Free Cotton Candy!

A reprint for those who expressed concern . . .

My Very Short Life as an Entrepreneur

You think these beds look nice . . .
You should see what's underneath!

The world was a magical place!

I was rich beyond my wildest dreams!

And the treasure trove I had just discovered had been right under my bed the whole time.

Who knew?!

Maybe I should back up a bit . . .

My Mom and Dad had taken us kids to The Fair.

Mostly so we could see the cattle competitions, I admit, but eventually, to take in the sights and sounds and tastes of the midway.

First, came the sounds.

And once I got used to the fact that all of the shouting and screams I could hear were actually people having fun, I was able to relax a little.

And take in the sights.

That was a lot for my four-year-old eyes to take in.

There were rides.

Merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, Ferris wheels and tilt-a-whirls.

Adventures.

The haunted house. The pirate's den.

And sideshows.

The alligator man and the girl who turned into an ape.

And then there was food.

I had been too frightened to be coaxed onto any of the rides.

Apart from the merry-go-round.

A quirk that exists to this very day.

But I didn't have to be convinced to try the food.

A foot-long hot dog, heavy with ketchup and mustard. A cob of corn, dripping butter. Several donuts. An ice cream cone.

I was certain that I had never had so much fun in my life.

Or eaten as well.

But the best was yet to come.

Something that I never could have imagined.

A treat that was fluffy and melty and oh, so good.

Cotton candy!

The Fair had just become the most amazing experience of my entire four years.

A memory that I treasured long, long into the future.

Or at least three weeks into the future.

I was looking for one of my toys.

It wasn't in sight.

I decided to look in places that weren't in sight.

Under the bed.

There, I made the most remarkable discovery.

Cotton candy.

Just laying there!

I picked it up.

It was definitely cotton candy.

I set it on the bed and bent over, looking for more.

I don't want to suggest here, that my Mom didn't keep a clean house.

She did.

It's just that a husband, six kids, a couple of dogs, a two-acre garden and several hired men can make it difficult for one to get to the hidden surfaces in one's home.

Enough said.

I scrabbled around under all of the beds in the house and managed to come up with a small mound of the magical substance.

Wow! I could sell this to the kids in the neighbourhood.

The ones to whom, like me, The Fair was a sweet and delightful, though distant, memory.

I began counting pennies in my head.

I carried my treasure out to my Mom.

"Look what I found!" I said.

"Oh!" Mom said. She was as pleased as I was, obviously. "Where did you find that?"

"Under my bed. And Jerry's bed. And George's bed. And . . ."

"Never mind," Mom said. "Here. Let me take care of it." She reached for it.

I snatched it away. Was she crazy? Did she really think that I would just hand her my treasure?

She looked at me.

"Diane, what are you going to do with that?"

"I'm taking it outside to sell to the other kids."

"You're going to sell it."

She was crazy. Couldn't she see the windfall that I held in my two little hands?

"Diane, what do you think that is?"

"Candy floss," I told her. I frowned. What did she think it was?

"Maybe you should taste it," she said.

No problem. I selected a choice bit and pushed it into my mouth.

Okay, first off, this didn't melt like the 'fair' type.

And second . . . ick!

I spit it out.

Mom laughed. "Diane, those are dust bunnies."

I stared at her. Then at my treasure.

No way those were bunnies.

"That's what they're called," she explained. "They're just dirt that has blown into a clump under the bed."

Well, whose idea was that?

Disgusted, I handed her my treasure to dispose of.

I learned some things that day:

1. Things found under the bed are usually there for a reason.
2. And not a good one.
3. If your going to make money, salesmanship scores over taste.
4. In fact, forget taste all together.

Okay. Looks Can Deceive . . .

Diane - in trouble again.

Mmm. Candy.

The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience.

Or commands respect.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites.

Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed.

The bathrooms scrubbed.

With the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were . . .

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils.

Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out.

You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus.

We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted.

If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of cool-aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Cool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky.

I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement.

A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of cool-aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as cool-aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

How dishonest!

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the cool-aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Cool.

Then she put it away.

Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary.

That stuff really tasted awful.

Her cool-aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient?

Maybe the cool-aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

The Electronic Age

Two electronics whizzes . . . and their parents.

For the past three days, we have been travelling across the country with a one-year-old.

It has been a wonderful, educational, exhausting time.

And I have learned something about electronics.

Yes. I said electronics.

Maybe I should explain . . .

First, a little background.

Kids now seem to have an affinity for anything ‘electronic’.

If I have any problems with my computer or anything that attaches to the wall with a plug or adapter, I hit ‘control-alt-delete’. Then shout for my son or son-in-law.

They hit a couple of keys and I’m once more off and running.

And these abilities start at a very early age.

Our four-year-old grandson watched his father type in the password for his computer, then load and play a game.

Only watched, mind you.

A few days later, his mother walked into the family room and found her son playing his father’s game.

I should mention that this is a bang-bang, shoot-shoot game, but not spectacularly gory or detailed.

“Hey!” she said. “How did you get on there?!”

The son giggled and fled.

A short time later, his mother called his father at work.

“You left your computer on!” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you must have! I just caught our son on your game!”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I haven’t been on the computer for days,” he said. “The computer would have long gone to sleep.”

“Well then how . . .?”

“He had to have watched me type in the password.”

“But he’s only four!”

“It’s the only explanation.”

“Huh.”

Now, back to today . . .

Compared to our one-year-old, our four-years-old is . . . old.

And this incident, I watched.

Our one-year old grabbed her mom’s cell phone.

Flipped it over.

Switched it on.

Slid the lock.

And immediately started punching buttons, rearranging some, cancelling others.

All as fast as you could blink.

Faster, even.

Electronics.

So simple, even a child could do it . . .

This Gramma needs help.

Is there a child out there?

Laundry. Cheap Entertainment

And each of the eight brothers had a sister . . .

My Mom had eight brothers.

And each of them had a sister.

My Mom.

Most of the time, this was a good thing.

They played together.

Worked together.

And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, they 'protected' her.

It was a good balance.

Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.

Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.

Cooking, cleaning, dishes.

Laundry.

Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.

Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.

You never knew what you would find . . .

There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.

You cleaned your plate at mealtime.

Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.

Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.

If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.

Or get creative.

Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, got creative.

He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.

He just didn't want them inside of him.

What to do?

Hmmm.

No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table.

His parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.

His options were definitely limited.

But he would think of something . . .

When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.

Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.

Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.

Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes.

While he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear.

He was wearing trousers.

And they had . . . pockets.

What followed was inevitable.

Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.

Clever.

And, as I said, entertaining.

And that's just the laundry.

Imagine what he could do with such things as . . . bedrooms. Chores.

Livestock.

But that is another story.

Creating Worlds

Looks like building material to me!

The headquarters/chief residence of the Stringam ranch, like most ranch houses then and now, was centred around a large, family kitchen.

Everything important happened in that room.

Eating, visiting, business, playing. More eating.

It was, quite literally, the soul of the house.

Mom reigned supreme over its scrubbed surfaces and gleaming appliances.

All traffic came through it, stopping either briefly, or of longer duration.

I lived there.

Whenever Mom was in residence (and Mom was always in residence), I could be found.

Underfoot.

Dragging out stacks of plastic ware or pots and pans.

Or, even more exciting, the dozens of Jello packages that Mom kept in a corner cupboard.

Just for me.

It was amazing what one could construct out of those small, cardboard boxes.

Castles. Forts. Corrals. Houses. Barns. Apartment buildings. Stores.

Even schools.

Infinite possibilities.

Infinite hours of fun and creativity.

I should mention, here, that Lego hadn't reached my little world.

Yet.

But it would.

Moving on . . .

And my Mom, moving about the kitchen, had to step carefully to avoid disaster.

To both of us.

How lightly she moved, dancing and weaving around the complicated constructs that, to me, were edifices of genius and creativity.

Occasionally, we came to grief.

Something I had made would have meandered a little too far across the floor and Mom would trip over . . . whatever.

But not often.

Mom should have been a professional terpsichorean (real word – I looked it up).

Or Superman. She could certainly leap any building I made with a single bound.

Looking back, though, I have to wonder why Mom kept so many Jello packages in that cupboard.

Certainly, we ate a lot of it.

But that still didn't justify the number of boxes stored there.

Maybe, like Moms everywhere, she knew . . .

How much fun assembling castles out of sweet-smelling boxes could be.

There is a codicil . . .

My grandchildren were playing on the floor of the kitchen as their mother and I were preparing supper. They had a complicated construction of Tupperware, old yogurt containers, pots . . . and Jello packages.

I stepped over it.

“Careful, Gramma! You'll knock down the princess' castle!”

And suddenly, I was four years old again.

Creating worlds on the kitchen floor.

Building Castles in the . . . Front Room

I have a Ballista. And I know how to use it!

We have castles.

In our front room.

Two of them.

Because how can you have a proper siege or battle unless you have more than one castle?

Right?

Moving on . . .

Our grandchildren love them.

There is seldom a time when they are not crouched over the one or the other, hatching plans and enacting scenarios.

They are a joy to watch.

Our two-year-old had nabbed one of the ‘ballista’.

A siege engine that shot, not one, but six soft-tipped projectiles in quick succession.

All one had to do was rotate the main trunk to expose the next missile to the firing mechanism.

Not complicated.

Unless one is two.

She carried it to her dad.

And held it up.

Then silently gave him a handful of projectiles.

Let’s face it, it’s hard to do a lot of explaining when one has a soother in one’s mouth.

Obligingly, he loaded her little machine and handed the unit back to her.

Happily she grabbed it and scampered away.

“Does she know how to use that?” I asked.

A ‘flame’ tipped missile flew past.

“I guess she does,” he said.

It’s all in how you’re raised . . .

Castle #1 - The Good/Bad guys

Castle #2 - Ditto

Climbing? Yes. Flying? No.

Mom, George, Chris, Jerry, Dad and me.
Not picuted: The clothesline.

Climbing was my thing.
I loved it!
Ask anyone. My climbing ability was legendary. My experiences, many and varied.
Many's the time my mom would sprint up the old machinery hill to save her tiny daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Or at least from a very unpleasant fall to the bottom of the 100 foot TV tower.
And my father, too was no stranger to my favorite activity. During a visit with the manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Alberta, the new chandelier in the great room was being discussed.
"It's magnificent," Dad said, gazing up into the rafters 50 feet above them.
"Yeah, we really like it," the manager said, following his gaze. "The only thing I'm concerned about is how we're going to clean it."
"Clean it!" Dad said. "Well, I have a daughter who will climb it!"
Together, my parents plucked me off the top of horses, bulls, pigs, haystacks, combines, tractors, trees, shed roofs, barn roofs, garage roofs, car roofs - I really seemed to have a thing about roofs - water towers, windmills, and even the propane tank.
Admittedly, a fall from many of them probably wouldn't have been fatal. Just . . . uncomfortable.
But no amount of lecturing or lurid stories illustrating the dangers of such activities could discourage me.
I just had to climb.
And then that fateful day . . .
Isn't it odd that fateful days never, ever seem to start out any different from any other day? I mean, sullen, red skies would be entirely appropriate. That way, you'd know that something momentous was about to happen.
But I digress . . .
I had discovered a wonderful new activity.
It included Mom's clothesline and the picnic table.
And climbing.
What else.
For some reason, the table had been shoved close to the clothesline. Close enough that someone daring - me - could make a run along the table and launch oneself - also me - onto the clothesline.
Now I should point out here that Mom's clothesline wasn't one of those boring long stretches of wire so useless to an enterprising youngster. No.
It was a new-fangled round one.
That spun if it was pushed.
And if you leapt and caught the wires just right, you could spin all the way around and back to the table.
Which I did.
Several times. In fact, I was the neighborhood champion. Again and again I would perform for my audience to appreciative oohs and aahs.
Several of the kids tried it, but no one could go quite as far or as fast as I could.
I decided it was time to up the ante, slightly.
I was going to try for a double axel.
Two times around.
It had never been done. Never even been attempted.
But I was going to do it.
My audience was assembled.
I dusted my hands together and poised at the back edge of the picnic table.
The crowd grew hushed.
I took a deep breath and launched myself along the table.
Perfect.
I flew gracefully across the intervening space.
Even more perfect.
I reached out for the wires.
And for the first time in my life, missed.
Missed?
I reached again, frantically, then looked up at the wires, as they slowly moved further and further from me.
How could this be?
With a heavy thump, I hit the ground, driving every square millimeter of air from my lungs.
My friends stared at me, frozen. Then there was a collective scream and they all rushed forward.
"Diane! Diane! Are you all right?"
I just stared at them and tried to catch my breath.
Then a horrified, "Diane, you're bleeding!"
I looked down. They were right. Blood was spattered on my shirt and shorts. I looked at my arms. My legs.
Nothing.
Then I tried to talk.
And realized where the blood was coming from.
My mouth.
Shocked, I put a hand over it.
"Mrs. Stringam! Mrs. Stringam!" several voices began shouting.
My Mom came on the run.
She was so used to me.
"Oh, my!" She knelt beside me and put a towel to my chin. "Open your mouth, Honey."
I tried to obey, but my mouth didn't want to. It had suddenly begun to hurt. It wanted to stay shut.
I felt the tears begin.
"It's okay, Honey, just open your mouth."
Finally, I was able to open it. A little.
Mom gasped, and put the towel over my mouth.
"Come on, Dear, let's get you into the house."
"Mrs. Strin-gam? Will Diane be all right?" I vaguely recognized Laurie's voice.
"She'll be fine, Dear. I'll just take her into the house and get her cleaned up."
Mom half-led, half-carried me into the cool, quiet house and sat me down on the cupboard in the kitchen. Then she sponged the blood off my face and neck.
"Let me have another look, Honey," she said.
Obligingly, though I really didn't want to, I opened my mouth for her.
"Okay, well, you've cut your tongue, Honey. It's probably going to hurt quite a bit. But it'll be all right."
So she kept saying. Why didn't I believe her?
"Here. Hold this while I call Doctor Clemente."
I took the towel she was pressing to my face while she went to the phone.
"Yes, Doctor." I could hear her in the hallway. "Yes. Okay." She hung up the phone.
Then she was back beside me. "Here, Honey, let me take it."
She gently swabbed at my mouth again.
Mom could make anything feel better.
Almost
Later, after I had refused supper, a new thing for me, I overheard her talking to Dad.
"Yes, I think it's bitten at least half-way through. It's still attached, but barely. The doctor thinks it will heal just fine, but it'll be a while, and it'll be painful."
A while?
That is parent code for 'forever'.
Sigh.
It did heal. And quite quickly, too, in 'Parent' time.
During that time, I was the focus of all of the neighborhood kids. Everyone would come up to me and ask me to stick out my tongue.
Then ooh and ah delightedly.
I was a celebrity.
It was almost enough to get me climbing again.
Almost.

Trees, Beautiful Trees

Notice the trees. Please.

When I was fourteen, Dad decided to combine the best of all worlds.

He sold the old family ranch twenty miles from the town of Milk River and bought a new spread.

Somewhat closer.

The new Stringam ranch grew from the ashes of the old town slaughter house.

Situated immediately adjacent to the town – and I do mean immediately – it retained all the charm of living in the country.

Within walking distance of everything ‘town’.

Perfect.

There was just one drawback.

Remember when I mentioned that the ranch grew from the ashes of the old town slaughter house?

Well, that was, quite literally, true.

The slaughter house had burned to the ground.

And the town butcher had taken it as a sign that it was time to retire.

Dad was only too happy to help him out.

And bought an almost bare patch of ground.

Oh, there was pasture. Plenty of it.

But no buildings to speak of.

My parents had to start from scratch.

After several months of construction, corrals, barns, outbuildings, quonset and finally, home, appeared.

That was the easy part.

Now, I should point out, here, that Milk River lies nestled in a crook of the actual Milk River.

On the prairies.

The rolling, grassy, windswept, breathtakingly beautiful, treeless prairies.

Our recently vacated old ranch had been planted, sometime in the thirties, with acres of trees.

Thought it had many, many amenities, the treeless state of this new place was achingly obvious.

Mom set out to do something about it.

And roped us kids into helping.

Sigh.

We planted trees.

Acres of them.

And then, if that weren’t enough, we watered trees.

Acres of them.

Oh, we used the garden hose – for as far as it would reach.

Then we used a little water tank on wheels.

It was aching, back-breaking work.

But who is going to sneak away to happier pursuits when one’s mother is out there, sweating beneath yet another bucket of water?

No one could be that heartless.

Okay, well, we couldn’t.

Dad would have had something to say about it . . .

Another sigh.

We hand-fed those trees the entire time we lived there.

Then dad, he of the itchy feet, bought another ranch, this time near Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

One that was, mercifully, well treed.

Happily, we packed our buckets and moved.

But we often drive past the old place, whose trees are now forty years old.

They stand tall and straight and look like they’ve been there forever.

I guess we gave them a good start.

And that’s all that matters.

Dishes with Sisters

My older sister and me.
Oh, and with George.
And part of Dad
And a little bit of Blair.

The food had been, as per Mom’s usual standard, delicious.

The conversation had flowed, eddying around such topics as - the day. School. Ranch work. Friends. Town politics.

I was sitting in a contented stupor.

Well fed.

My favourite people in the world around me.

Life was better than fabulous.

“Chris and Diane,” Mom said, smiling at us. “You girls are on dishes tonight.”

And, just like that, my euphoric bubble burst.

I could almost hear the ‘snap’ of its passing.

We looked at each other.

“Okay!” Chris said, bouncing to her feet.

Have I mentioned that my older sister is one of those people who is always willing and cheerful?

She is.

Most of the time, I liked it.

Just not tonight.

My reaction to Mom’s announcement was anything but enthusiastic. “Dishes!? Mooom!”

Okay, I admit that my reaction was purely for selfish reasons. I was in the middle of a good book and my plan had been to drop straight back into it after supper.

But Mom’s word was law and I dragged myself to my feet and helped my perky sister scrape and stack the mountain of dishes.

We did fine to that point.

Now here is where the differences between her way of accomplishing the task, and mine, met.

And clashed.

When she washed, Chris liked to leave the tap on just a tiny trickle. Then she could wash, rinse the item by passing it through the stream, and set the dish into the draining board.

I, on the other hand, preferred the ‘turn-the-tap-on’ method.

Wherein one would turn on the tap each time one was ready to rinse.

In my opinion, it wasted less water.

Here is where I admit that Mom simply put some rinse water into the second sink and . . . dipped.

But who wanted to do it Mom’s way?

I was washing. So I got to choose.

Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Why don’t you just leave it on a trickle?” Chris asked. “It saves time.”

Already feeling disgruntled, I mumbled, “I prefer it this way!”

Big sigh from older sister.

Wash. Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Diane, this is really starting to bug me! Just leave the tap on!”

“Fine!” I turned on the tap and let it trickle.

Chris smiled and continued to dry dishes.

I washed something. Then, out of habit, turned the tap, forgetting that it was already on.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Another dish.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Right.”

Another dish.

This time, I turned the tap a little more forcefully than usual.

Not a problem if it wasn’t already on.

Which it was.

The water splashed out, soaking every available surface.

And my sister.

“Diane!”

Oops. “Umm . . . sorry?”

“Ugh. Get out of here and just let me do it!” She reached for the wash cloth and, just like that, I was out of a job.

I stood there for a moment and watched her.

Then I shrugged and went to find my book.

Sisters.

Pffff.                                              

Think or Thwim

Okay, it was scary.

But it turned out all right . . .

Our family have always been swimmers.

Our children are introduced to the water soon after they arrive.

And spend copious amounts of time there.

When we take a holiday, our choice of hotel is always based on whether or not it has a pool.

On to my story . . .

We were in Great Falls with my Husby's eldest brother and his family.

We had a favourite hotel there.

With *gasp* two pools.

The main pool was popular.

And usually busy.

We had decided to gather beside the smaller pool.

Adults, visiting.

Kids, playing.

Because we grown-ups hadn't planned on swimming, my Husby put on his suit under protest.

But I insisted.

At least one adult needed to be prepared.

We went down.

And spent a pleasant half-hour talking and laughing.

Now I should explain, here, that this smaller pool had one major draw-back.

It really wasn't made with children in mind.

It was roughly circular in shape.

And was shallow at the outer edges.

And deep in the middle.

I know. Weird.

Moving on . . .

Our oldest boy, aged four, was playing happily with his cousins in the shallows.

The kids were shouting and giggling and generally making 'happy' sounds and our oldest nephew, aged six, was keeping up a continuous dialogue of, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!”

His parents had tuned him out.

Something I simply couldn't do.

And for which I am eternally grateful.

“Mom!” he shouted.

I turned and looked at him.

“Mark's down there!” he said, pointing toward the centre of the pool.

My Husby looked at me.

“Get him!” I shouted.

He jumped in and an instant later, came up with our little boy.

For a few seconds, Mark coughed and gasped.

Then cried.

And just like that, our swim was over for the day.

We left the next morning, everyone well and happy, and completely unaware of the psychological damage that had been done.

A few days later, we took our family down to the river to our favourite swimming hole.

Though the water came no higher than his ankles, Mark refused to put one foot into the river.

Odd.

Later, we went to the local swimming pool for what had always been our favourite Saturday evening activity.

Mark, our fish, clung to the ladder and screamed.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

For the next few months, every time we tried to go swimming, it was the same.

People splashing around.

Mark sitting as far from the water as he could get.

Hmmmm.

A year passed.

Without much change.

Then our family moved to Edmonton.

Within hours of getting settled, my Husby discovered the local rec centre.

And their 'wave pool'.

Sounded intriguing.

What on earth was a wave pool?

We packed up the kids and went to investigate.

It turned out that a wave pool was just that.

A pool.

With waves.

For fifteen minutes, the water was calm.

Smooth.

Then a horn would blow and the waves would start.

Small, at first, then growing in size until they were . . . significant.

Mark had been paddling in the ankle-deep water at the shallow end.

A big step for him.

The horn sounded.

He looked up.

And stared at the wall of water coming toward him.

Okay, it wasn't a wall.

Maybe more of a . . . fence?

Well, maybe a median.

But it was definitely coming toward him.

We watched as he considered his options.

Then, to our surprise, he dropped to his knees and . . . let the wave roll over him.

And just like that, his fear was gone.

Our fish was back.

There is a codicil:

Mark is married now, and the father of four.

Several times a week, he takes his family swimming.

It is their favourite activity.

Every time they appear with wet hair and faces glowing with exercise and happiness, I give thanks for the therapeutic properties of waves.

Aaahh! Therapy!

Not Your Ordinary Insurance Agent

Dad was making a trip into town to see Mr. Hofer.

His insurance agent.

My brother, George, and I fought over who would be the first in the car.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering what there could possibly be at an insurance agent's office that would interest two children, aged six and four, respectively.

It would be a legitimate question.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mr. Hofer had an office in the old railroad station in Milk River.

It was an unremarkable place.

Slat-covered windows.

Certificate and picture-hung walls.

Creaky, wood floors.

Heavy, smooth oak chairs with arms.

Tall, wooden filing cabinets.

Stacks of folders and papers.

Bookcases.

And in one corner, a very serviceable desk, piled high with paperwork.

It smelled of old building.

Dust, books and paper.

On the surface, there really was nothing that would entrance and amaze . . . umm . . . anyone.

But Mr. Hofer's office held a secret.

A very special secret.

Hidden deep in the very bottom drawer of that oh, so serviceable desk.

A secret accessible only upon reports/illustrations of exemplary behaviour.

A whole heap of magic.

In shiny, brown wrappers.

Hershey bars.

But we couldn't ask for them.

Oh, no.

We had to wait patiently and quietly, seated in those hard wooden chairs, while Dad conducted his business.

Trying hard to look anywhere but at that drawer.

Then, if we had been 'good', we would be invited over.

The much-anticipated drawer opened.

And the treasure revealed.

Only then could we avail ourselves of the treat.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Perfection.

Between you and I, Dad didn't visit his insurance agent nearly enough.

Well worth the wait.