Definitely Unforgettable

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw.

He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

'Studying' Biology

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teachers notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lots of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not.

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

Jerry

Today is my big brother's birthday!

This post is for him . . .

Jerry. My Hero. Age two.

I have two elder brothers, Jerry and George. 

The banes of my existence when I was four. 

This story is about Jerry. George gets his own.
-------------------------------------------------------
Jerry is my oldest brother. The one, chosen by the rest of us, most likely to be just like Dad. In my earliest memories of him, he is working. Hoeing the garden, mending fence, riding, milking cows. Always busy. Always cheerful.
Always teasing. 
He could put just the right inflection on the most innocent of phrases and it was enough to send his middle sister into paroxysms of anger. 

His favourite? “Oh, Diane!” Pronounced more like, “Oh, Di-Ane!” 

With the buffer of many years, it doesn’t seem so bad. Rather cute, really. But at the time, it was enough to set me off like a miniature Mount Vesuvius. 
Okay, so that particular volcano runs in our family. 

You should have seen George when Jerry used his favourite phrase on him! ‘Pimple pants’. 
Pimple pants? 
Now where would that have come from? And, more importantly, how does one get . . . never mind.
But the old phrase, “If we hated you, we’d ignore you,” certainly applied to Jerry. He must have truly loved us. He’d take us everywhere. Riding. Sledding. Swimming. Exploring. You’d just have to be prepared to put up with the teasing.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry was the most amazing swimmer. He was the only one of us kids who could make headway against the current of the river. The rest of us were pretty proud when we could hold our own. That wasn’t good enough for Jerry. He would dive in and battle the current. And win. Races against him were moot. How could you even contemplate winning against the only ‘current defeater’ in the family?

The one good thing about the constant competition, however, was that when we were given swimming lessons, we could out swim all of the other kids. We weren’t weak swimmers.
Just weak against Jerry.
---------------------------------------------------
Dad had purchased a small ranch in the Coaldale area. Over an hour from the Milk River spread. A logistical nightmare for one man to run. But an adventure if said man put his four eldest kids on one of the ranches for the summer.
Which he did.
Soon after we took possession, however, we discovered an entirely unexpected crop which our new ranch produced in abundance.

Rattlesnakes. 

Big ones.

Jerry and George were hauling in the hay. Jerry on top of the stack . . . ummm . . . stacking. George tossing bales up to him. Jerry sat down on a bale, waiting for George to bring in the next stook. Just as his butt touched the bale, he heard the unmistakable, ‘tell-tail’ sound of a rattler. 

Sure enough, curled there at his feet was a small rattler, poised to strike.

Without conscious thought, Jerry pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then, boys being boys, the two of them closed in for the kill.
Sometime later, I was interrupted from my morning chore of . . . doing nothing . . . by the ring of the doorbell. Excited at the prospect of company, I raced for the door, only to discover – no one. 

I opened the door for a better view. Maybe someone was . . . you know . . . pressed up tightly against the wall so they couldn’t be seen from the doorway.
There, coiled neatly on the front step was a rattler. I never really noticed that it was rather . . . lifeless. 

Panic first, think after. That’s my motto. 

I screamed, and almost pitched backwards down the stairs. 
Then I heard laughter. And saw two brothers’ sunburned faces peeking around the door. “Did it scare you?”
No, this is my usual slap-dash method of pitching down stairs, but thanks for thinking of me. 
---------------------------------------------------------------
My friends wanted to walk into town and visit Charley’s. 

The soda shop hang-out. 

But I needed money. And neither of my parents were anywhere around. In disgust, I kicked at the dusty road and resigned myself to sitting and watching everyone else consume floats or shakes. Maybe, out of pity, offer me a sip.
Sigh.
Suddenly, Jerry emerged from the feed lot. The answer to my prayers. Maybe he would lend me a dime, or if I was really lucky, a quarter.
Okay, so my expectations weren’t very high.
I asked him. He grinned. One of two things was going to happen. Either he’d lend me money. 

Or tease me. 

And then lend me money. 
The day was mine.
“You can have all the money that’s in my pocket,” he said.
Uh-oh. A trick. He must be a broke as I. 
He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . . a handful of change. 

Pennines, dimes, nickels, quarters. I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. 

And he poured the glittering contents – all of it – into my waiting hands. I had enough for . . . anything . . . everything. 

He just smiled. And went to start chores.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry was out in the feedlot, feeding the yearling bulls.
Now let me point out here that yearling bulls are just like puppies. They love to play. And chase each other. And play. The major difference is that they weigh in the neighbourhood of 1600 pounds. A bit larger than your average pooch.
I had decided that I wanted to be where Jerry was. Maybe I could help. 

Or get in the way. 

I was equally good at both. 
I climbed the heavy board fence and sat on the top rail, watching. Jerry was pouring buckets of feed into the troughs and the bulls were delicately picking at it. Politely allowing everyone his own space. 
Not.
When feeding cattle, pushing and shoving is the norm. Reaching over or under your neighbour to get that tasty morsel directly in front of him - equally common. Manners flee when a bucket of grain comes into sight. 
For some time, this supper brawl fascinated me. I watched as these overly-muscled and underly-intelligent ‘adolescents’ bickered and fought over their evening meal. But as with anything, watching soon became boredom and I wanted to be in there. Ummm . . . helping. I scrambled down off the fence and started towards my brother. 
One young ‘Four-Footed Apollo’ spotted me. Someone to play with! He bounced towards me in his finest ‘let’s play!’ mode. 
The invitation on his part was misunderstood on mine.
All I saw was a mass of solid muscle, encased in a red hide, coming at me, death in his soft brown eyes. 

I screamed. 

And ran. 

Which was exactly what the bull was looking for. He followed. Still bouncing. This was fun!
I reached the fence just as my brother entered the fray. 

With a 5-gallon pail in one hand and an aluminum grain shovel in the other, he went for my attacker.
He swung the empty bucket at one side of the bull’s rump. That got his attention. Then, with the same accuracy and effectiveness, he bounced the shovel off the other side. The bull immediately forgot his erstwhile game with me and started back across the corral with Jerry in hot pursuit. Swinging the bucket, then the shovel, my brother chased the thoroughly frightened young bull, shouting with each blow, “Leave. My. Sister. Alone!”
My hero.

Another Winner!

We have a winner in the Thankful for Books Giveaway hop sponsored by I'm a Reader Not a Writer and Tristi Pinkston!

Lolawid from Books are my Friends and My Top Three has won!

Congratulations!

A set of Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels will be heading to the United States this time!

Thank you to everyone who entered.
I so wish I could give a set of my books to each of you!
Thank you for your support!
Diane

Claustrophobedience

Mom and I were visiting at my Auntie's house.

An innocent enough activity.

And from it, I got claustrophobia.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mom and Auntie were in the kitchen chatting over cups of tea and home baked goodies.

My cousin and I had already done the rounds of the dessert tray.

Several times.

We retired upstairs to more important matters.

Play.

One of the bedrooms upstairs had no furniture in it.

Or at least, I can't remember any.

But it did hold a large carpet.

Rolled into a neat bundle.

It looked like a hot dog.

Let's face it. In my world, everything resembled food.

Moving on . . .

Suddenly, I got a marvellous idea.

“Let's play 'Hot Dog'!” I told my cousin.

“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, as though she knew exactly what I was talking about.

Which she didn't.

I unrolled the carpet and lay down at the edge.

“Okay. Now roll me up,” I commanded.

She did.

Cool!

Fun!

Neat!

Wait . . . I can't breathe!!!

I began to scream.

Okay, I could probably still breathe.

The ability to scream would indicate this.

My cousin, understandably concerned, stared at me.

Or at the rug that contained me.

I struggled mightily and finally, managed to extricate myself.

I headed for the nearest safe place.

My Mom.

I burst into the kitchen, every white-blonde hair standing on end and eyes like saucers.

“Mom! I nearly died!!!”

Okay, so melodrama and me were close, personal friends.

Mom set down her teacup and looked at me. “What?”

“I nearly died! I couldn't breathe!”

Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“We were playing 'Hot Dog',” I told her.

She stared at me. “Hot Dog?”

“Yeah with the carpet. And I was the hot dog. And I rolled up . . .”

Suddenly, Mom understood. “Oh.” She gave me a stern look. “Diane, don't do that again!”

I admit that I often disobeyed my Mom.

Often quite deliberately.

But this time, I listened.

I like to think it was because I discovered the joy of obedience.

But, actually, I think it's because I discovered claustrophobia.

Obedience would have been more fun.

Through the Eyes of Our Soldier

A repost for Remembrance Day:

Erik, right and a colleague, Larry.
 On the back of the picture, it says: 'I'm the one in green'.

Remembrance Day.

A day set aside to think about all of the people who have served us by laying down their lives.

And who are risking their lives today.

The ultimate sacrifice.

My thoughts are turned to the times when my husband and I have toured memorials around the world.

The military cemetery in Cambridge, England, where we had to leave because I was crying.

The Vietnam memorial in Washington. DC, when we watched a worker do a 'rubbing' for the brother of a fallen soldier, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The bunkers on the beach in Normandy, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The tiny military museum in the English countryside that we had to leave because . . . I think I'm beginning to see a pattern.

My second son served for eight years as an engineer/mine specialist in the Canadian army.

Including a peace-keeping mission in Bosnia. (When he returned home, he walked over to the lawn and just stood there. When asked why, he said, "I haven't been able to simply walk over and stand on grass for 10 months. This feels wonderful!)

I thought it particularly appropriate to include excerpts from some of his letters home . . .

Be warned, he was a soldier and had a wicked sense of humor and . . . opinions . . .

14 June

Greeting, Earth Dwellers,

The average temperature is currently hovering around +34C, which it has been all week. My secretary, Aida, was translating the radio for me and told me that these temperatures are the hottest in 68 years. Boy, are we lucky. The humidity is about 10000000% on top of that, so as you towel off from your freezing shower, the water droplets are replaced by sweat droplets as fast as you can wipe them off. I'm drinking 10 liters of water a day. 4 of them during my workout alone. Just crazy.

*  *  *

I forget what the date is, July something.

Hi, everybody!

I hope you all had fun at camp this last week, You'd better have. I had a lot of fun diving on the island of Vis. Even without the diving, the scenery was unbelievable. Except for the old ladies on the beach without tops on. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! That sort of thing could scar me for life. It should be illegal. Fortunately, I spent lots of time under water. I even held an octopus. He wasn't impressed. His suction cups felt really neat, though. The laser vision burns, though. Who knew octopus could cook their own food? National Geographic had taught menothing!

NOTHING!

Calm now.

*  *  *

I'm doing well, since you asked. I just drove here for the first time yesterday, and I had a lot of fun. The road signs are just a vague suggestion to the motorists here, so I had to adjust my driving doctrine to suit the conditions. Basically, we speed everywhere, and pass when we want to. Even driving like a maniac, my boss, Major Thelwell, says that I'm the safest driver she's seen here. I can't wait to drive around with her at the helm. Apparently I'm in for an exciting trip.

Later this week, I get to drive to Banja Luka on Tuesday, Zgon on Wednesday (it's right beside Kluc on the map, if you're looking for it), and then we go to Sarajevo by way of Tuzla on Thursday, returning on Friday by going through Kakanj. Basically, I get to see the whole country in a week. Sarajevo will be fun, I think.

Please send pictures of the dogs. I told my assistant, Aida about them and she wants to see them. There are a lot of dogs around here, but most are the end result of decades of hasty, unplanned dog sex. There was a cute little puppy who lives in the entrance bunker at the camp in Zgon, though. He was there with all the guards who were dressed in their fighting gear, and he was inspecting our vehicle while we talked to the guards. What a little cutie. I think he was a little Doberman without a docked tail, and no doubt he gets away with murder at the guard bunker. Fortunately, everyone seems to like Canadians.

*  *  *

The Book of Bosnia

Chapter One

1. And it came to pass that the soldiers of the Queen did go forth into the land of Bosnia, to bring a lasting peace unto the land.

2. And the soldiers did look about them and did see many peoples throughout the land, and behold, the land was bountiful, and beautiful to be seen.

3. And it came to pass that there was a spirit of contention throughout the land, causing much death and destruction.

4. And the soldiers dwelt in a tent.

5. Now the soldiers went forth unto the people, saying:

6. What is wrong with you people?

7. Lo, these words were heard by many, and the people did listen. But the people did not speak English, so they did continue to fight, and ignored the Queen's soldiers.

8. And there was no air-conditioning to be had.

9. Now the soldiers were angry, because the people were fighting among themselves, and many people had died. Plus one leg had fallen off their foosball table, which did enrage them.

10. Therefore, the soldiers did cry out to their Lord:

11. "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken this land?"

12. And the Lord did hear the cry of the soldiers, and did pity them, and did say unto them:

13. "Quit whining! For crying out loud. You sound like a bunch of little girls!"

14. And many great and glorious things did the Lord speak unto the disgruntled soldiers in this manner, until the soldier's hearts were softened and they did fall to the earth in amazement.

15. Lo, their parachutes had not opened.

16. Now the soldiers were of the mind that the Lord had played a rotten trick on them, what with the parachutes and all, so therefore the soldiers did decide to bring peace unto the land of Bosnia by circumventing Him.

12. And it came to pass that the soldiers did cry unto a false god.

18. And this false god was called Chrétien, the father of lies, the ancient enemy of all men.

19. And Chrétien did speak words unto the soldiers, but the soldiers were deceived, and did misunderstand his words, since Chrétien cannot speak any mortal language.

20. And it came to pass that the soldiers began to wander aimlessly throughout the land, and their faith did diminish, and they forsook the false god Chrétien, and did end their days as wanderers, eating berries and kittens and other nasty stuff.

21. And peace was brought by Superman, and there was much rejoicing.

Our Family Music

I was raised with good music.

Differing styles and tastes.

But all good music.

Let me tell you about it . . .

When Mom got up in the morning to start breakfast, the first thing she turned on was the radio.

Her music of choice?

Country.

I grew up on the sounds of Jim Reeves, Hank Snow, Marty Robbins, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Sr. and The Carter Family, interspersed with the daily beef market prices.

Did you know that the rhythm of nearly all of their music suggested riding a horse?

And that you could wear out the patch of carpet between Dad's armchair and the end table in pretending you were riding?

In perfect time.

Well, you could.

And I did.

I did a lot of riding to music.

When I wasn't actually on a horse.

Dad's music of choice was classical.

Oh, and some nonsense.

We'll go with the classical.

On Sunday mornings, we would inevitably be awakened by the beautiful strains of strings and horns, perfectly, hauntingly played.

His stereo could hold a large stack of LP's. One by one, they would drop and play.

The working mechanism in his stereo was shaped like a snake.

It would settle slowly over the next record, never taking its white, staring eyes off us kids.

True story.

My little sister enjoyed her little children's albums.

And Christmas music.

Both of which began to be played on the first day of school in the fall.

Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum.

My older siblings and myself preferred rock and roll.

The Everly Brothers, Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly gave way to The Beatles, CCR and The Who.

Oh, and the Monkees were in there somewhere, though their album suffered a rather tragic end.

Moving on . . .

My little brother, who was sandwiched between my little sister and myself, had no say.

Because.

To say our home was filled with music would be an understatement.

It was crammed full.

Moving ahead many years . . .

We raised our family in the same way.

Country, Classical, Rock and Roll, and even some Celtic and Folk.

I can hear the stereo going now.

Summersong by The Lettermen was followed by Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. An all-female Celtic group is now singing, “A Place for Us.”

Husby has obviously put in his usual mix.

Let the music roll.

Life on the Ranch

The new barn

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated half way between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of this past summer. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

And in my stories.

Stay with me and let me take you there . . .

Snow Day

Ahhhh! Snow!

I was raised on a ranch twenty miles from the nearest town.

It was a wonderful place in which to grow up.

I lived and worked and spent my days with family and farm animals.

A peaceful, beautiful sunlit life.

Except when it snowed.

And then it was something else entirely.

It was perfect.

Maybe I should explain . . .

To get to school each day, my siblings and I rode the school bus.

There were flaws in the system.

The bus driver of the day refused to make the entire trip to the ranch.

And instead, would meet us at Nine-Mile Corner.

Situated nine miles from the ranch.

Okay, so, creative name-ers, we weren't.

Moving on . . .

Every day, Mom, and occasionally Dad, would drive us to meet the bus.

So we would be driving a vehicle to the middle of nowhere to meet another vehicle.

We didn't always connect.

At which time, Mom, and occasionally Dad, would have to take us the remaining eleven miles into town.

Sigh.

And that was when the weather cooperated.

When it didn't, things were a tad different.

If it rained (and very occasionally, it did), the ungravelled roads were positively greasy with mud.

The chances of us making our connection became very uncertain indeed.

In fact, the chances of us making it anywhere safely or on time were . . . iffy.

If it snowed . . . well, that is another story entirely.

And now we get to the point of today's ramble.

During the winter, when it stormed, driving to the school bus was very nearly impossible.

But our parents would gamely try.

Unless told to do otherwise by someone in authority.

The announcer on the radio was just such an authority. 

When we awoke to howling winds and/or thickly falling snow, we would wait breathlessly to hear the magic words.

Which schools were being closed.

Inevitably, Milk River was on the list.

At which time, we would rejoice, loudly, and proceed to plan out a day of skating and/or sledding and/or playing in the snow. With fresh doughnuts and hot chocolate to follow.

The very best of days.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and isn't to be wasted.

Moving ahead . . .

When my own kids were growing up, schools were never closed due to snow.

But buses were often cancelled.

When that happened, even when our family was living in town, I kept my kids home.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and isn't to be wasted on going to school.

Moving ahead again . . .

Yesterday, a blizzard blew into Edmonton and area.

A large blizzard.

Preceded by freezing rain.

Which made the roads almost impassible.

The commute to work quickly became a snarled mess of broken automobiles and frustrated drivers.

I kept my Husby home.

Because a Snow Day is a gift and simply isn't to be wasted on going to work.

Thankful for Books Giveaway Hop

Now is your chance to enter the Thankful for Books Giveaway hop sponsored by I'm a Reader Not a Writer and Tristi Pinkston!

I'm giving away a set of my Christmas books, Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels.

One more chance this year to win both of them!

It's easy.

Super easy!

Just be a follower and make a comment.

That's it!

That's all!

You're entered!

Thank you so much!

Good luck!

What Grade Five Taught Me

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.

It was 1965.

And I had just realized that boys didn't have (as I had always suspected) cooties.

I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.

The two went together.

Perhaps I should explain.

Grade five.

The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.

Times tables proved important.

Story writing, more intense and personal.

Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.

And boys became . . . interesting.

The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.

“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”

It was signed, 'Paul'.

What???!

A boy?!

Wanted to go to a movie with me?!

What should I say?

What should I do?

What should I wear?!

Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.

He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.

And that was it.

My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the week, actually.

Saturday was a long time coming.

I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.

The popular, cool boys.

And way out of my league.

But his group adopted me as one of their own.

For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.

Back to my story . . .

I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.

For about a month.

Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.

And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.

Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.

Who took me back in without so much as a frown.

For half a morning, I complained bitingly.

Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .

You can see where this is going.

“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”

Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”

I sprinted to join them.

Didn't even look back.

Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.

I know what you are thinking.

Fickle non-friend.

And you're not wrong.

Ahem . . .

This went on for some time.

Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.

Then my popularity waned.

And died.

And do you know what?

My old group again took me back.

Without even a sideways glance.

This time, I stayed.

We went through grade six together.

Then Junior High.

Then Senior high.

And we had fun.

I discovered that it all comes back to math.

♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.

♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.

I learned my lesson.

P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.

Life is the true leveller.

Planning Rocks

Yorkshire Pudding. A solid piece of our history.

My Husby is a Planner.

Really.

It is a legitimate occupation.

He plans . . . stuff.

He has built his career doing it.

Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.

It has been a varied and unusual career.

And he is very good at what he does.

Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.

That never turns out well.

Moving on . . .

Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.

They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.

A fun and exacting job.

Requiring many months spent in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.

At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.

Doing what had become their favourite pastime.

Eating.

One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.

With all of the trimmings.

One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.

With gravy.

Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.

In all its glory.

I love it.

But this particular pudding had been baked too long.

Or left uncovered.

Or simply neglected.

It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.

Its owner poked at it morosely.

“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”

Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile.

All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display.

Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.

A short time later, they had the cover off the large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).

They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.

One of the designers looked at the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly typed up an official-looking label.

When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one, ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.

Nothing more was said.

In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.

Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call.

From the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.

“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Well, that is odd.”

There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”

“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”

“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”

Notice the clever prevarication (Ooo. Good word!)?

Back to my story . . .

“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”

Need something planned?

A building? A display?

A prank?

I know someone you can call.

Our Iron Lady

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an iron-er.

A Demon iron-er.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine.

No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing.

Everything had to be done just so.

I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron.

She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there in a size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

Oh, to Remember!

Yep. Back then, the brain . . . worked.

The summer I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, volunteered to run a summer day camp for the kids in Milk River.

We had a marvellous time.

Games. Treats. Crafts. Treats. Contests. Treats. Activities. More treats.

I was ten.

Anything to do with food took priority.

Hmm. Still does in fact.

Moving on . . .

Chris put heart and soul into the program.

There were no parameters laid out, so she had to come up with the guidelines and curriculum herself.

She did a wonderful job.

Part way through the summer, she decided that it would be fun if she got all of the kids involved in performing a play.

And not just any play.

The Wizard of Oz.

A fairly ambitious undertaking for a seventeen year old girl and her group of pre-teens.

First, she had to come up with a script.

That was all right, because our family had the story on an LP.

LP.

Go ahead. Google it. We'll wait . . .

And that's where I came in.

I had one talent as a child.

I could memorize.

If I listened to it once, I could pretty much give a detailed description.

If I listened to it a lot?

I could recite it.

With voice inflections and sound effects.

And that was what I did.

For three days, I recited and Chris wrote.

The entire hour-and-a-half of 'The Wizard of Oz'.

As it had been recorded.

We had our script . . .

I should mention here that we never got to perform our play.

We simply ran out of time.

But we learned something important.

If you wanted anything remembered, let Diane listen to it ad infinitum for a couple of days and it was there forever.

Word perfect.

This skill stayed with me for a while.

In fact, I played the lead some years later in 'The Rented Christmas', and memorized the entire play.

To the point that I served as the prompter.

On stage.

My point in telling you all of this is simply to reminisce.

And to lament.

I've been trying to figure out what I just had for breakfast.

I can't - for the life of me – remember.

Oh, for just a portion of that bygone talent!

Sigh.

The Circus Tent

For a quarter of a century, we have gone camping every summer with our good, good friends.

We have enjoyed our time in the Great Canadian Woods.

Visiting and laughing around the campfire.

Chopping wood.

Sharing meals.

Watching our children grow.

And our numbers increase.

Seeing our grandchildren introduced to 'nature'.

And seeing our hair get a little greyer and our steps a little slower.

Now, when we go, there is generally just the four of us.

And we still spend the time talking and laughing.

And reminiscing.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Recently, our friends have had a new addition.

I should mention, here, that when we camp, we do so with few luxuries.

Each of us has always used a little tent trailer.

And that is the extent of our amenities.

Moving on . . .

The 'new addition' I spoke of was a 'new to them' tent trailer.

Many, many years younger than the old one (aka: The Circus Tent).

And . . . not quite as brightly coloured.

Their Circus Tent ended up in our back yard, awaiting a new owner.

For some time, we deliberated what to do.

Advertised.

Made phone calls.

With little or no progress.

Finally, my Husby shoved the little trailer through our back gate and onto the boulevard.

Then he put a sign on it which read, “Please Take Me Home – Free!”

An hour later, the little trailer was gone.

Mission accomplished.

But that isn't the end of the story.

Yesterday, as our first snow flew, we deemed it time to place our own trailer into its winter habitat.

Carefully, my Husby was manoeuvring it into the back yard.

As he got out to close the gate, a young man appeared in the opening.

“Excuse me!” he said.

My Husby smiled at him. “Yes?”

“Are you the person who put the little tent trailer out on the boulevard last spring?”

Uh-oh. “Umm . . . yes.”

“Well, my wife and I saw it there and took it home,” the young man said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. We fixed it up. Painted it. And took it camping with our young children this summer.”

“Oh!”

“Our family had the best time! It kept us safe and dry and worked perfectly.”

“I'm so glad!”

“And we've been driving past here every day since, hoping to see someone that we can thank.”

“Oh.”

He put out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “We wouldn't have been able to afford one any other way. We just wanted to let you know that your gift was very much used. And very much appreciated.”

My Husby shook the proffered hand and waved as the little family drove away.

For over a quarter of a century we have gone camping in the Great Canadian Woods.

We have loved it.
We didn't charge anything for the little tent trailer.

But we still got a paycheck.

Saving Savanna

A beautiful, tender little Christmas story of love, faith and forgiveness by friend and author, Sara Fitzgerald.

Devan swallowed and then changed the subject. “We only have three days left until Santa comes down our chimney. What do you want him to bring you?”
“There’s only one thing I want from him,” she whispered, leaning toward him.
He forced a smile. “And what’s that?”
“I want Mommy back.” 

Devan can’t help but blame God for his wife’s death, so the last thing he wants to do this holiday season is celebrate. But when his daughter, Savanna, makes a special Christmas wish, their little family will never be the same. Filled with faith and tenderness, this heartwarming story is sure to remind you of the real power behind the magic of Christmas.

Saving Savanna is the story of one little girl's Christmas wish. And the faith and understanding that make her wish come true. Tenderly, sweetly told, Saving Savanna is sure to be a perennial Christmas favourite with young and old alike.

Our Winner!

Great news!
The excitement has ended.
The dust has settled.
And a winner has emerged, triumphant.
No, it's not the gladiatorial contests.
It's the draw for a set of my books: Kris Kringle's Magic and Carving Angels.
And the winner?
ZaraAlexis of http://zaraalexis.blogspot.ca/
Congratulations, Zara!
If you like them, please spread the word!
And to everyone else - thank you so much for entering! I wish I had a book to send to all of you . . .
If you are still interested in reading either Kris Kringle's Magic or Carving Angels, they can be found at Amazon.com.
Christmas, here we come!

Just Put a Little Love on That

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner last night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

I kid you not.

She would boil it.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Vacuuming. Ugh.

My first official household job when I became a newly minted teenager was the vacuuming.

Ugh.

Mom would drag out her antiquated upright vacuum, wheel it over to where I was sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, and say, cheerfully, “Diane! You've just won a trip!” There, she would pause significantly, smiling widely at me.

I knew what was coming.

Which made it distinctly un-funny.

Finally, she would add, “Around the house with the vacuum!”

Sigh.

I hated vacuuming.

And her vacuum, whatever it's glowing attributes in its younger days, was distinctly past its prime.

In fact, it hardly had any suction at all.

Vacuuming with a machine that hardly sucks really sucks.

So to speak.

Dutifully, and after a significant number of follow-up 'encouragements', I would drag myself out of my comfy chair, grasp the handle of my nemesis, and start in.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Stupid vacuum.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Look at that! It won't even pick up that piece of lint.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Have I mentioned that I hate vacuuming?

Brrrrrrrrr.

And so it went.

Every Saturday, there was a half hour or so of my life that I'd never get back.

Sigh.

I learned a few tricks.

For example, running an upright vacuum with a spinning brush over an area rug usually resulted in disaster.

The ingestion of said rug.

I learned to stand with a foot at either edge of it to hold it down.

Genius.

But I also learned that spinning brushes are not to be tampered with.

Not-so genius.

Maybe I should explain . . .

One day, the wretched vacuum quit sucking altogether.

For several minutes, I ran it back a d forth over the same piece of lint.

Nothing.

Without shutting it off, I tipped it up to see if the problem was something obvious.

It was!

Right . . . there.

Now, just because a vacuum had quit sucking, doesn't necessarily mean that it has stopped working.

I poked one finger towards the problem.

ZZZZZTTTT!

Ow.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I dropped the vacuum and did the dance of pain, clutching my injured right pointer finger in my left hand.

Finally, I spread my hand, palm up and gazed at it.

Looked okay from here.

I turned it over.

My fingernail was black.

I kid you not.

Black.

The vacuum had ripped it free of my finger in one quick, easy movement.

Leaving it attached only by the outer edges.

And it had filled instantly with blood.

Ick.

And it hurt.

Ouch.

Sometime later, an incessant noise intruded upon my pain.

I realized, belatedly, that the vacuum was still running.

Not that it was doing any good.

I switched it off and ran to find my mom.

My black fingernail was with me for a long time.

A long time.

A reminder that vacuuming was not to be taken lightly.

Or at least that vacuums were to be treated with respect.

After that, whenever I needed to see the inner workings, not only was the beast switched off.

But it was also unplugged.

A lesson harshly taught.

But a lesson nonetheless.

P.S. I still hate vacuuming.
Just FYI.