Our Mike

A reworked post for a very busy day.
Enjoy!


We had a dog. 
Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 
My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty.
We decided to take our fearless guard dog swimming. 
We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 
He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Swimming couldn’t possibly fit in there anywhere. 
But he good-naturedly followed us because he was . . . good natured. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 
If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so. 
By whatever protruded enough for him to get a grip on. 
But to his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.
Finally, Mike’s lack of success in the saving department became too much for him. His frustration boiled over into something more proactive. 
He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone – anyone - to save. 
A limb passed near. 
Or someone’s backside. 
He grabbed it, and whoever it was attached to, and dragged them to the shore. Kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act.
He never managed to drown anyone. 
Wisdom. 
Or a miracle. 
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

The Birds and the Bees

No

Yes

This story is about sex.

But it’s not what you think.

I was raised on a ranch.

There are animals on a ranch.

That do ‘animal stuff’.

Eating. Sleeping. Growing.

Making other ‘little’ animals.

Which then eat. And sleep. And grow.

And make . . .

You get the picture.

It was the rhythm of life throughout my childhood.

The statement, ‘I grew up with it’?

Applies here.

My earliest memory of the whole ‘animals fulfilling the measure of their creation’ happened when I was four.

Roundup.

A great red and white sea of animals had been penned in the main corrals.

One jumped atop another.

“Daddy, what’s that cow doing?”

My dad turned and looked.

Then realized that he wasn’t quite ready to explain the whole reproductive process to his wide-eyed daughter. “Oh,” he said. “Ummm . . . resting his feet.”

“Oh.” I was satisfied.

For a while.

Oh, he did explain things.

Later.

When the whole ‘resting his feet’ explanation started to wear a bit thin.

Yes, being raised on a ranch is an eye-opening experience.

By the time I was in grade nine, I knew it all.

Or thought I did.

We were in biology class. My favourite science.

The teacher was talking about animal reproduction.

Yawn.

Specifically: chickens.

“Now the chicken ovulates once a day,” he was saying. “That’s where we get our yummy, delicious eggs.”

I was with him this far.

“But when . . . exposed  . . . to a rooster, the egg becomes fertilized and a chick results.”

Wait a minute.

Roosters have a purpose?

Other than the obvious one of chasing us kids around and being generally obnoxious?

Hold the phone!

Unfortunately, my astonishment was, much to my dismay, expressed verbally.

“What?!”

Whereupon (good word) every kid in the class turned and looked at me.

And snickered.

Sigh.

Yep. I was nearly 14.

And I had just learned that birds follow the same reproductive channels (so to speak) as other animals.

Okay. Now, I knew it all.

I just wish I could forget it . . .

Generation Gap(e)

Look closely. I'm sure you'll see some gaps . . .

Okay, I don't want to suggest that there is a generation gap in our family but . . . well . . .

Yes. There is a generation gap in our family.

And it was never more obvious than it was yesterday.

Several of my grandchildren were over for the long weekend.

It was a fun time, made even more fun by the 'launch' of our new pirate-ship playhouse.

All of the kids were in the house.

Because it had decided to rain.

And our intrepid pirates didn't want to get wet.

Ironic, I know, but there you are . . .

The oldest girls were colouring.

The eldest was also singing.

At least I think it was singing.

“You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful!”

Over and over and over.

After a few minutes of this, I leaned over the table, collected her attention and said, “Your record's stuck.”

Now this was a term from my childhood, teenage years, adulthood.

In fact, right up to the present day.

It was something I thought everyone knew.

I was wrong.

She stared at me, blankly. “Huh?”

I thought she must have simply missed what I said.

I repeated myself. “Your record's stuck.”

“Huh?” she said again.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Finally, “What's a record?” she asked.

“A record,” I struggled gamely forward, “A record is what you listen to. On the . . . record . . . player . . .” my voice dwindled away.

She was still staring at me, blankly.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I can't believe that this newest generation hasn't even heard of records! Why it's only been a few years since I used them. 

Ten at the most.

I looked at her.

Nine years old.

Oh.

Then I thought of all the things she would never understand from my childhood.

She would never pick up a telephone, crank the handle and hear the word, “Operator.” 

Never see the 'Indian-head' test pattern and hear 'O Canada' at the beginning of the television day. Or hear 'God Save the Queen' at the end of the day, before the TV goes dark and silent. 

Never sit around the table after dinner, listening sleepily to the hired men discuss their day's experiences with the boss.

And I thought of all of the things that I wouldn't - or didn't want to - understand from hers.

Yep. Generation gap.

Gives us a little breathing room.

Probably a good thing.

Speedooooooooooooooo!

It's July.

Time for a story about Christmas.

Because.

And in keeping with what has become a week of stories about my Husby, my favourite . . .

In the Tolley household, Christmas . . . the actual ‘business portion’ which includes frantic tearing of colourful papers and scrabbling through mounds of discarded wrapping, was an event on hold.

Until the father of the house finally succumbed to the pleadings of his numerous children and crawled out of bed.

Once he hit the front room, it was every man for himself.

Or every woman . . . or child . . .

You get the picture.

To facilitate the introduction of said father to the ‘action room’, the children, over the years, had graduated from begging to more . . . proactive methods.

As their size and strength increased, they finally achieved the impossible.

Plucking their sire from his warm downy and carrying him, bodily, to his place of honour.

In an attempt to thwart their . . . growing . . . expertise, their father began to incorporate thought into the proceedings.

He resorted to sneakiness.

With varying degrees of success.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

Christmas, 2001, began like many others.

Tiny noises in the bowels of the house which told us that the natives were stirring.

And that time for any needed preparation was short.

Grant leaped from the bed and, under cover of darkness, began to shed his pyjamas.

Not unusual.

However, considering that our children would soon be bounding up the stairs demanding to open presents . . . Well . . . okay, unusual.

Sleepily, I noted the sound of fabric sliding over flesh.

He was pulling something else on.

Then, he crawled back into the bed and snuggled close.

Suspicious, I asked him what he was wearing and he chuckled.

“Not much,” he said.

Then the pounding started. “Mom, Dad! Time to open presents!”

“Okay,” he called, cheerfully.

Another sign that all was not as it should be.

The door swung open.

Slowly.

Several suspicious noses poked into the room, the light from the hallway throwing their shadows across the bed. Remember, these children had been exposed to many different devices in an attempt to discourage them from their desired goal.

Duct tape, catapults, duct tape, air horns, chains with padlocks, duct tape, yards of medical gauze, mustard, duct tape.

Okay, I admit it. He likes duct tape.

Back to my story . . .

The group stayed huddled for a moment, afraid to pierce the unknown blackness that pervaded our room.

We remained still.

Finally one brave soul reached for the switch, flooding the scene with light.

I blinked sleepily at them.

They moved slowly forward, still tightly packed.

A group makes a harder target.

Okay the reasoning needs a bit of work, but there is safety in numbers.

They approached the bed.

Still cautious.

Still peering anxiously into the shadows and flinching at every sound.

Finally, they reached their father.

Silence.

Grant’s eyes were closed, a small, blissful smile creasing his face.

Not a good sign.

One of the older boys grabbed the covers, then paused, gaining courage.

The silence stretched.

He threw them back.

And disclosed his portly father clad in a ‘speedo’.

I am not making this up.

It was a bright blue one.

Oh, and a bow-tie. Red. With sequins.

Now I would like to take this opportunity to state that the ‘speedo’ swimsuit was created with speed in mind, hence the name. Comfort is secondary, and looks a far distant third.

Certainly they look . . . ummm . . . delicious on a trim, incredibly fit man.

On a middle aged, fairly Santa-esque male?

Not as good.

But certainly effective.

The kids scattered.

Screaming.

We could hear one of them moaning in the hall. “I don’t want to open presents, do you want to open presents?”

Another, “I can’t un-see it! I can’t un-see it!”

Still another, “Presents? What are those? I’m going back to bed!”

My husband chuckled. “I should have thought of this years ago!” he said.

Mission accomplished.

Okay, you'll have to use your imagination regarding  clothing.
This is the best I can do.

Honey Bunny

He is a Honey Bunny!

I admit it.

I call my Husby names.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby was serving on a church committee.

With several other men.

One of which worked as a police detective in his real life.

Tough guy to the world.

Sweet and kind underneath.

It was evening.

After supper but not yet bed time.

The phone rang.

I answered.

What followed was, to me, a fairly mundane conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Diane. Is Grant there?” I recognized the voice of our friend, the police detective.

“He is! Would you like to talk to him?”

“Please.”

“Just a moment!” I turned and hollered.

Okay, yes, I do that . . .

“Honey Bunny!”

Grant answered.

From somewhere in the bowels of the house.

“You're wanted on the phone!”

He appeared.

Took it from me.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then, “Are you a Honey Bunny?”

I saw my Husby's face turn slightly pink.

Here was his good friend, the policeman.

Tough guy extraordinaire.

What should he say?

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

His friend laughed. “Good,” he said. “So am I.”

Even the most unlikely . . .

The Beaumont Pie-Rats

Monday's PhotoPrompt:
Inspired by my PhotoPrompt group and my good friend Delores at The Feathered Nest  

For several months, my Husby's health wasn't . . . very good. 

In fact, we were quite worried about him.

But, with excellent medical care and ongoing treatment, he has stepped back from the brink.

The conception and planning for a new PROJECT has completed the cure.

I present his 'cure'.

The New Tolley Grandchildren Playhouse

We now have a pirate ship in our back yard.

Or as my Husby prefers to call it, a 'Pie-Rat' ship.

I won't mention the looks we have been getting from the neighbours.

Or the speculation over whether 'we know something they should know'.

And the watching of the sky for the threat of heavy rains.

Moving on . . .

Our ship is built completely out of recycled and scavenged materials.

It consists of three levels.

Spiral staircase.

Rope ladders.

A plank, ideal for walking into the family pool.

A slide.

Swings.

And a flag picturing a pie and crossed forks.

I should probably mention that we rather like pie.

Hence the renaming of all grandchildren, 'Pie-Rats'.

Looking forward

The spiral

Looking back
Photos by: Kallie Tolley

We opened it to the grandchildren - ahem - Pie-Rats, on Saturday.

Following very brief speeches.

The tossing of a pie.

And the equipping of grandchildren with the necessities.

Pirate head scarves.

Swords.

And lots and lots of food.

I think it is a hit.

Who says the Tolleys don't know how to party?!

More pictures to follow . . .

The 'Eyes' Have it

The Stringam ranch house had one delicious feature.

That kids love.

And parents hate.

The kitchen ran right into the hallway, which ran into the living room, which ran back into the kitchen.

Or, alternately, if one wanted to change things up a little - from the kitchen into the living room into the hallway, back into the kitchen.

It was a perfect setup.

For running laps.

Which we did.

Usually at mealtimes.

Because it kept us near the kitchen.

But not completely under Mom's feet.

Unfortunately, in an effort to keep us safe, Mom would inevitably holler, “You kids stop that before someone loses an eye!”

We would stop.

Oh, not because we were afraid of losing something important.

But because Mom usually had a large spoon or knife in one hand when she said it.

Okay, yes, we were afraid of losing something important.

Moving on . . .

It was suppertime.

Mom was cooking.

My brother and I were running.

Mom said, “You kids stop running! Someone's going . . .!”

That was as far as she got.

I skidded out on the corner.

Just going into the turn between the living room and the hallway.

There was a chair there.

Large.

Heavy.

It, and my eye, had what could only be called a 'close encounter'.

It won.

Remember what Mom said about 'losing an eye'?

Well, she was close . . .

There was the sound of contact.

*thump*

Then the pause.

Then the shriek.

Mom came running.

I was writhing around on the floor, screaming.

Both hands clamped over my right eye.

I'm sure Mom's heart probably stopped.

She pulled my hands away.

Probably expecting to see the fulfilment of her prognostication (Oooh, good word!).

Fortunately for me, it hadn't happened.

The fulfilment, I mean.

My eyebrow had taken the brunt of the blow.

It puffed up and out quickly and remarkably.

I looked like a prize fighter.

Mom dragged me, still screaming, into the kitchen.

Where she produced her largest and deadliest-looking knife.

I stared at her, then clamped my hands back over my injured and puffy eye and screamed, “No, Mom! Don't cut it off!”

You see, when she picked up the knife, she had been looking for 'cool'.

Something to lay against my wound to take down the swelling.

I was looking at an instrument of a far more radical method of 'swelling removal'.

Fortunately, her more humane treatment was what we went with.

“Diane! I'm not going to cut it off! The knife is cool. It'll help the swelling!”

Oh.

I finally dropped my hands and allowed her to continue.

She pressed the cool surface against my eyebrow.

Ahhh!

Moms know everything.

I'd like to say we stopped running.

Forever.

That we learned our lesson.

That one close call convinced us that Mom knew whereof she spoke.

I'd be lying.

What Matters Most

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

I should mention, here, that my Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Moving on . . .

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

Back to my story . . .

Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Bravery for the 'Faint' of Heart

Which are you?

I just read that, when faced with something dire, a person will fight.

Or a person will fly.

Sometimes, we don't know which one we are until the climactic moment.

Allow me to illustrate.

My bedroom was across and down the hall from the bathroom.

And I wasn't an 'early-to-bedder'.

These two facts will become relevant . . .

I had been reading.

Something I did every night.

For a very long time.

I finally decided it was time to get ready for bed.

Which included brushing and scrubbing.

And all things hygienic.

I should point out that all other members of my household had long been asleep.

Or so I thought.

I finished my evening ablutions. (Oooh! Good word!)

And, clutching my toiletries bag, headed for my bedroom.

Now the words 'across and down the hall' may sound like a long distance.

It wasn't.

But it was enough.

And it was dark.

I darted toward my door.

And was just reaching for the doorknob when a voice came out of the darkness.

“What are you doing!”

Okay, it was the voice of my father, so it shouldn't have given me the fright it did.

But the fact remains – I was frightened.

And then, the ultimate response.

Fight?

Or fly.

Let me describe:

Pitch dark hall.

Household asleep.

Girl with large imagination and small intellect dashing across the hall.

Quickly, so as to avoid things that might come out of the darkness and 'get her'.

Voice rumbles out of said darkness.

What does girl do?

Fight?

Fly?

No. 

Girl crumples to the floor.

I am not making this up.

My legs folded up and I fell to the floor.

When faced with a crisis, or so I thought, I curled up.

Like a little spider.

But with less legs.

So, which are you?

Fight?

Or fly?

When you decide, let me know.

I will be the shivering little puddle of goo.

Curled up on the floor.

Sigh.

I Can Fix That!

Foreground: Ranch. Background: Machinery Hill

On the Stringam Ranch, there was a hill.

A large hill.

It had old machinery parked on top.

We called it the 'Old Machinery Hill'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

There could be found the outdated, outmoded and discarded mechanical devices of ranch life.

Mowers, haybines, cultivators, tractors, cars and trucks.

All neatly parked in rows.

My brothers spent many blissful hours on that hill, deconstructing the various machines (and machine engines) to be found.

Excitedly, they would point out to me the valves and sprockets pulled from this amazing machine and 'Wow! Aren't they fantastic?!' Then proceed to explain just how these intricate little marvels fit into the whole 'making-this-machine-bale-hay' scenario.

To which I would nod and smile.

Then run off to see what the horses were doing.

But that was just the beginning of my brothers' mechanical adventures.

Throughout their lives, I can picture them with various machine parts spread out neatly as they re-constructed and fine-tuned.

Something that still goes on today.

I should probably mention that the 'mechanical bug' hit me as well.

Later.

I took apart, fixed and re-assembled in my world, too.

Mom's piano-organ. Her toaster. Iron.

The only thing that defeated me were the clippers.

Oh, and the washing machine and I have a history, too.

But we won't mention those.

Please.

Moving ahead . . .

Our four-year-old grandson was playing quietly in their basement.

A little too quietly.

Usually this heralded trouble.

His mother went to check.

She found him with one of his sister's musical toys disassembled in front of him.

Part of it had stopped working.

The need for new batteries had been ruled out because the other parts were still working.

He had rummaged through his father's tools and found the screwdriver he needed.

Then proceeded to take the toy apart.

This was when his mother came in.

He looked up at her.

“It wasn't working,” he said calmly.

Something he had pointed out to her on numerous occasions.

“So I'm fixing it.”

Now remember, this boy just turned four in April.

The two of them saw that a wire had become disconnected.

They reconnected.

No response.

“It has a micro-chip,” he said suddenly, pointing. “Maybe it just needs a new micro-chip.”

His mother stared at him. “You're probably right,” she said, finally.

When she told us the story, I was reminded suddenly of my brothers.

With their tools.

And their sprockets and wheels.

The torch is passed.

The newest generation . . .
Photo Credit

Talking Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bonus:

Gram and Gramp . . . and Me.

From Delores' wonderful Monday PhotoPrompt.

Delores' picture of she and her grandparents

Gram was in the kitchen, cooking so efficiently,

Gramp was in his easy chair and I was on his knee.

Their kindly ways and gentle spirits touched so tenderly,

Way back in the early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

He was a rancher, cattleman; and honest to a 'T'.

She helped and worked right by his side and served so faithfully.

The two of them raised children strong and loved their family,

E'en before those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

When I was four, my Grampa died; he passed on peacefully,

Gram carried on as best she could, preserved his legacy.

But when I stop and think at bit, I cannot help but see,

There weren't enough of those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

My own Gram and Gramp` Stringam on their 50th wedding anniversary

Dining-Chair Buses

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher.

Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror.

Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize.

From what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem.

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals.

Sheesh.

You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too, but there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired – play.

Moving ahead many, many years.

Yesterday, some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.

All That's Necessary

Finished at last.

For one summer, the Stringams lived in a quonset.

Between moving from one ranch to another.

And waiting for our house to be finished.

You can read about it here, here, here, here, here, here, here, or here.

(It was a long summer . . .)

We had electricity, but no indoor plumbing or heat.

It could easily have been an ordeal.

My ultra-organized mother made it an adventure.

But even SuperMom couldn't control the weather.

And summers must end.

Especially in Canada.

It had been getting colder.

Noticeably colder.

We could lay in our beds and see our breath.

A fact that made us reluctant to leave said beds.

And we were setting new records for getting dressed.

Mom was starting to gaze longingly at her nearly-finished house across the field.

The one that didn't yet have any indoor plumbing or heat.

Rather like the place she was living in.

But it did have one attractive attribute.

One modern convenience.

It had a fireplace.

Okay, well, maybe not such a modern convenience.

Moving on . . .

Mom had been nervously studying the weather forecast every day.

And eyeing the house.

Which crept all-too-slowly towards completion.

Which would come first?

Winter?

Or her beautiful new home?

And then, the day arrived when all discussion became moot.

Because no one tells winter when to arrive.

Which it did.

With a fury.

A not-so-rare September blizzard.

We had a little lead time.

Schools were quickly closed to give students time to bus home.

Anyone who's ever been caught out on the shelter-less prairies in a blizzard knows that that is something to be avoided at all costs.

When we arrived at the quonset, it was to see Mom and Dad frantically packing.

For the next couple of hours, we carted carloads of necessities from the quonset to the house.

By late afternoon, though, the time was definitely up.

One could no longer see to drive.

Even in the barnyard.

We would have to make do with what had already been hauled.

Mom started organizing.

A few hours later, everyone was quite comfortably settled in the one room of the new house that was inhabitable.

The downstairs family room.

Mom had bedrolls laid out.

An electric stove set up.

And ropes strung to hang things on.

The kids were soon fed and in bed.

The dishes washed and stacked.

Mom still didn't have indoor plumbing.

In fact, nothing in the house worked.

And there was a monster storm was raging outside.

But Mom was doing something she had been dreaming about since she first set foot in the quonset, months before.

Sitting in front of a fire.

With every part of her warm at the same time.

Life was good.

Snow and Doughnuts

Okay, you have to use your imagination on this one.
Picture those hills covered in snow.
And kids. And toboggans . . .

It's nearly 30 degrees Celsius (86 F) outside.

Okay, for those of you living in warmer climates, that's probably not very hot.

For those of us in normally snow-bound northern Alberta?

Tropical.

Time to hide in the cool basement.

And tell another winter story.

I should probably mention that in southern Alberta, where we were raised, snow seldom stayed very long.

Even though it was winter.

Oh, it snowed.

Sometimes a lot.

But then the famous Chinook would blow through, raising temperatures.

And melting said snow.

In a few hours, any accumulation would be limited to the ditches and snowbanks.

So when it snowed, and if one wanted to enjoy it, one had to move quickly.

Just FYI.

Someone was out in the yard.

Hollering.

I looked out the window onto a scene of glistening white.

And my oldest brother, Jerry, holding the family toboggan.

Squealing (and I do mean squealing) with delight, I donned snow pants, parka, boots, mittens, scarf and toque (it's a Canadian thing).

Remember what I said about the snow lasting a short time?

I donned them quickly.

In no time I was out with my brother.

All of our siblings joined us.

Well the oldest five.

The baby, Anita, wasn't coming.

Because.

Jerry sat our youngest brother, Blair on the toboggan, then turned and started pulling the sled towards the river.

The Stringam ranch proper had been built in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River. Any sled-able hills were on the opposite bank.

We trudged along behind Jerry and his sled.

Across the frozen river.

To the hills opposite.

For a couple of hours, we towed up and slid down.

Our shouts and screams of sheer happiness echoing across the wide, open prairie.

Finally, it was time to head home.

Dusk comes quickly, even in Southern Alberta.

And you don't want to try to walk home in the dark.

We crossed the river once more and climbed the hill to the house.

In the entryway, we peeled off layer after layer, laughing excitedly and telling Mom about our adventure.

She just smiled and nodded.

Then produced warm spudnuts (doughnuts made with mashed potatoes in the batter. Yum.) fresh from the oven, and gallons of hot chocolate.

Sigh.

The very best of days.

All Things Yummy

Mom was right about the cake . . .

My Baby Sister, aged two, had crawled up on my Mom’s lap.

It was cuddling time.

I should probably mention that this didn’t happen often.

Cuddling, I mean.

Oh, not because Mom didn’t wish it.

No.

It was because we couldn’t get Baby Sister to slow down long enough to stay in one place.

She was one of those children who are always as bit blurry around the edges.

Because they are moving so fast.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Cuddling time.

Mom held her close.

Then counted her tiny, pink toes.

And all of her fingers.

And finally poked her round little tummy.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Baby Sister looked at her and shrugged.

“Are there yummy things in there?”

Baby Sister looked at her tummy, lifting her little dress to see better. Then she looked back at Mom.

Mom went on. “Maybe there’s some cake and ice cream.”

Baby Sister’s eyes got wide.

“And some cookies. Maybe some pie and candy and pudding.”

With each new treat mentioned, Baby Sister’s blue eyes got wider and wider.

“And chocolate.”

Baby Sister could stand it no longer.

She pulled her dress up as far as she could. “Open it!” she said, pointing to her tummy. “Open it, Mommy!”
Enough talk. Let's get to the good stuff . . .

The Magic of Mail Order

Isn't it a beauty?

I had saved forever!

It was mine!

It's not fair!

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.

Okay, yes, they still do.

But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight.

At least it was for me.

Probably because it didn't happen often.

Getting stuff, I mean.

Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.

Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.

“Dad! Is there anything for me?”

He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”

“Diane!”

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

I got smarter. Or at least more efficient.

“Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”

But the answer seldom changed.

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.

Free stuff.

Really.

Lots and lots of it.

The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.

It was a whole new world.

I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff.

I sent out dozens of requests.

And started receiving packages in the mail.

Pictures.

Books.

Games and puzzles.

It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.

Now he no longer asked what my name was.

He simply handed me packages.

Ahhhh.

Valhalla.

Then I discovered something else.

I should mention here that Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.

For special times.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Desserts.

Tuesday.

We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.

Bummer.

But that was all right.

We received permission a lot.

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

That part comes now . . .

The ice cream treats had wrappers.

Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose.

Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.

From 'Popsicle Pete'. Whoever that was.

Offers for 'free' stuff.

Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.

But I digress . . .

If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.

I studied the selection.

I made my choice.

I hoarded my wrappers.

Did you know that counting and re-counting doesn't magically create more wrappers?

Just FYI.

Eons later, I finally had enough.

I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.

Knife?

Knife.

Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?

Oh it wasn't just any knife.

There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.

And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.

It was to become the heart of my collection.

Of stuff.

I sent out my wrappers.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.

I tore into the paper.

And triumphantly held up my knife.

Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post) Mom grabbed it.

“Diane! What are you doing with this?”

I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”

“You can't play with a knife!”

“I wasn't going to play with it!”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”

“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.

The one above the fridge.

The only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.

“Mom! I bought that!”

“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”

“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”

Ten?

Ten?!

That was forever!

I stared up at the cupboard.

Then at my Mom.

She couldn't possibly mean it.

“But . . . I bought it,” I said again.

Maybe it would have more impact this time.

“I know, dear,” Mom said.

“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.

That's when the tears started.

Even those failed to move her.

Sigh.

For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard.

Not to be discovered until we moved.

“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said.

I took it from her and looked at it.

“Cute.”

“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.

Age? Ten.

“Sure.”

I handed it to him.

One should never have to wait for their fun.

Professionals. Do Not Attempt This At Home

Okay, yes, this is me. But that is a genuine 4-H calf behind me.
See that head? Solid bone.

Have I ever mentioned that cows have a head comprised mostly of bone?

Seriously.

Their head is 99 % bone.

With a tiny little space for a walnut-sized brain.

Okay, well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

Their head can go through most anything.

Fences.

Doors.

Walls.

People.

You get them running and I swear they could go through solid concrete.

And laugh about it with their friends later.

That head is a force to contend with.

You get upwards of 2000 pounds of hair and hoofs going.

With a battering ram for a head.

And anything is possible.

And we puny little humans have to deal with these animals.

On a daily basis.

You want to talk about bravery?

True statistic: Dairy bulls kill more people annually than the grizzly bear.

Mind you, Dairy bulls usually have sharp, pointy things on that solid-bone head.

How can we make the situation just a bit more dangerous?

Put sharp, pointy things on it.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

Cow heads.

And puny humans.

On to my story . . .

Every fall, the eldest siblings in the Stringam household would happily show up for the organizational meeting of the Milk River 4-H Beef Club.

It was a highlight of the year.

They would then go out to the corral with Dad and choose a suitable calf to register in said club.

Then the work started.

I should remind you here, that I never really got involved in the whole ‘work’ part of the scenario.

That’s what brothers are for.

Moving on . . .

My oldest sister, Chris was a lot more ‘hands-on’ than her younger sibling.
So to speak.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Ahem . . .

She would go out and wash her calf.

Talk to it.

Put a halter on it and attempt to drag it around.

It was while attempting this last that she came to grief.

And pain.

Chris had been trying to train her calf (And I use this term lightly. Something the animal wasn’t.) to lead.

An important skill when you plan to have the animal in a show ring.

The calf wasn’t cooperating.

Chris pulled and pushed.

The calf also pulled and pushed.

In the opposite direction.

Chris became frustrated.

In an attempt to get the animal’s attention, she shaped her hand into the patented, TV-approved karate hold and . . . chopped.

Remember what I said about solid bone?

That would apply here.

You’ve heard the caution: Professional karate chopper. Do not attempt this at home.

Or something similar.

Well, such warnings should be heeded.

Chris heard the satisfying *crunch* of bone.

For a brief (very brief) moment, she thought, ‘Ha! Got you!’

Then the pain started.

Chris spent the next weeks in a cast to her elbow.

Cursing the thick-headedness of cattle in general.

And her 4-H calf in particular.

We thought it was funny.

We never let her know, though.

Because ironically, though that hand, cast-less, couldn’t make much of a dent in a solid bone calf head, that same hand, cast-ed, was a weapon of world class destruction.

Just FYI.