Grooming - Not for the Faint of Heart

Oh, sure. It looks harmless enough now . . .

Washing and scrubbing and blow-drying and trimming.

And brushing and brushing and brushing.

And shaving.

And trimming again.

And no, this isn't the local hairdressing salon on Prom day.

It's the local barn, as the local ranchers get their cattle ready for show.

Oh, there are a few differences.

The cattle have hair in more places, for one thing.

They are a fair amount larger.

They seldom cooperate.

And said grooming is sometimes dangerous.

Not things the average hairdresser worries about.

Moving on . . .

The first thing that must be accomplished before grooming can begin, is to restrain them.

Oddly enough, most cattle don't like the idea of getting wet.

And soapy.

And they like, even less, the sound of electrical gadgets in their vicinity.

They tend to head for the nearest far-away place.

With enthusiasm.

Thus, the restraint.

On the Stringam Ranch, this was accomplished by running them into a 'head-gate'.

A contraption designed to snap shut just behind the head and hold the animal, in an upright position, ready for grooming.

Picture a hairdresser, when she has tilted her patient back over the sink to wash . . .

Okay. Know what? Don't think of a hairdresser at all.

Because none of that applies here.

Back to my story . . .

With the animal thus confined, grooming can begin.

Simple.

But the fact is that when one gets up close and personal with something that outweighs one by 15 times, things can sometimes get . . . interesting.

Case in point:

We were grooming the two-year-old bulls.

For those who might not know, they are the male cattle.

Don't be mislead but their age.

Toddlers, they aren't.

Most of them weigh anywhere from 1500 to 2000 pounds.

Most of that muscle.

And bone.

With just a touch of aggression.

And a bit of stupidity.

I should explain, here, that a head gate works because the animal coming towards it can see daylight through it.

They lunge for what they see as freedom.

Now I'd like you to imagine the force 2000 pounds of solid muscle and bone can create when it is properly motivated.

Force which is brought to a crushing, bruising halt by the solid head gate as it snaps shut.

I know what you're thinking.

Probably best to keep one's hands and feet and appendages out of the way.

I didn't.

Remember the 'dangerous' part?

It comes in here.

Unthinkingly, I had rested my right hand on one of the uprights of the head gate.

And was watching as the next victim customer approached.

With alacrity. (Oooh. Good word!)

The bull hit the gate.

Then, realizing that he couldn't get out that way, immediately pulled back.

It was the pulling back that saved my hand.

Which had been caught between the upright and the metal plate that it snapped against.

Absorbing the entire force from 2000 pounds of mass.

On the run.

If the bull hadn't reacted as he had, my thumb would have been neatly and completely removed.

With surgical precision.

By the sharp, metal plate.

As he reared back, I gasped and jerked my hand away.

Then slumped against the fence as blackness threatened.

Dad looked at me curiously.

Everything had happened so fast that he hadn't seen it.

Wordlessly, I held out my hand.

The imprint of the plate could be plainly seen in the heavy, leather glove that I wore.

Which glove was also instrumental in saving my thumb.

Gently, Dad removed the glove.

As I gasped and swore breathed heavily.

The skin hadn't been broken, though there was a lively line of red where the plate had hit.

I was rushed to emergency, but subsequent x-rays showed that the bones hadn't even been broken.

A miracle.

When the pain and swelling subsided several weeks later, I was left with a numb thumb (something that continued for the next two years), and though the skin hadn't broken, a scar, which I carry to this day.

I learned some valuable things.

1. When a piece of equipment carries the warning: Please keeps hands clear, there's a reason for the warning.
2. Inattention begets injury.

and

3. Two-year-old bulls look just fine the way they are.
4. Fussing not required.
5. Or appreciated

Mom always told me, and I quote, “You have to suffer to be beautiful.”

She never pointed out that I would suffer.

And something else would be beautiful.

I probably should have paid attention.

Cattle Trips and Cookies and Cutlets - or - Me and My Big Mouth

What can I say but Mmmmmm.

My Dad taught me manners.

I was a slow, but well-fed, learner.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Dad and I were on a cattle show tour.

I say, 'we' but I was mostly useless.

I had injured my hand in a grooming accident getting ready for the show.

Don't ask.

The road was long between cities.

Because Alberta is a big place.

But we had eats.

Mostly sweet or salty.

But all yummy.

My Dad's favourite cookies were large marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

I should explain here that sometimes, in Canada in the summer, we have hot days.

I know.

The words 'Canada' and 'hot weather' usually aren't found in the same sentence.

But it's true.

Back to my story . . .

It was hot and stuffy in the truck.

Heat has a rather negative effect on marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

Melts them, quite effectively, into solid lumps of delicious-ness.

It was mid-morning.

We had been on the road since lunch.

It was now about 4:00 pm.

Snacking was indicated.

I dragged out the bag of cookies.

And realized that each row had been fused into one, long cookie.

Except the first row.

From which two were already missing.

I picked up the remaining (rather large) cookie and looked at it.

It could be done.

I shoved it into my mouth and chewed happily.

Then realized that my father was staring at me.

Incredulous (good word).

“Did you just eat that whole cookie?”

“Maybe,” I mumbled through a mouthful of marshmallow/cookie/chocolate delicious-ness. “Who wants to know.”

He just chuckled and shook his head and the matter was dropped.

Or so I thought.

A couple of hours later, we stopped for supper.

I ordered my favourite, veal cutlets.

They arrived.

Two very large cutlets.

With mashed potatoes, vegetables and thick, yummy gravy.

Mmmm.

Remember my injured hand?

Well that comes into play here.

“Daddy, could you please cut my meat for me?”

“Certainly.” Dad grinned and slid my plate over.

Now, anyone familiar with that grin knows that something was being plotted.

Because it was.

He took his knife and fork and sliced each large cutlet down the middle.

Then he slid my plate back in front of me.

I stared at the four very, very large bites.

Then at my Dad

Who was nonchalantly cutting his own meat.

“Dad, how am I supposed to eat that?”

“Well, judging by the bite of cookie you shoved into your mouth a couple of hours ago, those should be just about right,” he said. “Go for it!”

I stuck my tongue out at him and slid my plate back.

“Now cut!”

He laughed and did so.

Etiquette.

It exists, even on a cattle trip.

Who knew?

My Summers as a Ranch Brat

The Overnight bag

Every summer, Dad and an assortment of his children would head out on the 'Cattle Show' circuit.

We hit every major fairground in Alberta.

It was . . . fun.

On the Road

We would truck the chosen animals to the fairgrounds.

Secure our spot in the barns.

Prepare the site. (Fluffing up straw figured largely here.)

Lead in the animals and tie them.

Then set up our tack box and assorted matching equipment and chairs, tables, etc.

Trying to make the entire area as tidy and un-barn-like as possible.

We were ready.

For the next two days, we hauled feed in little rubber tubs.

Buckets of water.

Hay.

And hauled out anything remotely smelly or dirty.

We would wash and brush and blow dry and trim.

Periodically, we would untie one of the animals, lead him or her into a ring and parade around.

Then stand them up and keep them in one place while the judge walked around them.

Poking and prodding.

Frowning seriously.

Before he moved on to the next animal.

Then we paraded around again while he watched.

And we watched him.

Everyone praying that our animal would be the one he slapped.

In a cattle show, slapping is good.

It allowed us to participate in the Parade of Champions.

This was our summer.

Cattle show to cattle show.

The reward.

Feeding, cleaning and trading news with the exhibitors all around us.

Showing cattle.

Taking occasional side trips to the fairway for foot-long hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob.

With the kids who were also exhibiting with their dads.

Life was perfect.

Coffee Row

http://gearheadsncoffeestains.blogspot.ca/2012/04/mouse-trap.html?showComment=1335371219435#c4605473207227993151

A Yarn About Yarn

The store with everything.
At just the right price . . .

Dad was running an errand.

For his mother.

It was 1937 and the family had just recently moved to Lethbridge from Glenwood, Alberta.

He enjoyed the independence of being able to walk the few blocks downtown to the big stores and was happy to have an excuse.

Plus, his mother paid well.

She handed him a quarter and he set out.

A little background . . .

The yarn that his mother wanted him to pick up for her at Woolworths cost fifteen cents.

Which left ten cents change.

All his for running the errand.

Also, the candy store came first on his route.

Moving on . . .

Dad happily calculated how to spend his newfound wealth.

Planning ahead is everything.

Then, bag of candy in hand, he continued on towards Woolworths.

Only to discover that the yarn that his mother had sent him for was now seventeen cents.

He had already spent the change.

He didn’t have enough.

Rats.

Dad looked down at his bag of candy.

No way was the store going to take it back.

And no way he could go back and confess to his mother what he had done.

How to fix this?

He stood outside the store for some time.

Dismay apparent.

Finally someone inside the store next door noticed him and came out.

“Something wrong?”

Dad explained.

“Oh, no problem, we have the same yarn. We’ll sell it to you for fifteen cents.”

Dad stared at them.

Surely his problem wasn’t going to be solved this easily?

But it was.

And in the right colour.

Happily he trotted home.

Clutching both candy and yarn.

I don’t know if his mother ever found out.

She had her yarn.

And Dad had his candy.

All was well.

The part of this story I have a hard time believing is not that someone noticed a forlorn little boy out on the sidewalk of a big city and helped him solve his monumental problem.

No.

It was the fact that yarn cost fifteen cents.

And that he could buy a bag of candy for ten.

The cause of so much trouble . . .

I’d liked to have lived in those days . . . 

Rainy Days and Poker

The incentive
It seemed like a good idea at the time.

We are not gamblers.

We’re not.

But we taught our kids to play poker.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We have a timeshare condo in Banff, Alberta.

Every year, for one week, that beautiful corner of the world is ours.

But, sometimes, it rains.

We don’t mind much.

There is still the swimming pool, where our kids spend 6 hours of the day.

And the cable TV.

A special treat that absorbs another segment.

But for the time usually spent  walking/hiking, we have to get creative.

Board games.

Genius.

Cards.

Even better.

So with a deck of cards and a large bag of Smarties, we set out to teach them poker.

I know. I know.

Hear me out . . .

We had the list from our Rummoli game, so we knew that a flush beats three-of-a-kind, etc.

We were ready.

I don’t know what type of poker we were playing.

It consisted of dealing five cards and having one chance to trade some in.

And then betting Smarties.

I should point out, here, that the ‘chips’ kept getting eaten.

Especially by our five-year-old.

Each hand was dealt.

Cards were traded.

Bets were placed.

Hands were judged.

Smarties were claimed.

Eaten.

And the next hand was dealt.

It was a great way to spend a rainy afternoon.

To make it just that much more fun, the makers of Smarties had come up with something unique.

Purple Smarties with a tiny pair of sunglasses printed on one side.

They weren’t worth more.

Or taste any different.

But they were unique.

And therefor valuable.

Throughout the afternoon, my kids learned such phrases as:

‘Your deal.’

‘Cut the cards.’

‘Full house: aces over threes.’

‘Read ‘em and weep!’

‘Who dealt this stuff?’

And the all-important, ‘Ahhhh! I’m out! I’ve got spit!’.

The latter of which was immortalized by said five-year-old when he walked in the door of his grandmother’s. “Hi, Gramma! We played poker and I had spit!”

Erm . . . yes . . . poker.

That greatest and most educational of all family games . . .

Ruby. Not Your Ordinary Sheepdog.

Our usual Camping buddies
Panda and Chiefy

The Interloper
Okay, I admit it. She's cute.

We raised Old English Sheepdogs.

A wonderful breed.

Shaggy.

Smart.

Protective.

Affectionate.

Did I mention shaggy?

We had raised them for years.

Long enough that anyone remotely connected to us had one of our pups.

Old English Sheepdogs wherever you looked.

A good thing.

Then our close friends bought, in addition to their resident sheepdog, a *gasp* Miniature Schnauzer.

Heathens.

They called her Ruby.

We stared at the wee little mite suspiciously.

Snapping black eyes.

Little black nose.

Little ‘folded-over’ ears.

Okay, we had to admit it, she was cute.

Really cute.

She was accepted.

And immediately took over the household.

Now, I should probably mention here that our dogs went with us camping.

All of our dogs.

And our friends brought their dogs as well.

We usually got campsites adjacent or directly across from each other.

And put down roots.

Now we were accustomed to camping with Sheepdogs.

Who stayed in the campsite.

Even when their family went to the beach without them.

And were seldom/never heard from.

We discovered that a Miniature Schnauzer was . . . different.

For one thing, she had a habit of speaking up when there were strangers walking past.

Or thinking of walking past.

Or breathing . . . somewhere.

And she didn’t like to stay in the campsite.

If chained, she was vociferous in her opinion of families who treated their doggies so.

And, if left unchained, she would disappear.

For the first day, dealing with her was a puzzle.

Not that I pointed out that she was definitely not an OES.

Several times.

Her family soon devised a solution.

They wrapped her leash around a small log.

Which slowed her down.

Notice I didn’t say ‘stopped her’.

No, it just slowed her down.

Enough that her family could keep her in sight.

Now, when they strolled across into our campsite, Ruby would appear a few minutes later, manfully (can I say that about a female dog?) pulling her little log.

“Oh, here’s Ruby,” they would say. “With her log of shame!”

But Ruby learned.

And found her place in our family.

Amongst the sheepdogs.

I don’t know what life would be like without her.

Bunnies in Church

What do you wear to Church?

As a rancher, during the work week, Dad was usually seen in work shirts and pants.

Heavy boots.

Leather gloves.

But on Sundays, all of that changed.

He would appear, dignified and tidy, in 'church' attire.

Suit.

White shirt.

Polished boots.

And a tie.

Usually, Dad chose his own ties.

He had good taste.

Well . . . conservative taste.

No garish patterns.

No fluorescent colours.

Yep. Conservative.

But one of his ties stands out in my memory.

One that . . . wasn't conservative.

It was a quiet, dark tie.

With tiny, white polka-dots.

His favourite.

He wore it for three years.

And that is hilarious.

Maybe I should explain . . .

One day, just after church, I was giving my dad a hug.

Something I did often.

But now I was getting tall enough that his tie and my eyes were pretty much on the same level.

I buried my face in his clean, white shirt.

Then I opened my eyes.

And saw . . . dots.

No . . . wait . . . they weren't dots.

They were . . . something else.

I grabbed his tie and examined it closely.

Huh.

“Dad, do you know what's on this tie?”

“Polka-dots,” came the ready answer.

I lifted the end of the tie up to his face and held it there.

He looked.

Then took the tie from me and looked again.

A bit more carefully.

“Oh,” he said.

That tie he had been wearing for the past three years.

Teaching and/or officiating in church.

Before lots and lots of people.

That tie.

Well, the tiny, regular pattern?

Wasn't polka-dots.

No.

It was playboy bunny heads.

Tiny little white playboy bunny heads.

My dad had been a leader in our local church congregation for three years . . .

Wearing a tie with playboy bunny heads on it.

See? Hilarious.

I think he thought it was funny, too.

But the tie disappeared.

Never to be seen again.

Dad still has quite a collection of ties.

Long.

Cork.

Bow.

Feather.

Bolo.

But not one of them has polka dots.

Real or imagined.

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?