Slithery-Dee'
With grandchildren

Our family was camping.

With our good friends, the Boyd family.

Something we have done every year.

For the past 24 years.

Rain or shine.

Usually rain.

It involves work.

Setting up trailers and tents for nearly thirty people inevitably includes some sort of exertion.

1.      1.  There is the usual ‘tarp wars’.

Won by whichever family can set up the best, tightest, most wrinkle-free campsite covering.

2.      2.  The leveling of the tents/trailers.

Highly important if some members of the tribe are susceptible to headache.

Inevitably brought on by sleeping with one’s head tilted below one’s feet.

3.      3.  And the choosing of the ‘Boydolley’ camp song.

This is very important.

It has to be the most aggravating, annoying, ‘stick in your head’ song imaginable.

We’ve had such treasures as: ‘Oh, How I Love to Stand’.

And: ‘Hi! My Name is Joe!’

Plus the ever-popular: ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Non-Alcoholic Beverage on the Wall’.

And who can forget: ‘Jon Jonson’?

Seriously, who can forget it . . .?

And then there’s the year that the Grandkids were finally old enough to get involved.

And vote.

What did they choose?

What classic would take its rightful place in history?

Was it something momentous?

Heart-warming?

No.

It was ‘Slithery Dee’.

The classic song featuring a monster that comes out of the sea and eats everyone.

Perfect camp fare.

For a family camped beside a lake.

Moving on . . .

There were various versions.

Depending largely on the age and capability of the singer.

Megan, the eldest could sing it quite well, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”

Right behind her was Kyra, “Oh, Swivery-Dee!”

And then there was the youngest talker, Odin, “Oh, Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee!”

They sang it by the hour.

And I do mean By. The. Hour.

Until . . . THE EVENT.

It was early afternoon.

Lunch had just finished.

Grandma (me) was lying on the bed in our tent trailer, telling stories to as many of the grandkids as would lay there and listen.

At nearest count – several.

Then they asked to sing ‘Slithery-Dee’.

Sigh.

I complied.

We were just getting through the first verse, wherein (good word) Megan had been eaten.

Then we were interrupted.

I should tell you, here, that our little tent trailer consists of a central square block.

With three wings/beds.

Each wing is covered by the main canvas, which hooks under said wing.

Canvas that can be . . . unhooked.

Without the person, or persons, on the wing knowing anything about it.

Back to my story . . .

Where were we?

Oh, yes.

End of first verse.

Unbeknownst (another good word!) to us, my Husby had unhooked the canvas immediately below us.

Just as we started to sing, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”, a hand and arm reached up through the wall of the trailer and grabbed the nearest grandchild.

Who promptly screamed.

Inciting an immediate riot.

Grandma and grandchildren boiled out of the trailer like angry bees.

Then, realizing what had happened, started to laugh.

After we beat on Grandpa.

Camping.

Every minute a new adventure.

What does your camp song do for you?

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badgers!

Yes

No

The Stringam ranch sprawled out over many, many miles.

And took many hands to cover.

My Dad was twelve.

He had happily joined the ranks of the ranch-employed.

Aboard the first horse he could truly call his own.

The recently-broke and still fairly green, Queenie.

His pride and joy.

His first assignment was to keep an eye on the bulls.

I should point out, here, that the bulls were kept in the South pasture.

A vast, open field which went on forever.

With an outer fence that also went on forever.

Back to my story . . .

This fence had to be constantly patrolled.

On the other side of it were the Community Pastures.

Filled with . . . community cattle.

All female.

And none pregnant.

A state which their owners wanted to continue.

So someone had to explain to the bulls that any form of interaction was distinctly discouraged.

Hourly.

This was Dad's job. Make sure that the fence was doing its job.

Keeping the heifers on the one side . . .

And the bulls on the other.

But bulls are, after all, bulls.

And when the siren song goes off in their vicinity, they must answer.

With voice and/or action.

Usually action.

What's a paltry five lines of tightly-stretched barbed wire when love is calling to you from the other side?

Nothing.

They would ignore it as if it wasn't there.

And that's where Dad came in.

At a gallop.

Chase the bulls back.

Fix the fence.

He got pretty good at his job.

One day, he was riding along the fence.

Everything was calm.

Then, something moved.

A brown head poked up out of the great sea of grass.

A brown head with darker brown stripes.

A badger.

Dad had never seen a badger close up.

He turned Queenie towards it.

It turned away from them and started off across the prairie.

They followed.

It ran faster.

They pursued faster.

After a few minutes of this, the badger had had enough . . . umm . . . badgering.

So to speak.

He turned and attacked.

Well. Hissed.

At this point, Queenie decided she was finished with this adventure.

Dad could go it alone.

She dropped him, forceably, into the prairie dust.

And left him there.

Dad screamed and jumped to his feet.

Certain that his beloved horse had landed him on the badger.

Or that said badger was almost on him.

He pictured teeth and claws.

And ravening.

He wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded nasty.

He looked frantically around.

Nothing.

The badger had disappeared completely.

He took a deep breath of relief.

Then recovered his horse and continued with his job.

Dad decided, then and there, that the only four-footed animals he and Queenie would chase would be the big ones with hoofs.

And horns.

They were safer.

Enes Berg Stringam: In Memorium

Mom
January 6, 1924 to April 9, 2002

My Mom was raised on a ranch in Southern Alberta.

Near Brooks.

She was the only daughter of Ellen and Petrus Berg.

And only sister to eight brothers.

She thrived on their ranch.

Then she married my Dad.

And moved to the Stringam Ranch.

Where she continued to thrive.

Even with feeding ranch hands.

Having six babies.

Cleaning, gardening, cooking, baking, sewing, driving, preserving, chore-ing, wife-ing, mother-ing.

And everything in between.

She was a marvel of ingenuity.

A tower of strength.

And a fountain of energy.

And then, after she had raised her kids and was finally ready to relax and realize her fondest dream – to spend her time writing – she got sick.

Parkinson's.

The same disease that finally claimed her father's life.

She was devastated.

But only for a while.

With her usual grit, determination and courage, she started a Parkinson's work-out group.

And a Parkinson's support group.

Which she continued to shepherd while her disease slowly overtook her.

Finally, as her condition deepened, hospitalization was required.

And she was forced to let go.

Dad placed her in a care facility in Taber, Alberta.

The finest he could find.

Then he took an apartment a block away so he could be with her every day.

Because dinner together at the end of the day was a family tradition.

And he wasn't about to let something as paltry as Parkinson's disturb that.

For several years, they continued in this manner.

Mom, slowly slipping away.

Dad attentive.

The staff of the home watching over them both.

Then, one day, Mom refused to eat.

And shortly after that, slipped quietly into a coma.

Slowly, the family gathered to say our final 'See you soon!'.

We stood beside her bed and clasped her hand.

Held her and held each other.

Then, as always happens in the Stringam family, as the minutes ticked by, we started telling stories.

And laughing.

Something Mom loved.

And, as though that was the signal she had been waiting for, Mom slipped away.

Leaving us with her sweet memory.

There is an addendum:

Dad had chosen the best care for his beloved that he could find.

And he had done well.

The people in the home were kind and attentive to Mom.

Carefully caring for her every need.

Right up until the last.

Even as she lay in a coma, and everyone knew the inevitable outcome, they made sure of her comfort.

Lying in her bed, Mom had rubbed a small sore on her heel.

Her caregiver said, “Well, that can't be comfortable. Let's fix it.”

And she proceeded to place a small, round band-aid on the aged heel.

This was a woman in a coma.

Seemingly oblivious to everything and everyone around her.

And yet, her care-givers were concerned for her comfort.

Later, when my sisters and I were dressing her for her funeral, we noticed that little band-aid.

We left it.

A symbol of the love and care we all felt for our mother.

It's been ten years today since Mom left us.

We miss her.

Thinking of you, Mom.

Only the Nose Knows

Caution: Disgusting nose action

Markie: He of the cute little nose . . .

I'm a good mother.

I am.

Or I thought I was.

It was a normal day in our world.

Husby off to school.

Baby fed and napping.

Toddler in his chair, eating breakfast.

I would add sunshine streaming in through the freshly-cleaned and gleaming windows.

And a canary singing cheerfully in the background, but that would stretch reality.

And we want this to be believable.

Right?

Moving on . . .

I turned to get another spoonful of cream-of-wheat.

Just as Markie sneezed.

I turned back.

Something was sticking out of his little nose.

Something long and . . . squarish.

A french fry.

What???!

How on earth did he get a french fry up his nose.

And without either his father or I seeing it?!

And, even more importantly . . .

HOW LONG HAD IT BEEN THERE???

I suddenly felt like the world's worst mom.

My little boy had somehow shoved a french fry up his nose, in plain view of both his father and I and we had missed it.

How do you spell 'inattentive'?

I pulled it out.

My boy survived the operation.

And cheerfully continued with his breakfast.

Little monkey.

But I've never quite been able to look a french fry in the face since.

So to speak.

Stress and Soffit - or - Is There Such a Thing as Sleep-Carpentry?

Happiness

Shortly after we were married, Grant took a job as foreman at a housing plant.

Where they built pre-fabricated homes.

He was good at his job.

And it was two minutes from where we lived.

He was home for lunch every day.

As well as for breakfast and dinner.

For his new bride, life was perfect.

For the man actually going out to work . . .

It wasn't.

The job was very stressful.

Many bosses.

Several without any knowledge of building.

Any knowledge.

He carried on.

For two years.

He had a family to feed.

But the stress started to tell.

He developed health issues.

And stopped sleeping.

That's when he started making noises about going to school.

Grant had been in school when we started dating, but had quit to take a job after we were married.

Now, he realized that he had made a mistake and wanted to correct it.

I was unconvinced.

How would we provide for ourselves if we had no income?

So he continued on.

Growing more and more unhappy.

And sleeping less and less.

One time, he suddenly snorted, sat up on the edge of the bed and started getting dressed.

“Honey, where are you going?” I asked. “It's 4 AM.”

He jumped and looked around. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

He pulled off his shirt, lay back down, and was instantly snoring.

Is there a term for sleep-dressing?

Probably . . . sleep-dressing.

Moving on . . .

One night, around 3 AM, I was sleeping quietly.

Suddenly, Grant shot up in bed, grabbed me by the collar of my pyjamas, pulled me to a sitting position in the bed and shouted, “You hold the ladder! I'll nail the soffit!”

My sleep-fogged brain vaguely discerned that these were 'house-building' terms.

“Honey, you're dreaming,” I said, rather shakily. “Go back to sleep.”

He wasn't to be deterred.

He shook me slightly. “Okay?!”

“Okay!” I said.

“Good.” He dropped me and flopped back onto the bed.

Seconds later, I could hear his soft snore.

He had been asleep the whole time.

I, however, would probably never sleep again.

I was finally convinced.

Grant went back to school.

He studied History, Arts and Anthropology.

Finally achieving a doctorate.

His health instantly improved.

As did his sleeping habits.

He no longer sleep-dressed.

Or roughed up his wife.

And you can bet that the installation of any soffit was in broad daylight.

With real hammers.

And real soffit, for that matter.

Going back to school was a good decision.

Though with two tiny babies and a wife to feed, it had seemed anything but.

It just took some convincing of said wife.

Fortunately, he was a good convince-er.

Hmmm.

Sometimes, I wonder if he was really asleep . . .

Angels Among Us

There are angels around us.

And they appear in the unlikeliest places.

When they are most needed . . .

Our family had fallen on hard times.

It happens to everyone.

It was our turn.

My Husby had been out of work for some time.

And it looked as though he would remain out of work for some time more.

We were 'economizing'.

We had given up everything that was not strictly necessary.

Cable.

Restaurants.

Entertainment.

Shopping.

And we were living off our food storage.

The last thing I wanted to give up . . . and indeed the last thing I did give up was our milk deliveries.

The thought of living on skim milk powder from our storage was . . . how can I say this tactfully . . . horrifying.

But we were about to do it.

Sigh.

Our milkman, John, was a very nice man.

Friendly.

Smart.

Attentive.

And no, none of our kids look like him.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

I dreaded telling him that this next delivery would be our last.

But our precious store of capital was rapidly dwindling, despite our best efforts.

And the job had to be done.

He arrived, carrying our order of milk, cheese and cream.

And I told him, tearfully, that we couldn't afford deliveries any longer.

He just grinned and handed me a note.

It read: “Happy birthday . . . or something . . . for the next four months.”

I stared at it.

Then at John.

What on earth did it mean?

“Someone has paid for your milk deliveries for the next four months,” he said, finally.

“What?”

Okay, so quick, I'm not.

“Someone has taken over paying your milk bill for the next four months.”

“Who?”

His grin widened. “I can't tell you.”

“What?”

Sigh. Some people are slow.

“I can't tell you,” he repeated patiently. “Someone, who wishes to remain anonymous, has asked that your bill be forwarded to them for the next four months.”

“It was you, wasn't it, John.”

It was more a statement than a question.

He laughed. “I can absolutely guarantee that it was not me,” he said. “Cross my heart.”

I stared at him suspiciously for a few minutes.

Then finally took the carton of dairy products from him and allowed him to carry on with his route.

And that's when the tears started.

Who knew that we were having such difficulties?

And, more importantly, who cared enough to do this for us?

Moving ahead four months . . .

My Husby once more happily employed and a steady trickle of money flowing into the family coffers, I took my last free delivery of milk.

And was happy to tell John that deliveries could continue.

On our nickle.

I never did find out who our Good Samaritan was.

They had swooped in and helped.

Just when they were needed.

Then swooped out again.

Faceless.

Nameless.

But definitely not heartless.

To my Angel, and you know who you are . . . THANK YOU!

Angels Among Us by Alabama

War and Chocolate for Dessert

How do you relax after dinner?

Okay, I admit it.

Our family is weird.

We like theatrics.

And things medieval.

Case in point:

My husband has a collection of catapults.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Catapults.

He loves them.

Oh, they're not large enough to cause havoc.

And certainly not of a size to terrorize the neighbourhood.

Although I wouldn't mention that to him.

It might give him ideas.

Moving on . . .

No. His catapults are small.

Suitable for launching little, foil-wrapped chocolates.

Which he does.

Usually after family meals.

Our family is large.

And we have two tables in our dining room.

One round table, built by my Husby and seen here.

And one smaller table, also built by my Husby, which seats all of the grandchildren.

It is to this smaller table that he retreats after the meal is done.

With his grandkids, his catapults and his stockpile of chocolate balls.

Which he and his little army then proceed to fire at anyone left sitting at the main table.

Remember when I mentioned 'weird'?

That would apply here.

I should point out that the balls of chocolate don't hurt.

The little catapults barely throw them with sufficient force to get them to the other table.

Back to my story . . .

The usual targets of the invading hoards are their wife and/or mothers and/or grandmother.

Who have all learned to duck when needed.

I should also mention that, perhaps fortunately, their aim isn't great.

One day, we had just finished one of Grandpa's sumptuous feasts and he and assorted grandchildren had set up a siege at the kid's table.

Several of the moms were still sitting at the main table.

Visiting.

One of our granddaughters, five-year-old Kyra, came to tell her mother something.

Her timing was . . . unfortunate.

She had placed herself right in the line of fire.

So to speak.

A chocolate ball whizzed towards her.

With unusual, but deadly precision.

Thock!

Right in the forehead.

She gasped and clapped one hand over the spot.

Everyone burst out laughing.

She wavered between laughter and tears for a few seconds.

Then her mother told her that she got to eat the offending chocolate ball.

And any thought of tears was forgotten.

She hunted for, and ate, the treat.

Happily.

Then disappeared.

A few minutes later, she was back.

“Mom, can I have another chocolate ball?”

Her mother looked at her. “You have to let Grampa shoot one at you first.”

“Oh.”

She thought about that for a moment.

Then she put both hands, palms out, over her forehead and stood up tall. “Okay, Grampa! I'm ready!”

Bravery.

It comes in all shapes and sizes.

And ages.

But never more noticeable than in a weird family.

Warming Up Winter

One of the 4-H'ers. With calf.
The 4-H'er is holding the halter. It's the calf who's wearing it.
Just FYI.

The Milk River 4H Beef Club was the brain-child of my Dad.
He lived in an agricultural area.
Where most of the families earned their living either farming or ranching.
The training up of the next generation seemed like a good idea.
He approached the powers that be.
Then convinced the powers that be.
And the club was formed.
With eleven new members.
Calves were purchased.
Things were underway.
Then the man who had given permission decided to make a visit to his newest club.
A tour was organized for his benefit.
But on a school day.
The parents were delegated to show the official around.
Accompanied by my dad and Dad's two assistants.
It was a cold day in December.
They had visited several farms and were about to get into their vehicles after seeing one more.
The farmer, seeing that they were a bit chilled, reached behind the seat of his truck and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
"This'll warm you a bit!"
He handed the bottle, first, to Dad.
"Thanks, but I don't drink," Dad said, passing the bottle on to the next fellow.
Who happened to be the official.
"Well, we government officials aren't allowed to drink," the man said. "But since Mark doesn't drink, I'll drink his drink."
He took a swig.
Then handed the bottle to the next man.
Finally, the bottle made its way around the little group and back to the official.
"Oh. Does Mark take two?" the man asked, taking another sip. "Well, he is a glutton, isn't he?"
4-H.
Warming, memorable, educational and satisfying.
On so many levels.

"Sing it, Sam"

Oh, please! Not that song again!

I grew up on a large old Southern Alberta ranch.

Among cattle, horses and hired men.

I loved it.

I spent many happy hours riding (or sleeping) on the horses.

Chasing the barn cats.

Catching mice.

Wandering through the corrals and feed lots.

Or my favourite, watching the hired men.

It was while doing the last, that I received both my nickname and my signature song.

Let me tell you about it . . .

The Stringam Ranch generally employed six or more hired men.

They worked hard.

Wrangling cattle.

Breaking horses.

Fencing.

Doing one of the myriad tasks that were ranching.

But, inevitably, each job included one extra task.

Watching over Diane.

I don't want to say that I was always under foot but . . .

Okay. I was always under foot.

When they were in the corral with the horses, I was perched on the fence.

When they were milking the cows, I was sitting on one of the empty stools.

Nearby.

When they were hauling hay, I was in the cab of the truck, nose pressed against the back window.

Yep. If anything was happening, you can bet Diane was in the middle of it.

I should point out, here, that these men were good men.

Hard working.

Dependable.

A bit rough around the edges.

But that I never heard one curse word from any of them.

Ever.

Looking back, I'm sure they knew these words.

They just never used them around me.

Believe me, I would have repeated anything I heard.

Moving on . . .

It must have been a trifle . . . inconvenient . . . having the boss' four-year-old daughter always under foot.

They never complained.

In fact, they even had a nickname for me.

Danny.

Which I loved.

And gave me my very own song, “Danny Boy”.

Which I didn't.

I'm not sure who was the first to discover this song.

Or my aversion to it.

But the word quickly spread.

Soon, whenever I would appear, someone would begin singing, “Oh, Danny boy! The pipes, the pipes are calling . . .”

Whereupon (good word) I would cover both of my ears and scream, “Noooooo!”

Then run away.

It was magical.

Not one word need be said.

And they could continue their work in peace.

Genius.

Moving forward thirty years.

When my youngest son, Tristan was born, he was our 'Little Warty Boy'.

I'm not sure who came up with this.

Or why.

He didn't have warts or anything.

It just seemed to fit.

He even got a song. (Sung to the tune of 'Surfer Girl')

“Little tiny warty boy,

Fills my heart with so much joy.

Do you love me,

Little Warty Boy?”

We sang this for years.

Until he was about four and abruptly developed an aversion to it.

Suddenly, he began covering his ears and screaming, “Noooooo!” whenever someone started singing.

Huh.

I felt his pain.

Daddy

My Dad was born 87 years ago today.

This post is for him . . .

Daddy, Me and an interloper my brother, George

Dad and Mom had decided to move our family into our town house.

To save Mom some of the driving duties.

But my Dad was the lone veterinarian in the Milk River area.

His practice covered may hundreds of square miles.

A lot of ground.

Add to that, his own ranching duties and the requirements of a husband and father.

'Busy' would have been a vast understatement.

He did it all.

But sacrifice was required.

Usually in the form of early and late hours spent away from his family.

And now, with his family ensconced in the house in town, Dad had even more time away from us.

Oh, we saw him occasionally.

Just not often enough.

I missed him.

He was the centre of my four-year-old world.

Town life was also difficult in other ways.

When we were living on the ranch, we had no neighbours.

Other than those employed there.

Living in town, we did.

Have neighbours.

And we discovered that those neighbours observed eachother's actions.

Weird.

They noticed when Dad left the house at 4 AM.

And returned sometime after midnight.

On occasion, they commented . . .

It was a beautiful, sunny summer day.

Saturday.

Early afternoon.

I should have been napping.

But had escaped as soon as Mom had dozed off.

I was playing happily in the yard with other kids from the neighbourhood.

I'm not sure what we were doing.

Probably something we shouldn't.

A truck came down the street.

A familiar truck.

I stared at it.

Then squealed happily and ran towards the drive way.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

As soon as he stepped from the vehicle, I launched myself at him.

Still screaming happily.

He scooped me up for a big hug.

Then, carrying me, started to walk towards the house.

Our neighbour was standing on his driveway.

Dad looked at him. “You'd think she was happy to see me,” he said.

“I'm surprised she knows you!” came the response.

Yep.

Town life.

With neighbours.

Who can be counted on for anything.

Especially pointing out our shortcomings.