Thank you, Miss Wornoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Wornoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Wornoski had a list of words on a large flip chart.

And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it.

I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip.

Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room.

Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

Very well.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn.

Miss Wornoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled.

Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Wornoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Wornoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski.

You changed my life.

Pancakes With Mom

Breakfast.

One of the three best meals of the day.

And especially when one stumbled from bed into the kitchen and realized that Mom had the griddle out.

Mmmm. Pancakes.

The best of the best.

Mom's pancakes were famous.

Well in our world.

Light and fluffy and oh, so eat-able.

And when one started eating, one simply couldn't stop.

My record?

Twelve.

Dripping with butter and syrup.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When I started dating my Husby, I couldn't wait for him to taste my Mom's pancakes.

Fortunately for him, and his status as boyfriend without sleep-over benefits, there were times when she made them later in the day.

What is even better than breakfast for breakfast?

Breakfast for supper.

My Husby-to-be agreed that Mom's pancakes were truly remarkable.

So much so that he asked her for her recipe.

Now, you have to realize that, by this time, Mom had been making these same pancakes for nearly forty-five years.

She could do them in her sleep.

An important skill first thing in the morning.

But I digress . . .

“Hmm,” she said, frowning thoughtfully. “Sure I can give you the recipe.”

She then proceeded to list ingredients and amounts.

As she had been adding them for decades.

“A couple of scoops of flour. Eggs. Sugar. This much salt.” She held up finger and thumb pinched together. “A couple of cake spoons of baking powder. Milk to make it batter-y.”

My Husby-to-be was frantically scribbling, a slight frown between his brows. When he was done, he stared at what he had written. “Ummm . . . okay,” he said doubtfully.

And he went home and tried them.

Adjusted ingredients and tried again.

And again.

For over 36 years, he has been struggling to get it right.

He never has.

And Mom took the original recipe with her when she passed on.

Sigh.

I love pancakes.

I miss my Mom.

P.S. I'd give you the recipe, but it's a work in progress. I'll let you know . . .

Gazebo Geezer

Delores at The Feathered Nest supplied, for Photo Prompt Monday, this wonderfully peaceful picture of someone asleep in a gazebo.

Hmmm . . . gazebos

My Husby loves the movie, “The Sound of Music”.

In fact, if favourites were discussed, that title would probably be the first to come up.

Most particularly, he loves the gazebo scene.

And its accompanying song, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”.

Really loves it.

To the point that, if ever a gazebo is sighted, he has to run inside and sing.

Badly.

Really badly.

Badly on purpose.

Just to embarrass his kids.

He's very, very good at it.

Inevitably, after he has run joyfully to the gazebo and danced around inside for a few minutes, singing at the top of his lungs, his children have disappeared.

Totally.

Completely.

You thought children could disappear quickly in a shopping mall?

That doesn't even come close to how quickly they can vanish when their father-figure is embarrassing them.

Suddenly they have, quite literally, ceased to exist.

And they only reappear some time later.

When anyone – anyone – who might have witnessed their father's performance has defected and/or suffered an aneurism.

As my Husby has aged, the suitability of the words of the famous song have . . . lessened.

With his usual creativity, he has managed to 'age' the words to suit.

I include them for your perusal:

[him]

You wait, old girl, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light off

Your life, old girl, is a filled up page

About which you should not scoff.

Should not scoff.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Baby it's time to think

Better beware, be canny and careful

It's hard to be old, I think.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Old goats will get in line;

Eager old cads and nimble old dads

Will be wanting all of your time.

Totally unprepared are you

To face the world of time.

Timid and shy and scared are you

Of geritol and lime.

You need someone older and wiser

Telling you what to do!

I am seventy going on eighty -

I'll take care of you.

[her]

I am sixty going on seventy

I know that I'm naive

Old goats I meet may tell me I'm sweet

And willingly I believe.

I am sixty going on seventy

Beautiful as a rose

Widower dandies, wheelchair bandies

What do I want with those?

Totally unprepared am I

To take a man again.

Timid and shy and scared am I

Of geezers who call themselves men!

I need someone older and wiser

Telling me what to do.

You are seventy going on eighty,

I'll depend on you!

*  *  *

A word?

If you're walking with us out in public and a gazebo appears in the distance?

Distance yourself.

Cars I Have Known and Loved

The Great Pumpkin. As he was . . .

It started in college.

With Snoopy and The Great Pumpkin.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I love cars.

The older, the better, it's true.

But really, any cars.

When I went to college, my Dad put a down payment on a bright, new, orange beauty for me.

A Dodge Colt.

Any extra money I had was squandered on it.

Any extra time was spent under the expert tutelage of my older brother, traipsing through its inner workings.

We were inseparable, my car and me.

But it was my roommate at school who actually gave my beauty its name.

Debbie, said roommate, drove a little white Chevy.

Named Snoopy.

What else could she call my car but, The Great Pumpkin.

Okay, here's where I admit that the name suited.

The car was orange.

And kind of . . . round.

Great Pumpkin, it became.

And a new tradition was begun.

After the Pumpkin, we drove such darlings as: The Frog. Ralphie. Bluee. WagonHo. WagonHo 2. Lady. The Beast.

And a little firefly named Zippy.

Something to note: We fit my Husby, myself, an eleven-year-old, two nine-year-olds, a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, a two-year-old and a baby in a carseat into that sturdy little firefly.

And made it, unscathed, to church.

Sometime, I'll explain the logistics of such a feat.

Another aside: Our second son, Erik, he of the six foot eight inch height, ended up driving little Zippy. Watching him unfold from that compact little car was a treat in itself.

Back to my story . . .

I don't know where these names came from.

Sometimes, they resulted from some little quirk in a vehicle.

Sometimes from the appearance.

But they caught on.

To the point where people who weren't even in our family knew the names of our cars.

And used them accordingly.

Our children, too picked up the habit.

Our one daughter's family, for example, have driven, successively: Phoebe, Elene, Persephone and Owlyet (the last one named by their daughter).

Because.

Presently, my Husby and I are driving two elderly pick-up trucks.

A 1994 Dodge Dakota with a skin condition, appropriately named Scabbers.

And a 2000 GMC Sonoma, with a bit of a balky nature, encouragingly and hopefully called Everready.

All aboard!

Scaring the Scare-er

Blarney Manor House and Tree

My friend, Susan at The Contemplative Cat, posted this deliciously scary picture for Photo Prompt Monday.
It reminded me of something . . .

The Stringam kids loved a scary story.

Okay, yes, it usually meant that Diane couldn't sleep afterwards.

And needed to leave a light on.

Or, better yet, crawl in with my parents.

But still, I loved to be scared.

And my older sister, Chris was a master at scaring.

One who knew dozens of deliciously frightening tales.

It was a perfect partnership.

The scare-er and the easily - and very vocally - scared.

Chris would gather whatever siblings were near by.

And, with them cuddled close, launch into her current favourite.

Her soft voice would wind through the story, slowly spiralling up in volume and suspense . . .

Or suspenders, as my dad used to call it.

. . . to the end.

Her reward? Several squeaks of alarm as she loudly barked out the climactic line.

“I've got you!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Bloody boots!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Ivory soap floats!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Okay. I admit it. We were easily scared.

My parents were building a cabin on St. Mary's Lake.

The fact that it wasn't quite finished didn't deter us from actually using it.

In fact, our summer was usually spent . . . finishing.

We had finally gotten to the painting. Had actually spent most of yet another glorious summer morning doing just that.

Lunch was finished.

Chris had gathered my younger brother and I on our parent's bed.

For a few delightfully shivery minutes, we could have story time.

I should mention that, unbeknownst (Oooh, good word!) to us, Mom had finished the lunch dishes and returned to her painting.

Right outside the window of the room we were gathered in.

But I digress . . .

Chris was building to her usual grand finish.

“Bloody boots!”

Blair and I were completely absorbed.

“Bloody boots!”

We barely breathed.

“Bloody boots!”

Mom stuck her head through the window. “Bloody boots!”

Her timing and delivery were perfect.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Our story teller proved that she was as capable as any of us of being startled.

And Mom was rewarded with three squeaks of alarm.

A reward indeed.

Intended

When the daughter of my Dad's friend brought her future husband to meet her family, this is what her Dad told her.

The son-in-law never forgot it.

I just thought it would sound fun as a poem . . .

Intended

Her family had all been awaiting this call.

When they finally could meet her intended.

Unsure if a wedding ball'd ever befall

Or if spinster-hood ever portended.

But a young man, she'd met who was perfect, she'd bet,

In whose honour and love she felt sure.

So homeward, she'd set, their opinion to get,

And to tell her her choice would endure.

Her father shook hands with her sturdy young man

And questioned him closely a while.

They talked of his clan, and he asked him his plans,

Then he turned to his girl, with a smile.

“From all that I hear, you have nothing to fear.

But if his standards aren't mine and your mother's

Don't worry, my dear,” he said to her, clear.

“He'll be buried out back with the others!”

DIY Nature

Follow us! We know the way!

Our family was hiking.

The Fenlands Walk in beautiful Banff, Alberta.

A gorgeous two kilometres of shady trails, small bridges, and old forest next to the Bow River.

An easy walk for a group whose members ranged from six weeks to 69 years.

We discovered woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks, several ravens, and at least one bull elk.

Dozens of nests.

And, at last count, nine burrows.

Two members had fallen over tree roots and skinned their knees.

And one had to be nursed.

It was a fun, family type of outing.

Our favourite sort.

Beside the trail were the remains of a large, rotted tree.

A tree that had lived its life.

Perhaps a hundred years or so.

Been struck by lightening.

And then finished off by millions of carpenter ants.

A graceful, natural end to a monarch of the woods.

Our second son was explaining all of this to a rapt audience of five and six-year-olds.

He grabbed the top of the ancient trunk.

“And you see? This is what happened after the tree was killed,” he said, pulling it aside slightly to illustrate.

The entire trunk separated down the middle with a soggy crack.

Our son stared at the remains.

A bit stunned by what had just happened.

The kids were delighted.

They hadn't expected such a grand show on our little walk.

“Wow!” one of the cousins said to his son. “Your Dad just ripped that tree in half with his bare hands!”

His son looked up at him and grinned. “Yup,” he said, matter-of-factly. “My Dad is amazing.”

You can discover a lot of things when you walk through the woods with your family.

Not all of them are about nature.

Remembering

We are vacationing in Banff, Alberta.

To our family, the most beautiful little corner of the world.

Smelling the sun-baked pines as we hike.

Tasting the pure, clear water.

Renewing our up-close-and-personal relationship with the mountains and all things forest.

It is our 22^nd year at the Rocky Mountain Resort.

Our family was raised here.

Our kids learned to swim in that pool.

Lob tennis balls across the net in that court.

Work out in that gym.

Follow those trails.

Paddle down that river.

Wonderful, sunny, happy times.

Anticipated throughout the year.

Enjoyed fully and completely.

And given a fond farewell until the next time.

This year is a bit different.

Many of our kids are here.

With their kids.

Our little two-bedroom apartment has, of necessity, grown to three similar-sized units.

With a different family filling each one.

There is much scurrying down the porch or across the bridge to the other apartments.

Much giggling and laughter as the cousins play together.

Movie night takes up one entire living room/dining room/kitchen.

Just to accommodate the excited little watchers.

And we fill the pool.

One of our granddaughters, aged five, is just learning to swim.

For the first time, she announced that she no longer wanted to wear a life vest.

I was standing at one side of the pool as she swam to me from her mother on the opposite side.

“Kick your legs!” I called to her.

She swam furiously, finally touching my hands and standing up.

Glowing with accomplishment.

And quite suddenly, I was remembering saying and doing the exact same thing with her mother and aunts and uncles.

In the exact same spot.

I'm sure it was just yesterday.

Magic Elixir

Cool, clear water.

The Stringam ranch had plenty of it.

Soft.

Pure.

Clean.

There was only one thing distinctive about it.

And I do mean 'stinc'.

Let me illustrate with a little aside . . .

My Husby's Gramma used to give her kids a dose of 'spring tonic' every year.

It consisted of sulphur mixed in lard.

Eaten from a spoon.

Ick.

But she maintained that it kept them healthy.

Well, on the Stringam ranch, we never had to be dosed with this old wives remedy.

Because we got it merely by living there.

Yes, our water was right full of sulphur.

I am not making this up.

Our water was plentiful and healthful.

But reeked like rotten eggs.

The smell of it permeated everything and everyone.

And, oddly enough, we loved it.

We drank it.

Bathed in it.

Cleaned with it.

Offered it, chilled, to anyone who happened to drop by.

And snickered silently when they would hold their noses to drink it.

Poor, unenlightened visitors.

Our animals happily drank it, too.

In fact, when we took our cattle to show, we always had to take time to get them accustomed to the water in the new place.

Most places added chlorine.

Now THAT really stank.

And tasted worse.

I miss our good old sulphur water.

That elixir that kept us healthy and strong.

There is an addendum . . .

The people who bought the old ranch from us hauled their drinking water.

And finally drilled a new well.

I can only shake my head.

Strange, weird people.

Horse I.Q. Tests

Cute. Cuddly. And clever!

Horses are smart.

A little too smart.

At times, they are almost human in their need to be entertained.

Their ability to problem solve.

And their dislike of anything work-related.

Especially ponies.

The height-challenged members of the horse family.

One such pony, Shay, a little grey Welsh/Arab, was uncannily adept at removing riders.

She would run herself along the fence wall, scrubbing off any hapless humans who may have been astride.

Or, barring that, would duck her head and drop her rider . . . any rider . . . onto the ground.

Fortunately, it was a short drop.

In fact, she was so clever at removal, that the only way she could be controlled was to blindfold her.

That made for an interesting ride.

Nipper, a small, black Shetland cross had his own way of avoiding work.

Once his rider was aboard, he would immediately scurry – and I do mean scurry – under the clotheslines.

I should probably mention that there wasn't a lot of clearance.

Many a rider was quickly and neatly - with almost surgical precision – removed.

His patented technique was foiled however, when his rider, my sister, learned to duck.

Surprise turned to chagrin when he looked back after a clothesline pass and realized that his rider was still aboard.

Back to the drawing board.

Pinto, our cleverly named black and white Shetland pony, had the unique ability to ignore all attempts at enforcing a forward direction.

Or any form of speed.

Cajoling.

Kicking.

Shouting and screaming in frustration.

He was happily oblivious.

His downfall came when his rider – me – learned to lead him far, far from home.

Then mount up and turn his head back towards the barn.

Man, those little legs could go.

Star, another Shetland with a – go figure – star on his forehead, was actually quite well-mannered.

Until there were other horses around.

He was definitely one who was influenced by the company he kept.

Then his innate talent would show itself.

He could ignore any and all attempts at enforcement-by-rein and follow the crowd.

Carrying his little, red-faced passenger to the nearest far-away place.

When these ponies weren't being called upon to perform menial service, they could be found, at any and all hours, with their heads in the feed trough.

The only thing that surpassed their ability to avoid work was their ability to eat.

Why did we keep them around?

They were short and easy to get on.

They were gentle.

And if we could make them do what we wanted, we could handle any problem.

Anytime.

Anywhere.

Education by pony.

It should be a course in college.

Ummm . . . Okay, Dad

Who knew listening to their music could be so . . . educational.

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around,
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

It was 1966.

My cousin, Jody, and I had just discovered the wonderful, magical, empowering world of rock and roll.

And LP records.

The perfect pairing.

Now we could listen to the exciting new music whenever and however we wanted.

Which was all of the time.

And loudly.

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees . . .

Was driving itself like a hammer throughout the house.

For probably the 15^th time that day.

I should probably mention that the only record-player I had access to, was my parents'.

In the front room.

“Diane!”

Over the music, I vaguely made out the sound of my Mother's voice.

I looked up.

She was standing beside us.

“Would you PLEASE turn that down?”

I turned the knob.

A bit.

“What?”

Mom sighed.

Audibly.

“I just wanted you to turn it down.”

I looked at the record player. “I did.”

She sighed again. “Diane. You have been playing that record over and over all day. Can't you think of something else to do? Or something else to play?”

“No.”

“Well, I'm not going to keep coming out here to tell you to turn it down!”

“Okay.”

Now what she had said, and what I had just heard, were two different things.

She had been voicing a threat.

I had understood that she wasn't going to bother us any more.

She left.

Happily, I turned up Jody's and my music once more.

I never heard my Dad's approach.

Let's face it, I wouldn't have heard the approach of an entire herd of water buffalo.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the two of us, sitting there on the floor in front of the record player.

A large shadow.

I looked up.

Just in time to see my Dad reach out, lift the needle from the record.

Remove said record.

And snap it in two.

Oh, my.

He handed the pieces back to me.

“You mother told you,” he said.

I stared at the broken record, aghast.

“But . . . but it was Jody's,” I managed, finally.

Dad shrugged. “I guess you should have listened to your mother,” he said.

Then he left.

Jody and I stared at each other.

Then we quickly gathered up our remaining records and carried them to safety.

I think I bought her a new one.

I don't remember.

I'll never forget the lesson.

And neither will Jody.

Following that . . . incident, whenever someone in her family looked like they might lose their temper, they would immediately be told, “Don't pull a Mark Stringam!”

Ah, lessons taught by my Dad.

And his friends, the Monkees.

Authority

Would you argue with that face?

What is it about some people?

They can walk into a room and you know, instantly, that they are a force to be reaconed with.

Growing up, my Dad was like that.

He had a terrific sense of humour.

But if he ever cleared his throat and gave you that blue-eyed stare.

You ran for cover.

And it wasn't even as though there was a threat of violence.

Although his knuckle, properly applied to the top of one's head, could roll your eyes around a bit.

Nope.

He just had 'it'.

Dad was the family disciplinarian.

Oh, Mom tried.

She did a lot of talking.

Actually got quite animated.

But it was Dad who was instantly obeyed.

And it carried forward into the next generation.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

My Husby and I had gone out for the evening.

Our (then) three boys were being cared for by my parents.

It had been a fun time for them.

Games with Gramma and Grampa.

TV.

Supper.

And then, bedtime.

Gramma bathed them.

Dressed them in clean pyjamas.

And tucked them into bed.

The youngest in a crib.

The two oldest in the double bed in the spare room.

All were told, firmly, to go to sleep.

Only the baby obeyed.

The older two laughed and giggled.

Bounced and played.

Several times, Gramma marched in.

Demanding quiet and slumber.

She was given neither.

Finally, she brought in the big guns.

She sent Grampa.

My Dad opened the bedroom door.

Two little boys turned to look at him.

“That's enough!” he said. “Sleep!”

Then he closed the door.

Silence descended.

A while later, Mom went to check on the boys.

Both were sound asleep.

But how they were asleep.

She gently closed the door and returned to the front room.

“Mark, what were the boys doing when you went to the bedroom door?”

Dad looked up and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know,” he said.

Mom said, “Come with me.”

The two of them went back to the bedroom.

Mom opened the door once more and motioned for Dad to look.

Mark, Jr. was sitting up, leaning against the headboard.

Erik was laying on his side, propped up on one elbow.

Both were sound asleep.

Dad looked at them. “Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

They had passed out almost the instant Dad had ordered it.

Now that's authority.

First Heartthrob

See? C.U.T.E.

How had I never noticed this before?

How long had this been going on?

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was at the movies.

Something the kids in my family did at least once a week.

The highlight of said week.

This particular picture was a western.

My favourite.

But something was different this time.

Oh, there were the usual items of interest.

Horses.

Lots and lots of horses.

And I think there were cattle also.

But for the first time, I noticed that there were also . . . cowboys.

Huh.

When did they get there?

One cowboy, in particular, caught my attention.

Black-haired and lithe.

Slim and well-muscled.

And oh-so-delicious in jeans and boots.

Wow!

No wonder people liked westerns so much.

And I had thought they came, like me, to see the horses.

I was glued to the screen every time he appeared.

Which proved to be frequent.

Being as he was the star of the picture.

I was so enraptured that I didn't follow much of the story.

Oh, there were a couple of noteworthy parts.

One, in particular, featured one of the secondary cowboys being captured by bad guys and then creatively tortured with cactus needles within earshot of his buddies.

The next morning, his badly abused body was dropped in the middle of their camp.

I will admit it. It made me sick.

Literally.

For two days.

But even that horrifying scene couldn't dim the splendour of my new hero as he saved the day.

I watched eagerly for his name to be mentioned in the end credits.

Audie Murphy.

I said the name over and over.

Committing it to memory.

Then I headed home.

“Mom, did you know that there are really cute guys in movies?”

My Mom stared at me. “Umm . . . yes,” she said, rather cautiously.

This was a new topic of conversation for me and I'm sure she was wondering where I was going with this.

“Well, the movie I just saw starred the cutest guy ever!” I said enthusiastically.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “His name was Audie Murphy! Oh, Mom he was soooo cute!”

“Audie Murphy? THE Audie Murphy?”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Have you seen the picture?”

Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “But I used to drool over Audie Murphy when I was your age!”

Now it was my turn to stare. “Really?”

“Oh, I was so in love with him!”

“Huh,” I said and headed for my room.

My mom had been – had been – in love with my hero when she was my age?

He was . . . old?

Suddenly, in my mind, the handsome face I had seen in the movie started to undergo . . . changes.

Lines appeared.

Grey hairs.

False teeth.

Okay, I admit it, I have a good imagination.

I never saw my new/old hero again.

I think the movie I had seen was his last.

Newer, younger heroes took his place in my world.

Heroes that my Mom had never dreamed about.

But, oddly enough, at this end of my life, it's Audie Murphy that I think of when someone mentions their screen heartthrobs.

I guess it's true.

First love is always the sweetest.

A Good Prank

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably explain that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers.

And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

I love it.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite.

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterwards, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.

That's Some Cat!

My Kitty

We had two Jersey milk cows.

Jerseys are small, light brown, gentle cattle.

With enormous, soft brown eyes.

They are a joy to work with.

Easy to milk.

Patient and quiet.

These two cows came to us already named.

Okay, the names weren't all that creative, I will admit.

Or suitable.

Still, they stuck.

The taller cow was Bunny.

The one a trifle shorter? Kitty.

See?

The two of them gave us enough milk to supply our needs.

As well as the dairy needs of half the countryside.

We drank the milk.

Separated out the rich cream.

Churned butter.

For three years, we lived in Jersey heaven.

I had a friend who travelled about the area cutting hair.

Her skills were required at our farm every six weeks.

Obligingly, she showed up.

Scissors in hand.

To cut an endless parade of shaggy heads.

On one occasion, I was busily churning a batch of butter.

My friend was working in one of the kitchen.

Me and my butter were positioned in the other end.

As she worked, she kept one eye on what I was doing.

Finally, she had to ask.

“So, where do you get your milk?”

I smiled. “From my Bunny,” I said.

Her eyes got big. “From your . . .?”

My daughter interrupted. “No, Mom. This milk came from Kitty!”

“Oh, yes.” I looked at my friend.”From my Kitty,” I amended.

Her eyes got bigger as she stared at the enormous amount in the butter churn. “You actually . . . milk . . . a kitty?” she gasped out.

For a moment, we stared at each other.

“Yes . . . I . . .” I stopped.

I suddenly understood her confusion.

I laughed. Not a real kitty,” I said. “A cow, named Kitty.”

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “For a minute, I wondered.”

I had a sudden mental picture of trying to milk a cat.

It wasn't pretty.

Then I glanced at the two gallons of milk in the churn.

Yep. I understood my friend's look of astonishment.

That would have had to be some cat.

Someone's History

The new ranch, nestled in the Porcupine Hills.

When I was seventeen, my Dad sold the Stringam Ranch in Milk River.

And bought another ranch in the shadow of the Porcupine Hills near Fort Macleod, Alberta.

New land to explore.

New worlds to discover.

A lot of riding to do.

Dad immediately got the animals organized.

The main herd was pushed into the southeast quarter.

Where the *gasp* trees were.

The yearling herd went straight east.

Easy access to the main ranch buildings.

They were my first assignment.

Every day, it was my duty to ride through, checking for abnormalities.

Animals in distress.

Animals in trouble.

Animals donning gang colours and getting ready to cause some trouble and distress.

It was a relaxing, wonderful way to spend every morning.

Our east pasture bordered on the neighbour’s west pasture.

Together, they formed a broad sweep of prairie, unbroken and untreed.

I was able to look over the gate in the far east fence and across the neighbour’s property - almost to the highway, seven miles distant.

Not far away, I could see the roof of a building. A large, abandoned building.

A barn, I thought.

It demanded . . . more exploration.

I knew the neighbor wouldn’t mind.

I opened the gate and, closing it carefully behind me, started out.

A short time later, I stopped my horse beside what turned out to be, not a barn, but a two-storey, formerly beautiful house.

Abandoned for some years, I judged by the windowless, shingleless, paintless, doorless condition.

Perfect.

I tethered my horse and went in through what had once been the front entrance.

I was immediately in a large open room.

Trash and debris were littered about, including a huge, old, wood-burning kitchen stove.

I moved nearer.

It had been a beautiful piece. Probably top of the line.

Nickel-plated and fancy.

Someone had used it for target practice.

Large holes had been blown through the doors and walls.

Shotgun, I believe.

I sighed and moved on.

In one of the bedrooms, the shelves were filled with . . . stuff.

I pulled out an old shoebox filled with letters written eighty years before, from a girl who had moved east, to her parents still on the family farm.

Fascinating reading.

I stuffed the shoe box back on the shelf and continued exploring.

A set of stairs beckoned.

I climbed to the second story.

Which proved to be one large room.

The windows at either end were, like those on the first floor, gone.

A layer of bird droppings about six inches thick covered everything here.

Clothing and other personal belongings were discernible.

Barely.

There were some boxes against one end.

I pulled them nearer the window and scooped away the decades of bird manure.

The boxes were filled with old ‘Life’ magazines.

The kind you pay mega bucks for at the antique stores.

Some of them dated back to 1903.

For a moment, I pictured stuffing my saddlebags full and riding away with a small fortune.

If only I had saddlebags.

Then, the smell hit me.

Oh, dear.

I dug down through the pile and pulled out a magazine from near the bottom.

Then moved closer to the window and held it to my nose.

Ugh.

Did you know that decades of bird poop really smells?

Well, it does.

And, over the years, it had trickled down through the pile of magazines to those at the very bottom.

Sigh.

Visions of wealth and riches disappeared.

Who is going to buy a magazine soaked in bird manure?

I put the magazine back and returned to my horse.

For a moment, I looked up at the house.

It had been a beautiful building.

Someone had constructed it.

Moved in.

Lived.

Then they had abandoned it.

I don’t know why.

But doesn’t it make your imagination soar?

The Ugly Tourist

See? Invisible!

A Guest Post by Grant Tolley

Tourist.

The word evokes many images – almost all of them negative – in the mind of anyone who is not one.  Yet, it cannot cease to amaze one, that we can despise the tourist in others, while adopting so many of those . . . er . . . interesting characteristics when on vacation ourselves.

My wife and I recently toured the islands of Greece.  I am an anthropologist by training, so invariably we spend a lot of time people-watching, as well as enjoying the sights and scenery.  While overall it was a truly memorable and delightful trip, we inevitably encountered a variety of tourists, exhibiting a variety of ‘touristy’ characteristics, all of which we tried desperately to avoid, even though we were, technically, in the ranks.

I swear that what follows is an accurate representation of our observations of fellow tourists.

The Loud Tourist

This category of tourist has a number of sub-groups.

The first is The FogHorn Tourist. 

This is the traveller who doesn’t seem to mind announcing, at 100+ decibels, intimate details of their life to the entire world.

 “But Henry, I’m sure I packed your hemorrhoid salve!  That’s just awful, to get hemorrhoids.  And on your birthday too!”

I’ve heard a lot of sad tales, but I’ve never heard of hemorrhoids appearing on someone’s birthday. I always thought they appeared somewhere else.

And another FogHorn, who told the following tale of woe :

“I was so sick! First I was throwing up.  My supper and everything! And then I had diarrhea all night! Oh, I tell you, Mildred, it was just awful!  I didn’t know which end was which!”

No comment.  I only hope that at half time, she switched ends.

Second in the Loud Tourist category is The Anglocentric Tourist.  This is the one who believes that any foreigner can understand English if it is spoken slowly, and loudly enough.

“Toi-let pa-per.  Toilet paper.  You know [insert largely obscene but mostly incomprehensible hand gestures here], TOILET paper.  In the BATHroom.  TOI-LLL-LET! TOI-LET-PA-PER! IT’S ALL OUT! IN THE TOI-LET!! [more incomprehensible hand gestures]”

One can only smirk when, at the end of this performance, the hotel clerk says, with a straight face and in Oxford English: “We’ll look after it right away, madam.”

The third sub-group in the Loud Tourist category is The Airhead Student Tourist.  This category consists of students fresh out of a college semester, who apparently are touring exotic lands for the first time.  They can be both Loud and Ugly, and for all their education, are seemingly under the impression that because they are in a non-English-speaking country, they are the only ones on the bus who actually speak English.

The following particular pair stood eight feet apart during a 45-minute bus ride, sharing their intimacies with – they thought – no one, again at 100+ decibels.

“They didn’t check my ticket.  How do they know I paid?”

“Well, like, when I first came, I thought the same thing, so once I didn’t buy a ticket, and the ticket inspector came and asked me, and I, like, totally freaked, and they hauled me down to the police station, and I was, like, totally hysterical, and then you know what?  Like, then I got my period, and it was just awful, a big mess, and I started crying, and they still fined me 65 Euros, and then they let me go, but on the way home, I was attacked . . . ”

After 20 minutes or so of this, the conversation turned to :

“I am so jealous of you, you’ve had so many loves in your life!  Like Jeff.  Was he, like, a major love, or just a mini-love?”

“Well, he was kind of a mini-love, but turned into a major love, and I was, like, so totally in love with him, but he dumped me, and I was sad, but I got over it quickly . . .”

When this pair got off the bus, someone behind us breathed out an exasperated “Thank goodness that’s over!”  We were not alone.

The High-Tech Tourist
This is the tourist who carries:

·         a regular camera

·         a digital camera

·         a video camera (sometimes two)

·         a cell phone

·         an electronic chronometer watch

·         a digital light meter

·         a GPS indicator

·         a Palm Pilot

·         a Walkman

·         several other indistinguishable gizmos

This particular breed of tourist becomes totally dysfunctional when something – anything – beeps.  I took perverse delight in sidling up close behind High-Tech tourists and making the alarm on his watch beep.  I have to admit that the unfortunate victim looked like a human windmill as he tried to figure out which toy was making the noise.

The Bleary-Eyed Bar Tourist

Truly amazing to us were the people who spent thousands to travel half-way around the world, only to spend thousands more getting plastered, day after day, in the hotel bar.  There were a few on this most recent trip.

“Why, shore, when I [hiccup] was in Australia, they got good wine there, you know [urp], the bar at the Hilton had ‘em all, it was great . . . [hiccup] . . . an' I even got to see one of them weird kangaroo thingys . . . "

 The Map-Impaired Tourist

 These hapless souls are the ones standing on a corner peering at the street signs, while wrestling with an indecipherable, gigantic map that is desperately trying to be a kite instead of a map.

The same ones you will see, two hours later, on another corner a block away, with the same map.

In the same wind.

And the same helpless, confused look on their faces.

“Harriet, I know we’ve been here before.  I remember this bakery.”

“Are you sure, Harry?  I don’t remember a bakery.  I don’t recognise anything!”

Harry then squints at the street sign.

Harry then turns the map upside down. 

And peers at the street sign again.

And at the bakery again.

“Just give me a minute.  I’ll figure this out.  What street is our hotel on again??”

The Know-it-All Tourist

 “Look, honey, your favorite perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  Look at the price!  It’s really cheap here.”

And suddenly a helpful, friendly third voice joins the conversation.  It is the Know-it-All tourist standing next to you who jumps in to show off his or her supposed knowledge about the country you are visiting.

Or anything else.

“Oh, yes! It’s because Greece is part of the European Union now, and they can get things from other countries in Europe really cheap.  That’s a marvellous French perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  That means Birds in Flight, you know.  I’ve been to France three times now . . . . . ”

The Obnoxious Tourist

 “Take this back!  This is . . . this is disgusting.”

The Obnoxious Tourist is rejecting his meal in a four-star restaurant.

As loudly as he can.  For the whole restaurant to hear.

“But sir,” objects the server in her faltering English, “eet is zackly what you order.”

“I didn’t order no #@&% rabbit-food crap like this!”

“Sir? Did you not order the horiatiki?”

“No, @#$%&*.  I ordered the @#$&% Greek salad!”

“But sir, that is what horiatiki means.  Greek salad.”

“Well, %$#*& it, why didn’t you tell me there were $%#$ black olives in it!  I hate olives!  They don’t make Greek salad like this back home.  Why don’t you @#$%& foreigners learn how to make it right!”

The Insensitive Tourist

 There are several sub-species in this category as well.

First is the Intellectually Insensitive Tourist, (as in just plain stupid).

“Sir? Sir! Sir, please don’t touch . . . Sir, please don’t climb on the statue!  Sir! Sir!? . . . . Security!!”

Next is the Socially Insensitive Tourist.

“Sir, this is a no-smoking area . . . .No, sir, that rule applies to everyone, not just to Greeks.”

And, there is always the Culturally Insensitive Tourist.

“Excuse me, sir, like the sign says, photography is not allowed in the Church . . . . well, sir, because it is a sacred place, sir . . . . well, maybe not to you, but it is to the local people, and out of respect . . . . How would you feel . . . . Oh, I see, well . . . er . . . Churches are places where millions of people go to worship . . . . “

The Invisible Tourist

 Alas, I must confess, we fall into this category.

We try hard to blend in.

Not to be Loud.

Or Insensitive.

Or Obnoxious.

Or Anglocentric.

We try desperately to learn a few phrases of the local language, and practise them rigorously.

We eat the local food.

And pretend hard that we omnivores really enjoy boiled octopus and eggplant mush.

We take the bus.  And the subway.  We refuse to be seen emerging from a taxi.

We are invisible.

At least, we would like to believe no one can tell that we are that most abominable of creatures, tourists.

But still, people know.

Somehow, they know.

They speak to us first in English.

How could they tell?

Maybe it’s the lobster-red, sunburned noses.

Maybe it’s the broad-brimmed sun hats we wear, out of mercy for our noses. 

The ones in which no self-respecting Greek would be caught dead.

I think I get it now. 

Maybe it’s the small Canadian flag.

Embroidered on our shirts. 

And the flag pins on our hats.

And the ten pound camera hung unobtrusively around our necks.

And the brilliant whiteness of winter legs sticking out of really scary Bermuda shorts . . .

Maybe we're not so invisible after all . . . .