In The Beginning . . . Part 1

Yep. Mine!

Grant didn't have a chance.

Really.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Dad sold the Stringam Ranch in Milk River and bought another ranch in Fort Macleod in the spring of 1974.

We – those of us still living at home - were rather excited.

Alright, yes, it was hard to leave the town where we all grew up.

And where the Stringam's had been a fixture for two generations.

But we were about to meet new people.

Have new experiences.

We packed our boxes and headed out.

I won't describe the move to you.

Mainly because I wasn't there for most of it.

I was studying Journalism at college.

But I managed to show up on weekends.

Mom and Dad worked their usual magic.

And within a few weeks, the Stringam family was officially ensconced in its new digs.

It was a beautiful spot.

In the shadow of the Porcupine Hills.

Just below Head Smashed In buffalo jump.

More about that later . . .

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with Grant.

Especially when he was living in France at the time.

Wait for it . . .

Our family are church-attending folk.

The first Sunday after moving found us standing at the door to our new chapel.

About to meet our new congregation.

It was a time of . . . hesitance?

Excitement?

Doubt?

Exhilaration?

No. I think fear more aptly describes it.

We entered and stood, uncertainly in the foyer.

Hanging on the wall directly across from the door, was a picture frame.

I walked closer.

It was actually a picture of . . . pictures.

Young men, ranged from the top to the bottom in a row.

Twelve of them.

With a country and dates listed beside each name.

The missionaries currently serving from that congregation.

I ran a practised eye down the row.

Hmm . . . pretty cute.

Also pretty cute.

Wow! Most of these guys were gorgeous!

I started at the top again.

This time, I looked a little more closely.

There! I thought to myself.

Third from the top.

That one's mine!

I sounded out his name.

Grant Tolley.

Yep.

Mine.

I studied the information beside his picture.

He was serving a mission in Paris, France.

Cool.

He had been gone six months.

That meant . . . eighteen months before he got home.

I'd be ready by then.

Time passed quickly.

And, suddenly, it was time for Grant to come home.

By this time, I knew his family quite well.

The anticipated Sunday when he was supposed to make his first appearance arrived.

No Grant.

“We've lost him!” his brother told me.

And they had.

Sort of.

Cancelled flights.

And a night's stay in New York had put him in the airport in Calgary a a day behind his anticipated arrival.

A lost telegram put his family at the airport at the originally scheduled time.

They waited in vain, finally giving up and making the two hour trip back to Fort Macleod . . .

Grant arrived.

I should tell you that the return of a Mormon missionary is pretty important.

His family and friends all gather at the airport and scream and make fools of themselves welcome him home.

Grant got off the plane, expecting his loved ones.

Picture here the quiet chirping of a lone cricket.

Okay, it wasn't quite that deserted, but you get the point.

He made a quick phone call.

And two hours later, his excited and worried family was gathered around him.

Ah. This was a little more like it!

The next Sunday, I finally got the meet him.

Mr. Third-From-The-Top.

Mr. I-Live-In-France.

Finally.

Mine.

Yep. He didn't have a chance.

Tomorrow. Grant's side of it . . .

Recording Life

You call it graffiti. I call it family history!

First, a little background . . .

I have to admit that I think it’s cute when kids write on the walls.

Okay, yes. I’m weird.

When my kids wrote on the walls, I usually accredited and dated it.

It was a record of their life.

We were living in a small house, built by my Husby, and set on a cinder block basement.

Also built by my Husby.

It was a temporary dwelling that would one day be our shop/cold-storage.

Once the real house he was building was finished.

The cinder block walls were bare and . . . grey.

Not pretty.

But as it was a temporary set-up, we endured.

Our eldest son, Mark had other ideas.

Okay, on to my story . . .

Mark was learning how to write his name.

Actually, he was getting pretty good at it.

M. A. R. K.

The trouble it is usually looked like this: K. R. A. M.

But he wasn’t even three yet, so we were pretty impressed.

We found his name scrawled everywhere.

On papers.

Furniture.

The piano.

But there was one place he most preferred.

The one place that seemed to get him the most ‘press’.

The walls.

Mark had been sitting on my bed in the cinder block basement, drawing.

I had left him happily engrossed while I went to change his baby brother’s diaper.

When I came back, the word, KRAM had been neatly inscribed on the cinder blocks.

In purple felt.

He had even followed the lines.

I looked at it.

Then at the suddenly-anxious little boy seated beneath it.

“Look at that!” I said.

He looked, then studiously turned back to his papers and continued to draw.

“Who did that?” I asked.

Again he looked.

Finally he shrugged. “Erik,” he said.

I glanced at six-month old Erik in my arms. “Erik?”

“Yup. Erik.”

“Erik wrote ‘Mark’ on the wall.”

“Yup.”

“Erik’s pretty clever.”

“Yup.”

Working on telling the truth remained.

But thirty-plus years later, K.R.A.M. is still written there.

Clearly.

Moving ahead . . .

When Mark’s eldest daughter Megan was two, she wrote on my wall.

He got a pen and put her name and the date beside it.

For posterity.

(Who says kids aren’t watching us?)

But eventually, the wall was painted and the precious record lost.

We learned something.

If you or your kids are going to chronicle your lives, make sure you do it on something that’s going to last.

Because it’s not just what you record.

But also how you record it.

So far, cinder block seems to be your best bet.

The Tolley 'Spots' - And - Teaching Modesty to Three-year-olds

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chicken pox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chicken pox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chicken pox were an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her and she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chicken pox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1.   I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

 2.  The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

Remembering Recess

Milk River Elementary. My home away from home.

The Milk River Elementary School, house of learning to some two hundred children, was on the north-east corner of the town.

On the north and east, it was bordered by farmland.

On the south, by houses.

And on the west, by the field that stretched between it and the high school two blocks away.

The only playground equipment was a set of teeter-totters (see-saws) at the east end of the school building, and a monkey-bar on the west.

Oh and sometime between grades three and four, near the garbage, they installed a tether-ball pole.

The very latest in school-ground play equipment.

Let’s face it, dependance on toys and/or playing apparatus for entertainment wasn't expected.

Or necessary, as it turned out.

Because we made up our own games.

And two hundred-plus kids pooling their collective imaginations can come up with a lot of 'entertainment'.

We held impromptu races.

Which Kathy 'The Jet' Angyal always won.

Flag football games.

I should probably mention, here, that I never saw the use in just grabbing the flag when you can grab the whole kid.

And Lloyd Eagleson has the scars to prove it.

Climbing 'the rock'.

But that was only for the older, cooler kids.

Hide and seek.

Fun, but limiting when you had nothing but an open field in which to hide. (Or the neighbour's barley crop, which stood some feet over our heads. Just FYI.)

Tag. In its many incarnations.

Regular.

Frozen.

Poison.

Kick the can.

And King of the Castle.

Games of hopscotch.

There was one time we tried to get really creative and have some fun 'off site'.

And had an early brush with the law.

But that is another post . . .

Several of the girls played jump rope games.

Very popular and truly amazing to watch.

I, who had a hard time walking and breathing at the same time, was astounded at what many of those girls could do.

And while chanting/singing, too.

I never saw the use for it, though I did try.

But after getting my feet knocked out from beneath me for the 40^th time, I gave it up as hopeless.

And put the jump ropes to better use.

I should remind you that we were mostly farm kids.

And I and many others, like me, were completely infatuated with horses.

Thus, skipping ropes immediately brought to mind – harnesses.

Because.

We would pass the rope around the middle (waist) of our chosen horse, hang onto the ends, give the accepted 'start' command in a firm voice.

Giddyap! or something similarly creative.

And we were off.

Horse pulling.

'Driver' . . . umm . . . driving.

Around, over and through the other kids on the playground.

It was fun.

When we tired of running, we would nip into the aforementioned barley crop across the road and pull up armloads of green, sweet-smelling 'hay'.

As feed.

And to build little nests for our steeds.

You know, now that I think of it, I wonder what the farmer thought when he saw the ragged south-east corner of his crop.

As Milk River still went on to produce three 'Barley Kings', I guess our armloads of stolen barley stalks didn't make too much of a difference.

Back to my story . . .

I was there recently.

At Milk River Elementary, I mean.

The school now has extensive and obviously expensive playground equipment.

And trees.

And tall fences.

The monkey bars are gone.

As are the teeter-totters and tether ball.

There are still farmer's fields to the east.

But a large ball-diamond had been constructed on the west side, between it and the high school.

And houses and development on the north, completely eliminating our old barley field.

I stared at the 'developed' space and pictured us kids playing and laughing at recess and noon hour.

Do these modern children, with their modern conveniences, have as much fun as we did?

Somehow, I doubt it.

Parentisms: The Second Verse

Okay. I'm only going to say this once so pay attention!

A few days ago, I wrote an article about my FIL and his 'Parentisms'.

Little phrases that parents love to use, either as an exclamation point, or just to confuse their children.

Apparently, I struck a nerve.

A good nerve.

Several readers shared their own Parentisms with me

I just had to pass them on . . .

Delores: Mom..."Sit up, shut up and eat up"
Dad..."There's that elf again looking in the window"
Mom..."Don't make me get the fly swatter"

Joanne: Mom's classic: “Don't taste it, just eat it.”

Jeremy: Dad ever stated, “Don't make me pull this car over.”
Mom was equally famous for, “Wait until your father gets home.”

Dr. Ann: One I loved to hate was: "Stop crying unless you want something to cry about!"

Kelly: My Nana used to say, "You look like you were pulled through a hedge backwards," and somehow, I knew just what that meant!

Ah, the memories!

Aren't they priceless?

I would add to those my Mom's famous, “Oh my stars and garters!” Or, “this kitchen is closed due to illness. I'm sick of cooking!” And her favourite, “You have two choices for supper – take it, or leave it!”

And my Dad's “Don't make me come back there!” Or, “If you're going to roughhouse, do it outside!”

But my father lived to recite and many of his most notable Parentisms were designed more to confuse than to exclaim.

“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

It took me years to figure that one out.

Parentisms are fun.

But they can backfire.

For example:

One of Dad's favourite sayings was, “Have you ever seen a gopher gopher a gopher?”

I can't tell you how long it took me to understand that one.

Oh. A gopher go for a gopher.

Ha! Funny!

But this one finally tripped him up.

He was used to his farm kids.

And our rather . . . ribald . . . sense of humour.

One of my cousins was visiting from the big city.

Dad recited his little 'gopher' ditty.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. Then told him, “My dad says that's not nice.”

“Oh.” Dad got a bit red-faced.

And a little more cautious.

But it didn't stop him.

Fortunately for us.

Shovel This! - or - Now that it's Spring, let's talk about Winter!

A normal Northern Alberta winter.

In Southern Alberta, in winter, we get snow.

I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to many of you.

The only problem is that it never stays.

Usually within days of falling, Southern Alberta snow melts away under the warm breath of a powerful Chinook.

True story.

Thus, throughout winter, it snows.

Then melts.

Then snows.

Then . . . you get the picture.

I’m sure Southern Alberta is the only place on earth that can go from -40C (-40F) to +20C (+68F) in the course of three hours.

It is a bit disconcerting at times . . .

In college, I dated a boy from Red Deer.

Okay yes, technically, that is only about five hours drive north of where I was raised.

But a world removed in weather patterns.

In Red Deer, in winter, it snows.

And stays.

And snows some more.

And stays.

I learned about this on a visit to his family one long weekend in February.

Picture going from brown grass and snow only in the ditches, to snow piled four and five feet deep.

There was even snow on top of the fence posts.

Imagine that!

For the first day, I simply stared.

So this is what winter is supposed to be like!

It was . . . beautiful!

But all of that snow causes . . . difficulties.

The sheer weight of it piled on roofs threatens the structural integrity of the homes.

Don’t I sound like an engineer?

I’m quoting, by the way.

Snow piled high on roofs must be removed.

No Chinooks to do the dirty work for you.

People have to climb up and actually . . . shovel.

At first, it was an odd sight.

People standing on their roofs, shoveling snow.

But, after a day or two, I got used to it.

Then it was my turn.

To shovel, that is.

My boy friend’s grandmother’s house was one of those piled high with heavy white stuff.

It positively groaned under the weight of it.

It needed relief.

We volunteered.

Well, actually, he volunteered.

And I simply nodded and smiled.

I found myself standing atop what looked like a large, white muffin.

Did I mention that there was a lot of snow?

Somewhere beneath us was his grandmother’s single story home.

We set to work.

The actual removal of the snow didn’t take long.

The house wasn’t that large.

As we alternately scraped and shoved, our collection of snow on the ground grew deeper.

And deeper.

We were nearing the end of our task.

I slid a large shovelful over the edge and peered down at the huge drift that had collected beneath me.

My boyfriend joined me.

I looked at him. “Do you think you would get hurt if you fell off the roof and into that?” I asked, pointing.

He frowned, thoughtfully. “No, I . . .”

That was a far as I let him get.

 “Aaaaah!” Poof!

He was right.

Unorthodox Team-Building

Moral Booster Extraordinaire

For most of his career, my Husby was privileged to work for the Culture department of our province.

He built museums.

Big, beautiful, world-class museums.

Two were built at the same time.

The two best.

And biggest.

The Reynolds museum in Wetaskiwin.

Devoted to the telling of the story of the automobile.

And the Remington in Cardston.

Which beautifully describes the world of the horse-drawn . . . everything.

Building a single museum took teams of hundreds.

Building two?

The same hundreds.

Working twice as hard.

The stress levels reached, at times, unbelievable levels.

When that happened, morale slipped to compensate.

And everyone in the office seemed to walk around in a dark cloud.

My Husby, the project manager, felt he needed to do something.

A co-worker in an office at the opposite end of their suite, had a Playmobil Stagecoach.

Lovingly displayed behind glass in her office credenza.

It was driven by a little, whip-toting man-figure.

With a tiny, formally-dressed woman-figure and a second bowler-hatted man-figure tucked inside.

Strapped to the coach were an impressive array of cases, crates and barrels.

With a little strong box beneath the feet of the driver.

The coach was pulled by two horses, complete with tiny harnesses.

It was a cute set.

Totally in keeping with the theme of the museum its owner was currently engaged in building.

Husby studied it carefully.

And came up with a brilliant plan.

He would buy a little set of Playmobil figures of his own.

And 'stage' a little excitement.

He duly bought a set of Native American Indians.

War paint, war drums and all.

Which he then set up in his own book case.

Then, one evening after everyone had gone home, he stepped into his co-workers office.

Tied up the horses and the men with thread.

And kidnapped the little woman.

With the barrel.

And the strong box.

Leaving behind a ransom note demanding ‘Tahitum Treatum’.

Tahiti Treat.

 A soft drink that is no longer available but which was, then, my Husby's favourite.

He tied up the woman and sat her and her strong box in the centre of a circle of Braves.

Locked behind the glass doors of the top shelf of his bookcase.

Then he went home.

The next morning, he waited for . . . developments.

He didn't wait for long.

A loud shriek brought everyone from their offices.

Continued loud words drew them to the office at the end of the hall.

“Look! Look what someone did!”

There was much talk.

And, something that hadn't been heard in the office for some time.

Laughter.

Husby was conspicuous by his absence.

Everyone marched into his office.

“Grant, what do you know about . . .”

They got no further.

Every eye went immediately to his book case.

And the little 'kidnapping' scene displayed there.

“Aha! So it was you!”

Husby put on his most innocent expression and shook his head.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

He too walked over.

“Well, what do you know,” he said. “Look what those little guys have been up to! Imagine that!”

To say that the office buzzed for most of the rest of the day would be an understatement.

The next day, the ransom was paid and the woman, and her strong box, returned.

Then it was the co-worker's turn.

Retaliation is sweet.

Other Playmobil sets were purchased.

And the battle commenced in earnest.

Ranging over much of the office.

For the next few weeks, people arriving at the office would immediately head for one office or the other.

Just to see what had developed during the night.

It started out each day with laughter.

And the mood lifted perceptibly.

It got them through.

The museums, both of them, were completed.

And opened to world-wide acclaim.

Those responsible were given new assignments.

The group drifted apart.

But all of them remember those dark days.

When the work seemed insurmountable.

And morale was rock bottom.

When one man's ingenuity and 'joie de vivre' lifted everyone's spirits.

Who knew that all it took to improve morale was a 'little' kidnapping?

Wave! It might be someone we know!

Ready to head to town!

The Stringam Ranch was twenty miles from the Town of Milk River.

For the first twelve miles out of town, you were passing through other ranch properties.

So your chances of meeting another motorist were pretty good.

After that, there was just one destination.

The Stringam Ranch.

Any traffic that came out that far needed emergency veterinarian assistance.

Or knew the family.

And the spread that appeared around mealtimes.

This is a long-winded way of telling you that, on any given trip into town, Dad knew every single driver that we passed.

A cloud of dust would appear on the horizon, growing larger.

Finally a small dark spot could be detected, right at the base of said cloud.

The speck grew larger.

And larger.

Finally became recognizable as a vehicle.

Dad would slow down and pull over to the right side of the road.

Because lines hadn’t been introduced into our part of the country.

And who could paint a line on dirt anyway?

Moving on . . .

The other driver would also slow and pull to his right.

The two would give each other a friendly wave.

And continue on.

Whereupon (good word) I would bob up out of wherever.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“That was Mr. Angel.”

“Oh.”

I would disappear again.

Another vehicle.

Another wave.

Me bobbing up.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman.”

“Oh.”

As we grew closer to town, the vehicles were more numerous.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh.”

I should mention that there was one vehicle that I recognized.

Even as a four-year-old.

It was an old car, driven very, very slowly.

I don’t remember what year or model though my brother, George, will.

It was driven by a hat.

I am not kidding.

A hat.

A nice men’s hat.

I would stare in astonishment as this particular, peculiar vehicle drove past.

Yep.

Just a hat.

It was the one time during our entire trip that I wouldn’t bother my dad.

Because I knew who that hat was.

It was Grampa Balog.

After it passed, I would slump down on the seat.

Why couldn’t I have a hat for a Grampa?

A hat that could drive cars.

Some kids have all the luck.

Moving ahead several years . . .

Yesterday, I was driving with one of my grandkids.

One of the hundred-or-so cars that we passed was driven by someone I knew.

I waved.

“Grama! Who was that?”

And I was instantly transported back fifty-plus years.

I was four years old again.

And my Dad knew everyone on the road.

'Babe' Enes

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

My Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-belief.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats.

Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie.

And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting.

Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up.

And the game began.

Mom was picked early.

She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat.

The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

Things Aren't Always as They Appinkle

1. 

   Picture him in 'pinkle'

   Families with children are inevitably the recipients of bags of kindly donated clothing.
2. Families with lots of children receive lots and lots of clothing. And
3. Not everything is as it appears.

These statements go together.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We had six children.

Still do, but that is another story.

Moving on . . .

For this reason, everyone who knew us, and even those who only knew OF us, brought us enormous donations of clothing.

They figured we needed it.

They were right.

Every time another large carton of clothing was dropped off, my children went through it.

Laughing and chattering excitedly.

It was like Christmas morning.

Some items were chosen as keepers.

Others were packed back into the box for donation elsewhere.

In one large box, there was a pinkle jogging suit.

You heard me right.

Pinkle.

Not quite pink/not quite purple.

A little 'hoodie' jacket and pants.

My son, Erik grabbed it.

He liked the bright colour.

For many months, it became his outfit of choice.

The first chosen when his clean clothes were stacked in his dresser.

The one that had to be sneaked out of his room for cleaning.

He was warm.

He was distinctive.

He was . . . let's put it this way – he was the brightest coloured boy in the whole second grade.

He loved that suit.

Occasionally, it would need repair.

Dutifully, I sewed up ripped seams or fashioned knee and elbow patches.

Then folded it and put it back into his dresser.

Where he would snatch it up eagerly.

This went on for several months.

Finally, my growing boy . . . outgrew it.

Something even I could do nothing to help.

The pinkle suit was sent to live out its last days in the rag bag.

Move forward several years.

Erik, now a married father of three was talking about that suit.

That horrible pink suit that I made him wear.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after . . . well, you get the picture.

Made him wear???!

“I thought you liked it!” I said.

“I hated it! I was trying to wear it out!”

Oh.

See?

Things aren't always as they appear.

How Does YOUR Garden Grow?

Mom. My gardening hero.

In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to romance.

A young woman’s fancy turns to gardening.

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

It’s spring!

Even in northern Alberta, we have spring.

It just comes later and leaves earlier . . .

And spring means gardening!

My mom was a gardener.

One of those m-m-m-m-major gardeners.

Her patch of vegetables covered roughly two acres.

Give or take.

And was enough to provide the entire ranch population with food for much of the year.

I had been out in her garden from the time I could lift a hoe.

And even sooner (see here).

Not necessarily productive, but learning.

By the time I was married, I thought I knew everything there was to know about gardening.

Boy, was I wrong.

Did you know that those little plants don’t plant themselves in neat, tidy rows?

No.

They have to be painstakingly put there.

Oh, I admit that I watched Mom string a long piece of twine and follow it with a hoe to make sure her garden was aesthetically pleasing.

But it never occurred to me that her actions had a point.

But I was willing to learn.

My Husby rototilled a large patch of ground near our home.

Armed with a century’s worth of seeds, I started out.

Planting turned out to be quite easy.

Stretch the string.

Follow the line with a hoe.

Plant the seeds.

Cover them up.

Turn on the sprinkler.

Wait.

I should probably mention that while waiting, you have to keep an eye on things.

Otherwise, the weeds tend to overpower the plants.

In my first garden, I had planted a couple of rows of tomatoes.

I love tomatoes.

I had no idea that they needed to be started sometime in . . . December.

The little plants poked through the ground.

As did the weeds.

The interesting thing about weeds is the fact that they adapt themselves to fit perfectly with whatever vegetable plant they are near.

Thus, tomato weeds look like tomatoes.

Carrot weeds look like carrots.

And so on.

My tomatoes had emerged.

The weeds that accompanied them looked nearly identical.

They even smelled the same.

Which was which?

I studied the two plants.

Finally, I made a decision and started pulling.

Soon the rows were clean and tidy.

Happily, I turned the sprinkler on my garden and went back into the house.

A short time later, my mother-in-law, also a master gardener, came out for a visit.

She stood at the end of my garden.

“Why do you have two tidy rows of weeds, Diane?”

I stared at her.

Then turned to look at my tomatoes.

I had chosen . . . poorly.

Then she gave me a piece of advice that I’ve never forgotten.

“Diane. If you’re in doubt about a plant, pull it up. If it comes back, it was a weed.”

Good advice.

Doesn’t help much, but good advice all the same.

Onion Warfare

You see food. We see . . .

Yesterday’s blog reminded my Husby of something.

If you haven’t read that post yet, you can do it here.

Then we’ll all be on the same page.

So to speak.

Ready?

Moving on . . .

In Grant’s small community, Church socials were a highlight.

Tables groaning with delicious food.

And best friends.

An eight-year-old boy’s finest moments.

But once the ‘eating contests’ and trips to the dessert table had reached a point that even eight-year-old boys are satiated, what’s next?

Well, there’s always . . . imagination and creativity.

And, trust me, when boys are that age, the ceiling’s the limit.

Quite literally.

Grant and his cronies had stuffed themselves.

The only things left on their slicked-clean plates were little pickled onions.

That no small boy would be caught eating.

Ever.

One of them picked up a small onion and put it on his spoon.

The others watched, horrified.

Was he really going to . . .?

He turned his spoon and . . . flipped it.

The onion shot across the table.

Landing with a small, wet ‘sploop’ (made up word – but expressive).

Everyone stared.

Hey! That looked like fun!

Instantly, four small onions were placed on four small spoons.

Flick.

Four little, pickled projectiles shot off in different directions.

It was fun!

“Let’s go for distance!”

Four more onions.

Four more spoons.

Flick.

“Mine went further! Mine went further!”

“Let’s go for height!”

“Wait, we need provisions!”

A short raid on the pickle platter.

As astonished parents looked on.

Then:

Four more onions.

“Ready?”

Flick.

“Oh, wow! Look at how high Grant’s went!”

Grant’s did achieve more height.

And, because of that, greater distance.

It shot across the room and landed in the plate of a man seated opposite.

A man who was still visiting and eating.

And not really noticing what was on his plate.

The unsuspecting man speared the onion and popped it into his mouth.

Chewing happily.

Never knowing where the onion had come from.

The four small boys crowed with delight.

It was the highlight of their evening.

Vainly, they tried to duplicate the feat.

Raining little onion balls down on unsuspecting heads.

Finally, one of their little missiles actually . . . hit . . . someone.

Game over.

Instantly.

After that, the little pickled onions, which had usually sat forlorn and forgotten on the buffet table, were the first to go.

What doesn’t disappear into the mouth, will still . . . disappear.

Ask any small boy.

Diane Takes on Church Politics - or - The Battle for Bananas

Epicentre of church politics in the 60s

I've been reading about the politics being played out in some organizations in the modern world.

Even churches have their internal power struggles and vying for position.

It reminds me of our church suppers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the sixties, we had Church Socials.

Big pot luck dinners.

For any and all occasions.

Christmas.

Easter.

New Years.

Fall.

Thursday.

They were fun.

Everyone would show up with their large families and a huge dish – or dishes - of something delicious to share.

The food would be arranged on a long series of tables.

Everyone would load a plate.

And the visiting would begin.

Good food.

Good friends.

It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon or evening.

Invariably, there would be someone’s Grandma’s recipe for home-fried chicken.

And many, many incarnations of potato/meat casseroles.

Salads by the creative and colourful dozens.

Home-made rolls just begging for a large dollop of freshly churned butter.

And desserts of enough variety and inevitable tastiness, to make decision-making difficult to impossible.

But there was one draw back.

As with all pot lucks, the first in line got the most choices.

Made quickly to avoid ‘pot luck crush’.

What is ‘Pot Luck Crush’, you ask?

Imagine a river, dammed by a small obstruction.

Pressure builds.

Finally, the obstruction is forced out and shoved quickly downstream to oblivion.

Pot Luck Crush.

My cousin, Reed was usually the first in line.

He had made an art of choosing – and heaping - quickly.

His favourites were the salads.

I should mention here, that two of the most popular salad dishes were the green jello salad.

With shredded carrots.

And the yellow jello salad.

With sliced bananas.

The carrots in the carrot salad tended to be suspended throughout.

The bananas, however, inevitably rose to the top.

And that’s where Reed came in.

He would deftly and expertly – and quickly - scrape the entire layer of bananas from the salad.

Then move happily on to the rest of the offered dishes.

His actions weren’t popular.

Usually, from further back in the line, there would be a howl of protest.

Reed would just grin.

The you-should-have-tried-harder-to-be-first-in-line grin.

The rest of the assembly would be stuck with banana-less salad.

Or what amounted to plain lemon jello.

But the sheer volume of other dishes soon silenced any further protest.

And before long, everyone was happily munching.

Until the next time.

When Reed would again slip deftly and expertly to the front of the line.

Yes.

Even in the sixties, we had church politics.

The difference was that they were over bananas.

Maybe not so different after all.

We Have a Winner!

I just realized that I forgot to post the name of my wonderful, stupendous, fantastic winner!
Congratulations to
Kris of 

• A TECH'S LIFE
• Unofficial FB Game Tester
• An Elect Lady
• Dear Awkwardness
• A Voice of Light in the Darkness
• Pearls of Great Worth
• And a big thank you to everyone who entered my contest.
• I wish I could send a copy of Carving Angels to each of you.
• You're the very best!
• 
  

Basketball Bribery

You can't do this standing at the back . . .

In Milk River, in Southern Alberta, Basketball was the reigning sport.

All of the 'cool' people played basketball.

My family tried hard to be 'cool'.

Well, at least we all tried out for our respective basketball teams.

'Mixing in' during the practice/game was never a problem.

We were used to wrestling with furry creatures that outweighed us by hundreds of pounds.

Fighting for possession of a ball (with an opponent who didn't outweigh us at all) was child's play.

We could nip in, latch onto the ball, and nip out again, before anyone even knew we were there.

But the important point was that we nipped.

Moving ahead . . .

Having been raised with the idea that all children needed to play some sort of organized sport, I enrolled our two oldest boys in community basketball.

At that point, our family was living in the city.

Children raised in the city are different than those raised on a ranch.

Or at least mine were.

They were polite.

Distinctly un-aggressive.

And perfectly willing to stand back quietly let everyone else go first.

Everyone.

They would even pause and say, “excuse me”, if they happened to bump into someone.

All good qualities.

Except when playing basketball.

'Polite' players don't often get their hands on the ball.

Players who stand back and allow everyone else to go first end up . . . somewhere near the back.

The action passes them by.

Literally.

For the first few games, I watched as my tall boys stood back and let the play go on ahead of them.

When I talked to them about 'getting in there', they stared at me, horrified.

“Mom, we can't do that! That would be rude!”

Sigh.

Now I had a new dilemma.

How to teach them that sometimes, being a little bit pushy was not only allowed, but required.

I decided to go with bribery.

For every foul they collected in basketball, I would pay them a dollar.

Okay, yes, I know how this sounds.

Hear me out.

It got them in there.

Fighting for possession of the ball.

Actually touching the other players.

Trying to get there ahead of everyone else.

It made basketball players out of them.

I should point out that after a few weeks of this, I had to withdraw my offer.

They were getting a bit too aggressive.

But they had learned.

Moving ahead again . . .

My oldest grandson is in his first season of playing soccer.

He has been taught manners.

To be polite and never rude.

His father despaired of getting him into the action.

I reminded him of his early days playing basketball.

And my unorthodox solution.

Hmmm.

He and his son went off to the game.

A short time later, they were back.

“How did you do?” I asked.

“Oh, he was great!” my son said. “He almost made a goal! He got an assist!”

“Wow! What made the difference?”

“I offered to buy him a new Lego video game if he scored.”

Ah.

And another generation benefits from a little bribery.

It's a good world.

Blair's Prayer

 . . .or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were out . . . doing ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly . . . playing quietly in the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Mistaken Identity

Okay. YOU figure out who's who . . .

My Husby has four brothers.

All of which look/sound a lot alike.

Our oldest son, Mark was a daddy's boy.

He adored his father.

They spent a lot of time together.

A lot.

In the early years of our marriage, all of my Husby's family lived in close proximity to each other.

Getting together was easy.

And frequent.

Looking back, it was a fleeting, wonderful time.

One day, the entire family had been invited over for dinner.

They began to gather.

By ones, twos and threes.

My Husby, on the closing shift, was the last to arrive.

Our oldest son, just turned two, was missing him.

He toddled through the group, looking for that one special, familiar face.

Finally, he spotted it.

Ran over and lifted his arms.

Then, lifted by strong arms, he snuggled down and nestled there, happy and content.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

And his father came in.

“Where's my boy?” he asked.

Mark stared at him.

Then spun around and looked at the man holding him, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

He looked back at the new arrival.

Then, again at the man who held him.

Finally, he made a choice and dove towards his father.

His real father.

Then stared accusingly at the uncle who had been holding him.

There is a codicil:

My sisters and I look a lot alike.

At one of our family reunions, my youngest son patted the leg of the woman he though was me. “Mom? Mom?”

She turned and looked at him.

Definitely not Mom.

He gasped and hid his face in his hands.

Mistaken identity.

It happens in the best of families.

Mom Mistakes

Two sweet faces

Occasionally, Moms make mistakes.

I just want to get that out there.

They do.

Not often.

But occasionally.

Moms are busy.

Usually keeping at least three balls in the air at any given moment.

Totally understandable . . .

My younger brother, Blair was playing in the front room.

Quietly.

Because he was always quiet.

Our baby sister, Anita, was playing nearby.

Less quietly.

Because she . . . never mind.

She had disdained her basket full of colourful toys and was climbing up on the coffee table and sliding off.

This had been entertaining her for several minutes.

Then, she mis-calculated.

Slid off a little too quickly.

And bumped something important.

Tears ensued.

Bringing Mom in a hurry from the kitchen.

She picked her sobbing daughter up from the floor where she lay in a crumpled, miserable heap.

“Blair! What did you do?!”

Blair looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth a perfect 'O' of confusion. “Ummm . . .”

He was summarily parked in the 'you've done something terrible' spot.

The piano bench.

Huh. You know I just figured something out.

Whenever we did something horrible, we were set on the piano bench to think about our sins.

Maybe that's why none of us liked playing the piano.

Just a thought.

Back to my story . . .

Blair blinked and frowned thoughtfully.

Had he done something?

He didn't think so.

He had been quietly reading.

Anita had been playing a few feet away.

On the coffee table.

“But Mom . . .!”

“Don't you 'but mom' me! You stay there and think about what you did!”

Mom marched back out to the kitchen.

Leaving a very confused little boy sitting on the piano bench in the front room.

Anita, tears forgotten, was back crawling onto the coffee table.

Yep. Moms make mistakes.

Fortunately for the future of the world as we know it, it doesn't happen often.