My First Valentine

My Dad is nearly 88 years old and has been ill for some time.

I’m here making him eat and I think he is feeling a little better.

Thank you to everyone who has expressed concern. Your thoughts and prayers are definitely helping!

Look at that sweet face . . .

I was out yesterday, at Dad’s local grocery, buying foods that would hopefully tempt an invalid.

Yummy things like plump chicken breasts. Crisp, fresh vegetables. Packets of rice and spices.

I so love buying food!

I walked past a display of Valentine goodies.

And stopped.

There were several heart-shaped boxes.

 Beautifully, elegantly - decorated boxes.

Cute, colourful boxes.

Boxes with favourite cartoon characters printed on the lids.

Dozens of kinds to choose from.

Somewhere in the middle was a stack of boxes.

Simple.

Red.

They reminded me of something.

A gift from my Dad on a Valentine’s Day many, many years ago.

Dad always gave my Mom a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Always.

It was the one special day of the year he was confident in his gift-giving abilities.

The year I turned six was even more special for me.

It was the year that Dad first included me in the gift giving.

At breakfast that morning, he handed my mom a beautifully decorated large box of chocolates.

To much oohing and ahhing from us kids.

Then he smiled at me and handed me a box.

A small, heart-shaped box of chocolates all my own.

I stared at him.

Then at the box.

For me?

All for me?

He nodded. “For my littlest Valentine,” he said.

I jumped up and gave him a hug. Then snatched the box and fled.

The chocolates inside were gone faster than you can blink.

But the box remained.

 Because I like boxes.

For years, it held my smallest treasures.

Then, when I moved out, it remained with all the little keepsakes of my childhood . . .

I didn't mention the Valentine's display to my Dad. I’m thought that when the time came, I would just go and buy one of those boxes for him.

Last night, as we were sitting visiting, he asked me to get him his little sewing kit.

I went to fetch it.

And discovered that his sewing kit was my little chocolate box.

I held it in my hands and stared at it.

I was suddenly six years old again.

Receiving my first Valentine’s gift from my first Valentine.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

I’m here to help my Dad.

But really, he is helping me.

A little the worse for the wear,
but it is over 50 years old! Like me . . .

Putting the 'Ghost' in Ghost Town

My Dad is ill. I am going to stay with him for a while . . .

A repost . . .

Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And, more specifically, the Ghost Town of Virginia City in Montana.
It sounded . . . Old Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
Suddenly, I was stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.

Then being carried by said Mom.
We were in an old fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts. There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heart-felt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
(Because my husby is an historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.)
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia. 
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens. 
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended all too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building, a drug store.
It certainly didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
Boring.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again . . . things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Mom stopped beside the cabinet, which had the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door. What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath. What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.

Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of the Ghost Town of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
I had already seen the ghost . . .

Irrigation 101. My Introduction

Irrigation. So simple, a child could do it.

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

I'll give you a hint.

It wasn't me.

After that, George never allowed me to come with him to move pipe.

Something about me being worse than useless.

Go figure.

Dad's Plate

Our youngest daughter and her family are staying with us for a while.

It almost makes up for the long days and weeks when they were living in another part of the world.

Almost.

Last night, during dinner, Tiny Girl (hereinafter known as TG) was having her first taste of life as a grown up. She had spurned her high chair and was sitting like a big girl on a booster seat.

The best of times.

She also discovered, during this exciting experience, how much better everything tastes when it is eaten from someone else’s plate.

Happily, TG let her own food cool while she gobbled whatever her mother was eating.

And it reminded me of something . . .

My Mom made wonderful breakfasts.

Most of the time, they included eggs. In some incarnation.

One of my Dad’s favourites was eggs fried.

Mom would place two perfect little white-jacketed yellow orbs on his plate and he would happily proceed to take fork and knife and slice through them, cutting them neatly into uniform bits.

Then he would scrape them carefully back together, sprinkle the resulting mixture with salt and pepper and voila!

Breakfast.

I had watched this same process since I could remember.

His food always looked soooo good.

“Dad? Can I have a bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have a bite?” Dad was always correcting my grammar.

“May I have a bite?”

Mmmm. It was soooo good.

“Can I have another?”

“May I . . .?”

“May I have another?”

Mmmm. Even better.

Then Mom would set my plate in front of me.

Carefully, I would copy Dad’s technique to the best of my ability.

Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice.

Gather.

Sprinkle.

Eat.

Yum.

Hmmm.

Wait. I’m sure it tasted better off his plate.

“Dad? Can I have another bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have another bite?”

“May I have another bite?”

He gave it to me.

Mmmm. I was right.

It did taste better.

I had made a momentous discovery.

Everything was better off Dad’s plate.

Later, I discovered that this was also true with Mom’s plate.

Or my Husby’s.

I did draw the line there.

Total strangers do regard you oddly when you ask.

Okay, I never really did it.

But I wanted to.

“I’ll have what you're having!”

Literally.

Tree Talk

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

I had to bundle up for my walk this morning.

It was -28C (-19F) with a nasty, evil north-westerly wind blowing. Temperature allowing for wind chill = -40C (-40F)

I walked fast.

The most difficult part of my walk is past the south end of a wide park.

In the summer, it is truly beautiful.

In the winter, with a north-westerly (see above) wind blowing, it is an open space where the elements can really get up a head of steam. So to speak.

As with many things in life, though, once one gets through the worst, the best appears. 

Just past the park is a stand of hundred year-old pines.

Instantly, the force of the wind is lessened to insignificance.

There is only a soft 'hiss' as it threads its way through the green boughs. 

I stopped, as I do every morning, to listen.

Instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood . . .

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Throughout the years, they have continued to speak to me.

As we all grew older . . .

Standing there this morning, surrounded by the massive evergreens, I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees as whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.

Travels with Diane. Warning: Gross

Travel was so easy - Without Diane

Dad loved to travel.

And he was so much fun to travel with.

Dad would drive us to amazing places and show us amazing things, and sing and entertain us on the way.

And he took breaks.

'Breaks' which, for my Dad, meant pulling into a gas station and buying everyone a bottle of pop and a chocolate bar.

Notice, I didn't say 'healthy'. I just said 'fun'.

And sugar highs hadn't been invented yet.

To Dad, holidays were always taken across the border. He drove us all over the western half of the continental United States, with stops in California, Texas, Oregon, Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Washington, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico.

We have pictures taken beside the 'Welcome to . . .' signs for all of them.

Travelling also meant meals on the road.

There were a lot of family-owned restaurants in the United States. And Denny's.

We saw them all.

And they made good food.

I love meals that someone else cooks.

And, let's just admit it . . . breakfast in a diner says 'holiday', doesn't it?

Sooo . . . breakfast. The most important meal of the day.

And the hardest one for Diane to eat.

Oh, I was enthusiastic.

And hungry.

But sometimes, it simply took a while for my stomach to awaken.

At least that's what Mom told me. And Mom was always right.

Plus, I ate too fast.

A character flaw that haunts me to this day.

Our family was travelling through . . . somewhere.

We had stayed the night in a hotel.

It was time for breakfast.

Dad took us to a nice restaurant at the edge of town.

We were handed large, colourful menus. With pictures.

I loved pictures.

And shiny things, but that is another story.

There was one photo, in particular, that caught my attention.

It showed waffles. A golden heap of them. Topped with, wonder of wonders, ice cream.

I think there was fruit atop the ice cream, as a sop to nutritional convention, but all I really had eyes for was the cold, sweet stuff.

Who ever heard of ice cream for breakfast?

And the final miracle? Mom let me order them.

All of my dreams had suddenly come true.

My waffles arrived, in all of their sweet, golden perfection. Ice cream just nicely melting on top.

Ecstasy on a plate.

I dove in.

And I do mean dove.

I shovelled fast and hard.

Before the rest of the family was half through, I was licking my plate.

Ice cream is not something that you can allow to get away.

And then . . . my wonderful waffles and ice cream hit . . . my stomach.

It wasn't awake.

It didn't like it.

It would . . . REACT!

And so, my beautiful breakfast, so briefly enjoyed, ended up back on the plate.

Sigh.

My horrified siblings fled.

My patient parents cleaned.

And lamented losing a breakfast they hadn't even paid for yet.

And a daughter who was suddenly hungry again.

Never again was I offered more than the usual at breakfast.

Good nourishing food.

That stuck to my ribs.

Well . . . stuck, anyways.

Starting Them Early

I was washing the dishes.

A fairly mundane, and totally necessary occupation when the house is filled with small children.

Our two-year-old (herein after known as TYO) came into the kitchen.

“Oh!” she said, hurrying over to me. “Dishes!” She started pulling up the sleeves on her dress.

I was just loading the last of the dishes into the washer. “Sorry, Sweetie,” I said, “ I've just finished.”

There were a couple of lids that still needed to go in, so I handed them to her and directed placement.

Then she turned and trotted out.

Thinking she was finished helping, I started to put water into the sink to clean the bigger things that didn't quite fit into the washer.

Suddenly TYO was back.

She had gone down the hall to the bathroom and retrieved the small stool we keep there to facilitate smaller statures reaching the sink.

This, she set in front of the sink and climbed upon.

“Okay,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Are you ready to wash the dishes?”

She nodded.

“Okay!” I handed her the cloth and she swished happily away over the pots and pans.

She looked so . . . intent and grown up.

The last things in the sink, the egg cups, proved a bit distracting. These were fun to simply play with.

So I let her, while I wiped off table and cupboards.

Soon, we were done and TYO stepped down, picked up her stool and carted it back to the bathroom.

I will admit, here, that she was a trifle damp – both on her rolled-up sleeves and the front of her little dress.

And her cleaning style was lacking somewhat in effectiveness.

But she was enthusiastic.

And determined.

And very, very happy.

Someone is being taught very, very well.

It’s a wonderful thing.

Where the Toys are

The grandkids are over for the weekend.

This is what Connie Francis would be singing in this situation . . .

(To the tune of "Where the Boys Are')

Where the toys are, grandpa waits for me
A smilin' face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly
Where the toys are, Grandpa’s love will be
He's sittin’ in his re-clin-er and I know he's waitin' there for me

In the world of billions of people I think he looks just fine
Then I'll eat his treats and play his games and tell the world he's mine

Till we get there I wait impatiently
Where the toys are, where the toys are
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me

Till we get there I wait impatiently
Where the toys are, where the toys are
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me 

My Climbing Frame

My Daddy and me

My Dad and I had a trick.

Something that only Daddy and I could do.

It was my favourite thing in the world.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Dad was strong.

And tall.

Certainly stronger and taller than me.

He could take my hands and hold me steady while I walked up his body.

I know this sounds like something out of Cirque Du Soleil, but it’s true.

I would lift my feet and plant them on his legs, then walk up till I reached his chest.

Then - and this is the exciting part - I would flip over and start again.

It was immensely fun.

For a four-year-old, hugely entertaining.

And didn’t happen nearly enough.

Dad would come in the door and be greeted by, “Daddy! Daddy! Pick me up!”

Obligingly, he would take my hands and let me use him as an acrobatic frame for my . . . acrobatics.

Again and again.

Then smile and set me down and go on with his duties.

I would happily return to mine.

This went on for years.

Years.

Then one day, I think I must have been about nine, Dad uttered the fateful words, “Sorry, honey, you’re just too heavy for me!”

I stared at him, aghast.

How could this be?

He was still taller than me.

Stronger than me.

Broader than . . . you get the picture.

How could I possibly be too heavy for him?

But, sadly, it was true.

And, just like that, my daddy’s frame climbing days were over.

Sigh.

Last night, I was watching one of our youngest granddaughters climb up her daddy.

Giggling happily as she did so.

And suddenly, I was remembering.

Being four-years-old again.

Holding my Daddy’s hands.

Using his help and his frame to do my acrobatics.

A sweet, sweet memory.

Identification

Okay. They may look a little funny.
But we're still glad they're back!

Our youngest daughter and her family recently moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.

They had been away for far too long.

It was cause for celebration.

So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.

I should probably explain here that when all of our kids and their families gather, we number twenty-five people.

Twelve of whom are under the age of ten.

Organized confusion.

Generally, the parents and very youngest members gather in the front room upstairs to chat.

The oldest of the grandkids flee to the basement.

Where the toys are.

Now these kids are used to being together.

And treat each other like siblings.

Getting along fabulously for the most part.

With occasional bouts of tears and irritation.

It was a fairly normal evening.

Adults – visiting.

Kids downstairs – playing.

Someone started to cry.

Our six-year old came running up the stairs.

“Someone’s crying!” he announced.

Needlessly, I might point out.

I looked at him. “Who is crying?”

Now, my daughter’s family hadn't been around for some time. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, her daughter was not.

He handled the confusion well.

“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”

Ah. Identification complete.

Maybe we should put that on her birth certificate.

Planting . . . Panties

Mom, Chris and Jerry, 1951 PD (Pre-Diane)

Mom was a gardener. 

One of those . . . mmmajor gardeners. 

I’m almost certain that her garden produced enough to feed the entire country of England . . . or Russia . . . or the entire southern hemisphere . . . or . . . someone stop me! 

And because Mom was a gardener, her kids were gardeners, albeit reluctant ones. 

On any given day, you could find one bonneted head, several blonde towheads and at least one redhead bent over the various plants, being more or less productive. 

We all had our assignments.

I was four. My job was to watch.
Oh, and eat peas.
Our family produce patch covered about 2 acres, give or take. 

The rows were probably about 40 feet long, but to a four-year-old, they stretched to Argentina. (I didn't exactly know where that was, but it had a sort of far away-ish sound to it.) 

The patch was surrounded by pine trees. Tall, lush, they had been planted by my father in his youth – that is a story – and now provided perfect shade for a small body who wanted to be out with the others.

But suffered from a short attention span.
So there I sat, whiling away the hours. 

Mostly, I lay on the cool grass and made life miserable for the ants and other small, harmless creatures. 

But deep beneath the overhanging branches of the towering pines were patches of dirt. And I discovered that it was fun to dig in that dirt and – don’t tell my mother – plant stuff.
I know you're wondering what a four-year-old would have to plant. 

And that is the point of this story . . .

All pea seeds had gone into the mouth. 

Hmmm. The pods were there. That was a no-brainer. But that only took a short while. 

What else? 

Shoes? 

Those had been kicked off when I had first hit the garden and were now lying abandoned in one of the rows, waiting to be discovered by the roto-tiller. 

Taking stock, I discovered that my feet were at least partially covered by socks formerly known as white. They slipped off easily. A little furrow in the dirt and voila! A perfect place for a future ‘sock tree’. 

What else?

The gardening bug had hit. I just had to plant! I just had to plant!
My mother had tried to instill in me the need for modestly, so removing anything obvious, like blouse or skirt was not even considered. 

What else did I have that I really didn't need? 

I had it! 

Panties. And cute, blue ones, with little darker blue flowers. 

They would produce something lovely, I was sure! 

Off they came, and into the little trench dug specifically for them. 

I patted the dirt into place. Perfect. 

Job completed, I crawled out from under the tree. 

Mom was down the row of beans just in front of me, sitting back on her heels and waving her bonnet in front of a flushed face. She turned and smiled at me, obviously noticing nothing.
Feeling giddy with a sense of accomplishment, I joined her, offering to help pick the beans. She nodded gratefully and I squatted in my abbreviated skirts to begin.
I don’t remember what was said. Only a gasp and then strong hands propelling me unceremoniously back to my ‘garden’.

Once there, I was ordered to dig up every article. 

I stared up at her, aghast. 

The whole garden? 

We're talking days worth of 'gardening'! Mentally, I tallied it up. Hats, tools, shoes, George’s new toy, my new toy, several spoons.

With a decidedly aggrieved air, I began to half-heartedly push at the dirt, only to uncover . . . nothing. 

No clothes, no toys, not even one spoon. 

I dug deeper. 

Still nothing. 

Where could they be? 

I crawled out from under the tree and stared up at it. Was I in the right place? 

I looked at the tree next to it. 

Surely. How could I be mistaken? 

Back into my ‘hidden garden’ which, incidentally, was becoming more hidden by the minute. 

We never did recover the things I had buried, though my mother turned up the dirt beneath every tree surrounding the garden. 

Where could they have gone? 

We’ll never know, now, but if being a successful gardener means planting things, I am an expert. 

If it also means that something is supposed to grow, I’m not.
Hmmm. Burying things so they’ll never . . . NEVER be found. It sounds as though my mother was really training me for . . . piracy. 

Or mob work. 

Who knew?

Oh, Sleep, Where Art Thou?

I just woke up from a fair night’s sleep.

For me ‘fair’ is as good as it gets.

And I know because, once, I had a fantastic sleep.

The best sleep of my life.

It happened when I was eight.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Dad had taken my brothers . . . somewhere.

Exactly where they went is blurry.

The important point is that they were away. And that their wonderful bunkbed in the bedroom next to mine stood empty.

I should mention here that I had long coveted their beds. They were made of beautiful, solid maple and were soooo comfortable.

But I digress . . .

My older sister, Chris, and I saw an opportunity for some fun and adventure.

We’d stay the night in our brothers’ beds!

Wow!

Okay, I admit it. We didn’t have a very exciting life.

Moving on . . .

Chris took the upper bunk and I snuggled into the lower.

We talked and laughed.

Mom made a couple of visits to the doorway to threaten to separate us and finally to *shudder* make us go back to our own beds.

It was this second warning that made me finally give up and close my eyes.

My shoulder started to ache so I decided I should turn over and get more comfortable.

I opened my eyes.

Sunlight was streaming into the room.

At first, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I had never seen the world go from black to light quite so dramatically.

I thought someone had turned on the lamp.

I turned to look at the window.

Nope. I was right. It was sunlight.

Somehow, morning had instantly followed bedtime.

Instantly.

It took some time for me to realize that I had just had a night of deep, dreamless sleep.

I know it happens to other people, but it had never happened before.

Or since.

To me.

But I have that one night.

And, believe me, in the sleepless hours between midnight and four A.M., I often think of it.

Sigh.

Where’s a stolen bunkbed when you need it?

Let Them Eat . . . Bread

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.

Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.

The subject of bread came up.

And the best places to get the least-expensive.

“Oh, we never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter said. “That’s far too expensive!”

“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”

I stared at him.

Okay. I admit it.

It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.

We’re a homemade kind of family.

So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.

Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.

Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.

Moving on . . .

As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.

(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)

We were in the Red and White grocery store in Milk River.

Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.

I was perusing the candy aisle.

Also important.

Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.

“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”

I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.

Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?

 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.

There were, maybe, six aisles.

With the bakery being two aisles away.

I could do it if I scurried.

“Okay!” 

I scurried.

There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.

‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.

I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.

“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.

Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”

Sigh.

I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.

Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.

Whew.

Mom started toward the front of the store.

It was now or never.

“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”

Chocolate bars were ten cents.

Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .

“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”

Stupid bread.

My 'Almost' Pet. And My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

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.