Tender Mercies

All I can fee l is gratitude . . . and love.

Twelve years ago, our youngest daughter was a Junior in High School.

She was a promising newbie on her rugby team.

An accomplished musician, playing both the trombone and accordion.

She loved to dance and was a superb and natural stage actress.

With a quick and wicked sense of humour.

Then, her life changed.

When she was 15, she went on a trail-riding camp with her class to the Rocky Mountains.

Something the school sponsored every year.

All had gone well.

Then, as the group made their careful way along the ridge of a high coulee, a rider in front of her lost his hat.

It landed on the ground directly at her horse’s feet.

The animal spooked and reared back.

And the two of them, horse and rider, went over the cliff, landing, with our daughter beneath, on the rocky streambed some thirty feet below.

The horse, shaken and confused, but relatively unhurt, immediately scrambled to its feet and took off.

Our daughter remained where she had fallen.

Her friends and schoolmates rushed to her side.

She was conscious and reassured everyone that she was fine.

Though in a great deal of pain.

They hauled her to her feet, set her on the back of an ATV and took her back to camp.

From there, she was piled into a vehicle and driven to the nearest town, Rocky Mountain House, and taken to the hospital.

By this time, she was confused and asking the same questions over and over.

The doctor there at the hospital gave her a cursory examination, ran a hand quickly down her back where her pain seemed the most intense, and sent her back to camp.

For three days, she slept on the hard ground and generally tried to move a little as possible.

Finally, the camp ended and everyone piled into the busses and vehicles to head home.

When I first saw my daughter, I could see she was still in intense pain.

I immediately took her in to our doctor, who ordered an x-ray.

And called us as soon as he had seen the pictures.

“Get her in to the hospital now,” he said. “Right now. Don’t stop for anything.”

Bewildered, we did as we had been told, arriving in the early evening.

She was immediately admitted.

A specialist appeared at her bedside. “Has she had anything to eat?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“She needs emergency surgery,” he said. “Her back is badly broken.”

The words went through both of us like a bolt.

“Broken?”

“One of her vertebra is completely crushed,” the doctor said. “The two on either side of it are mostly gone and only have one side each. They are point-to-point holding the rest of her back intact.”

We stared at him.

“I have to operate as soon as possible. Because she has eaten we’ll have to postpone the surgery until morning.” He sighed. “Well try to make her as comfortable as possible for the night.”

It was an emotional and sleepless one.

Early the next morning, they took my little girl, my promising athlete, musician, dancer and actress in to surgery to try to save what was left of her back.

My Husby and I waited.

Forever.

Finally, a team of medical people pushed her bed back into her room. She smiled at us groggily.

They snapped the brakes and turned to us. “Look,” one of them said. She folded the covers back at the foot of the bed.

“Wiggle your feet, dear,” she said.

Our daughter did so.

The tears that had never been very far away, began.

They had managed to insert two metal brackets, one on either side of her spine, and fastened them to healthy vertebrae above and below the affected three. Then they cinched the crushed bones apart.

The pain was unimaginable.

And my daughter never even whimpered.

Within a few days, she had been fitted for an external ‘clam shell’ that she could clasp around her to protect her fragile spine.

She was told it would be her best friend for the next six months.

And then she walked out of the hospital.

A few weeks later, we took her camping.

She wasn’t able to do much more than wade in the cool, clear water, but she splashed around in her swimsuit and clam shell and enjoyed the sun and the company of her siblings.

Nearby was a young woman, just older than my daughter, in a wheelchair.

I thought, then, ‘There but for the Grace of God goes my daughter.’

She had to give up her dream of playing rugby, but, other than that, was able to resume her normal activities.

And slowly grew new bones.

Her clam shell was discarded after two months.

She still dances and plays music.

Still acts.

She finished high school and college and now works as a carpenter, building stage sets.

She is a wife and a mother.

Today is her 27^th birthday.

I see her dancing with her daughter or strapping on a tool belt or competing with her husband at a video game and I forget the grave mistakes that were made after her accident.

All I can feel is gratitude.

Through the Eyes of a Four-Year-Old

Turtle Mountain - After the tragedy

Not far from Calgary, Alberta, and just east of the Crowsnest Pass, lies the small, bustling town of Frank, Alberta, nestled on the floor of a deeply-glaciated valley.

Looming menacingly nearby is Turtle Mountain.

Also nearby is a scene of a destruction of such magnitude that it has never been equalled!

In the early morning hours of April 29, 1903, Turtle Mountain collapsed, resulting in the greatest landslide in North American history.

In 100 seconds: at least 76 people were buried alive under tons of massive limestone boulders; three-quarters of the homes in Frank were crushed like balsa wood; over a mile of the Canadian Pacific Railroad was completely destroyed; and a river became a lake.

Yet, few people have ever heard about it.    - Neil Simpson                                                                                                                                

My parents were driving out to the coast and travelling through Frank Slide was a necessity.

In the years after the tragedy, little of the rubble had been disturbed. The giant boulders and pieces of mountain lay where they had fallen, a silent testament to those trapped forever beneath.

The road had been cut through and the railway reconnected.

Little else had been disturbed.

Driving through, one's car dwarfed by the massive chunks of rock.

One could easily imagine the horror and heartbreak of that fateful morning.

Unless one was four.

Which I was.

I should mention here that, when our family travelled, the scenery or anything else flying past us outside the car never interested me. Because when I was in a car I was either:

1. Sick
2. Oblivious
3. Sick and oblivious
4. Asleep

The only thing that could rouse me were the words, “Look! Horses!”

I would leap up instantly, despite being heretofore (real word) comatose and press my nose against the nearest window. “Where!? Where!?”

One or the other of my parents would point out the eagerly anticipated animals.

I would stare at them for as long as time permitted, then collapse back onto the seat with a sigh and return to whatever I had been doing.

I was fairly easily entertained.

But I digress . . .

The road had been long. We had already been travelling for an hour.

I was drowsing on the back seat.

Suddenly, Dad spoke up, “Here we are kids! Frank Slide!”

At almost the same time, my Mom said, “Look at all the rock!”

The tone of voice was the same as what my parents used whenever they pointed out something interesting.

Like horses.

But because the word 'horse' had not actually been used, I was slow to respond.

I must admit that I never even heard my Mom's comment.

I sat up and pressed my face against the window.

I don't know what I was expecting. Dad had said something about a 'slide'.

To me that meant something 'playground-y'.

All I could see were huge rocks.

What kind of playground was this?

Finally, I turned to my parents and said, “Can't see it!”

They burst out laughing.

What was that all about?

Mom pointed out the window. “Can't you see all the rock?”

I glanced outside. “Yeah.”

“Well that's it!”

I looked again. “But I can't see it!”

I don't think they ever figured out that I was talking about the 'slide'.

The real slide. The one Dad had seen.

All they wanted was to look at the stupid rocks.

Parents are so weird.

Let Me Call You Sweeheart

Happily Ever After

Mom and Dad had been happily married for nearly 40 years when she was stricken with Parkinson’s disease. Slowly, her brilliant mind clouded, she slipped into her own world. 

Drawing further and further away from reality and from her eternal companion.

But, at times, and for very brief moments, she was able to demonstrate that she was very much aware of him and that their relationship was still alive and well . . . somewhere.

As Mom’s condition worsened, Dad had taken her to a wonderful nursing home just a block from his apartment. Then, each evening, he would arrive to feed her supper and visit with her.

The only days he missed were the times he was away, visiting one of us kids.

At those times, he would make sure that my brother, who also lived nearby, would be able to help Mom with her supper and her evening visit.

It was wonderful to be a witness to his patient and loving care.

Mom had an unusual name. Enes.

Pronounced: E-nes.

People didn’t quite know how to say it. They would make attempts, usually ending up with something that resembled ‘Eh-nes’.

One of the workers at the home was curious about Mom’s name. “Mrs. Stringam?” she asked one day. “Do you pronounce your first name E-nes or Eh-nes?”

Mom simply stared straight ahead uncomprehendingly.

“Mrs. Stringam? Are you E-nes or Eh-nes?””

Still no response.

Finally the woman decided to try a different route to, hopefully, the right answer. “Mrs. Stringam? What does your husband call you?”

Mom turned suddenly and looked at her. “Sweetheart,” she said clearly.

Even in her condition, the bonds and memories of love remained strong.

Yes, Virginia, There Really is an Outdoors

Daddy was just telling me about his favourite game as a child.

Run, Sheep. Run.

He explained that a group of kids would divide into two teams. The wolves. And the sheep.

The sheep would hide, then send one of their number back to the wolves. This messenger would quickly draw a map illustrating just where the sheep were hiding.

The wolves would then head out to find them.

In the meantime, the sheep could stay where they had last been seen. Or move somewhere else entirely.

Once the wolves got close to them however, their messenger, running along behind the wolves would yell, “Run, sheep! Run!”

The sheep would scatter and try to make their way back to the designated place of safety before the wolves ‘caught’ them.

Dad says he and his friends spent many, many happy hours playing this game.

It sounded like . . . heaven.

During my own childhood, we had many outdoor games that we played. Tag. Anti-Ei-Over, Frozen tag. Capture the Flag. Kick the can. How had I missed Run, sheep. Run?

Moving on . . .

A few months ago, my Husby and I were at Fort Edmonton Park.

Don’t worry. The two will connect . . .

For those not familiar with it, Fort Edmonton is a reconstruction of the original fort for which Edmonton is named. The fort itself is surrounded by several ‘streets’ of differing time periods, each telling of a moment in Edmonton’s past.

It is a fascinating place. Where people in period costumes re-enact social, political and economic situations.

I know. I sound like a brochure.

I love it there.

The reason for our visit was the fiftieth anniversary of my aunt and uncle.

We visited. Laughed. Ate. Visited. Laughed. Watched their grandkids perform vignettes from their grandparents’ history. Laughed. Visited.

And generally had a wonderful time.

Part way through the day, my Husby and I stepped out onto the boardwalk.

To find all of their grandkids, released from their acting responsibilities, happily engaged in a game of hide-and-seek.

Hide-and seek.

I hadn’t seen kids play that in forever.  Most of the kids I see now have their noses in an electronic device.

But here they were. Ranging in age from 3 to 15, all racing around to find places to hide.

And having a marvelous time.

Huh.

Kids really can (and do) play outside.

Just like my Dad did.

And me.

It gave me hope.

Parking for Dummies

Ha! Parked.

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving. Mowing. Baling. Stacking. There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in. And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Just FYI.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to travelling in the fields and doing ranch work but I was still driving.

And in control . . . more or less, as I made wide turns about the fields.

On to my story . . .

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically  lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked, spent an hour or so riding in the early morning sunshine, and drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where everything went wrong.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding very early. By the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

And remember where I said that I was only accustomed to maneuvering in large spaces?

Well, that would apply here.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine.

This was going nowhere fast.

And suddenly, standing there in a shaft of early morning light looking like the avenging God of Sleep, was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wears pajamas. Nicely pressed, matching, button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They are quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed. Oddly enough, it's usually when I'm around.

Moving on . . .

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me. I knew that look. I'd seen it before.

A few times.

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience.

I disappeared in a heartbeat.

Dad surveyed the damage.

There were a couple of 'bruises' on one of the carport supports.

And a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out later when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor if you don't count lost sleep.

Which Dad does.

Sigh.

I want you to know that I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time.

And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget. 

Best Mud Pie Recipe

I’ve used many, many recipes in my life.

Starting with simple: crackers and cheese.

And, believe me, you have to get that one just right . . .

To more complicated: hot dogs.

And I’m sure you must realize the vital importance of the meat to bun ratio. And I won’t even go into the selection and/or serving size of condiments.

But my very first recipe was not nutritious.

Or even edible.

In fact, though it smelled rather good, I wouldn’t have fed it to the dog.

Well, actually I did try.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was staying with my friend/cousin, Jean.

It was summer.

Her mother had kicked us outside to play.

We had played.

 Now we were looking for something a little more . . . constructive.

“Let’s make mud pies!” Jean said.

Mmm. I like pie. “Okay.”

She found an old pot and we started adding ingredients.

I should mention here that, as we didn’t have all of the ingredients for pie, and really didn’t know what those ingredients were, we . . . erm . . . substituted.

Back to my story . . .

Dirt. (For flour)

Water. (For water) And I should tell you that you have to get this ingredient just right. Too much and your mud pies are sloppy. Not enough and you can’t do a thing with them.  Just FYI.

Rocks. (Those were the raisins)

Two eggs that she stole from the kitchen. (For eggs)

Grass. (For coconut)

We didn’t mix any awful things into it, though I did find some dog doo that I was tempted to add.

Jean stopped me. “Diane! If you put that in, no one could eat it!”

Important point.

Finally, we mixed our wondrous concoction and formed it carefully into little blobs on the wall of her mother’s flower garden.

Right in the sunlight.

Where our pies could cook and get nice and toasty.

Mmmm. They even smelled good.

I never got to taste our pies.

We were called in to dinner and my Mom picked me up just after that.

But I remember them. And how they would have tasted . . .

Last night, our good friend, Shirley was over visiting.

And told us about her ‘mud pie’ story.

She and her sister had found an old pail.

Added their ingredients.

Stirred well.

Now they were ready for the ‘cooking’ part.

But here, Shirley’s story takes a different turn from mine.

When she was young, her family had a chicken coop.

With a little wood stove inside to keep their feathered friends warm in the cooler months of the year.

Hmmm.

Why bother to set their mud concoction into the sun, where the actual ‘baking’ would be iffy, at best.

They would set their creation on the little wood stove.

And boil it.

Genius.

No sooner said than . . .

I probably don’t have to tell you that the flaws in their preparation technique were almost immediately apparent.

In Shirley’s words . . . “It really stank!”

So, a note to all mud-pie enthusiasts out there.

Bake.

Don’t boil.

You heard it here first.

Phone Tag: The Original

Call me!

My Dad is the last surviving member of a family of thirteen, the youngest of eleven children.

This week, he has been reminiscing . . .

One of Dad’s elder brothers, Alonzo (hereinafter known as Uncle Lonnie), became a wealthy man by the simple practices of thrift, caution and wise investment.

Besides being brothers, he and Dad were good friends and often ranched together.

Which necessitated good communication.

Living fifty miles apart, this meant telephoning.

I should explain here that, in the late sixties, phone plans had not yet been invented.

You had two options.

You dialed a number directly. And paid.

Or, if you weren't certain that the person you wanted was home, you could dial ‘person-to-person’ and have an operator facilitate the call. This was more expensive if your party was there, but cost you nothing if they weren’t.

Understand?

Moving on . . .

Uncle Lonnie, he of the sound mind and thrifty practices, needed to talk to Dad.

But it was the middle of the day, a time when phone calls were at their most expensive. Uncertain if he would find Dad at home, he opted to have an operator place the call.

Dad answered the phone.

The call went something like this . . .

Dad: “Hello?”

Operator: “I have a person-to-person call for Dr. Mark Stringam.”

Dad: “This is Dr. Stringam.”

Operator: “Go ahead, sir!”

Uncle Lonnie: “If I’d known you were actually there, I’d have dialed directly!”

Dad, grinning into the phone: “Well, I’m here!”

And he hung up the phone.

Gotcha.

Amen

You'd better be thankful for that!
Just sayin . . .

Suppertime at the Stringam Ranch.

Wonderful food.

Great company.

The best part of everyone’s day.

Well . . . most everyone.

Mealtimes on a spread the size of ours inevitably meant the mixing of people of vastly different lives and lifestyles.

There was the family. Mom, Dad, children, babies.

Hired men. Ranging in age from the world-weary, leather-faced, taciturn individual who had spent a lifetime squinting into the sun, to the young, smooth-cheeked, ready-for-anything boy, away from home for the very first time.

And assorted people who simply found themselves in the vicinity when the dinner bell rang; and happily joined the queue heading into the dining room.

A fairly eclectic mix.

All knew they would be treated to the very best of good, ranch cooking.

And that the traditional meal would begin with another, more important tradition.

Thanking the Lord.

Regardless of race, creed or colour, the people gathered around my father’s table to eat my mother’s food, would patiently and solemnly bow their heads as Grace was said.

Further participation was optional.

Case in point:

My eldest sister had just turned four.

And had taken on all the heavy duties and responsibilities associated with that venerable age.

Seated happily among the people gathered around the table for the evening meal, she folded her hands tightly, bowed her curly red head, and squeezed her eyes shut when the prayer was said.

There was a chorus of ‘Amens’.

Chris’ head swivelled around and she pinned the hired man seated next to her with a blue-eyed glare.

“You didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said loudly.

The man turned slightly red and squirmed in his chair as he reached for the stack of still-warm, freshly-sliced bread.

Chris turned to her father. “Daddy! He didn’t say ‘Amen’!” she said, even more loudly.

Dad paused in the passing of a large bowl of potatoes. “Ummm . . .” he said.

She turned to the other end of the table. “Mom . . .!”

“That’s okay, dear,” Mom soothed.

The now red-faced man managed to make it through the rest of a meal punctuated by the side-long glances from a tiny girl with strong convictions.

I’m sure he had had more uncomfortable meals in his lifetime.

I’m also sure he was wishing he was at one of them.

And Now For the News

My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table, after we had finished eating.

Let me rephrase that.

My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table . . . you get the picture.

Oh, he absorbed the important news stories.

And took note of local and international events and even sales.

But after he had digested the headlines, he would continue to read.

And . . . umm . . . put his own twist upon what he found there.

“Huh. Look at that. Jeffrey James died.”

There would be a pause as everyone in the room tried to decide if they had ever heard that name before.

Finally, some curious soul would ask the question, “Oh? Who was Jeffrey James?”

“Haven't got the slightest idea.”

There would be a general groan and much head shaking.

But that's my Dad.

Sometimes he would embroider a story, improving it for our benefit.

And it wasn't until the story got too outlandish that we would realize it.

“Well, it says here that they're planning a new bridge across the Old Man River near Fort Macleod.”

Again, someone would take the bait. “Really?”

“Yeah. Four lane. The works.”

“Well, it is the Alaska Highway. They probably need the improvement.”

“Suspension.”

“Well, that'll be nice.”

“Yep. It's just going to hang there. Suspended. Be hard to get on and off of.”

At which time, he would get a smack on the arm.

Or a platter of scrambled eggs upended over his head.

Sometimes, Dad would cut the story out of whole cloth.

“Our taxes are going up.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yep. They need the money for a new fund.”

“Really?”

“Yep, the Town Council Mexico fund.”

“What sort of fund is that?”

“It's the fund where all of the town council get to go to Mexico.”

“What for?”

“Well, to hold their meetings.”

Or . . .

“Well, look at that. The President of the United States is going up with the next Moon Mission.”

“Well, that sounds dangerous. Why?”

“I guess he wants to see for himself what all of the excitement is about.”

And, for some time we would think that the story was true.

In fact, we were even known to spread the rumour.

With embarrassing, but amusing, results.

You'd think we would learn.

But Dad wouldn't limit himself to making up stories.

Oh, no.

Sometimes, he would improve the staid old news in other ways.

By inserting his favourite poems.

Have I mentioned that he loves to recite?

“Little Johnny took a drink,

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4!”

We would nod and smile.

That part, we had gotten used to.

Anyone new to the family, however, would be understandably confused.

Once, my nearly sister-in-law was seated at the breakfast table with us.

Dad was hidden behind the newspaper, filling us in on the day's happenings.

Suddenly, his tone changed.

The boy stood on the burning deck.

His feet were in the fire.

The Captain said, You're burning up!”

The boy said, “You're a liar!”

She peered timidly around the paper, trying to see where he was reading.

Finally, “Where does it say that?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “No where, dear. It's in his head!”

“Oh.”

And still she joined the family.

Go figure.

But that's part of the Stringam legacy.

To this day, I can't simply read the paper.

I especially have great fun with the classifieds.

I guess I just had too good an example.

Between a Rock and a Cool Place

Quick - pick out the cool kids . . .

At the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the playground, halfway between the elementary and junior/senior high schools was a rock.

A big rock.

Huge.

It didn't belong to anyone.

It was just there.

Doing rock stuff.

It had 'sit' down pretty well.

And 'stay'.

It was the gathering place for the 'cool' kids in grade five.

I was in grade five.

I wasn't cool.

Every recess, the group of boys and girls who were the most popular would scurry down and claim the rock. For the entire 15 minutes, they would clamber (real word) about, or sit and talk.

And look cool.

I wanted to be with them more than anything.

I wanted to be cool.

Sigh.

I, too, had a group of friends.

Like me, my friends were not considered the 'popular' group.

But they were good friends. Loyal. Fun.

Often I would catch them casting longing looks towards the rock.

And the cool kids thereon.

I knew what they were thinking.

Sometimes, our disappointment and frustration would boil over into something more proactive.

Gossip.

One occasion stands out . . .

We 'seconds' as we had begun to think of ourselves, were grouped around the monkey bars.

Talking.

Okay, we called it talking.

We were making great sport of tearing the distant cool kids apart.

Everything was fodder for our nasty little grist mill. Their looks, their clothes, their personalities, their classroom standing, even their pets.

Yep. We were grinding at a pretty feverish pace.

I said, in a loud voice, "Well, I wouldn't go with them, even if they begged me."

The others nodded in agreement.

Than another voice broke in. "Diane?"

We all turned. Two of the popular girls were standing there.

"Um . . . yeah?"

"We wanted to invite you to join us. Paul really likes you."

I'd like to tell you that I simply smiled and refused. Or that I turned a slightly disdainful shoulder and stuck with my friends.

I did neither.

Faster than you can blink, I was one of them. They put their arms around my waist and I did the same and the three of us headed off to the rock.

I didn't even look back.

For many weeks, I lived as a cool kid.

Hung out at Danny's like everyone else but, because I did it, it was cool. Wore the same clothes as everyone else, purchased at Robinson's, but because I did it . . . you get the picture.

And I loved it.

Every minute of it.

No longer did I have to worry about what I said.

Because I was cool, everyone laughed and forgave me.

I didn't have to worry about what I did.

Ditto.

I was in heaven.

Then . . .

Paul decided he liked someone else.

And, just like that, I wasn't cool anymore.

The rest of them dropped me like a hot . . . rock.

It was my very first lesson on relationships.

It wouldn't be the last.

But it was the most painful.

Because when I tried to go back to my old circle of friends, I found that they were afraid of me.

Afraid to trust me.

Now, I was truly alone.

Oh, my solitary state didn't last long.

Only the eternity of about a week.

Fifth graders have short memories.

Fortunately.

But I did a lot of growing in that week.

I realized that I had learned four things:

            1. True friends are important.

            2. Don't burn your bridges.

            3. The rock is really hard and uncomfortable to sit on.

            4. Even if you're a cool kid.

Another Stringam Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

We join the end of a line of cars.

"Huh. Weird," Dad says.

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom asks, spitting on a Kleenex and cleaning the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet," Dad says. "But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along.

We creep along behind it, more cars joining us every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster.

"Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, stands up on the front seat and starts doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here," Mom says, pulling the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear," she says. "We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because we'll be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss. How long till the turn?" she asks Dad.

"At this rate? About three days," Dad says.

We are heading to our relatives for dinner.

I'm beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.

She glances around at her brood.

Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine.

Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses the only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

And Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms cross on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap.

"There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

"There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" Dad says.

"You can have some of mine!" Anita says, offering her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red.

"That's okay," he says. "I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign. Again the potty comes into play.

Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad says, leaning forward and peering through the front windshield.

"Let's play a game!" Mom says. "How about 20 questions?"

"Okay! I've got it," Jerry says.

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Alive or dead?"

"Alive."

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad says. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often," she says.

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he says, with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver says. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" he says.

They wave to each other and we are off.

Just another family car trip.

Spring is in . . . the Air

Milk River. Looking west . . .

My home town of Milk River, Alberta is a small place just north of the Canada/US border.
Tucked into the very heart of farming and ranching country.
Generational farms and ranches surround it on all sides.
The Milk River, itself, meanders quietly through.
A peaceful little oasis, perfect for raising families and finding harmony.
In the sixties, homes built on the edges of the town looked out, quite literally on farm fields.
And, on the west side of town, one feed lot.
Okay, yes, I will admit that said feed lot was across the tracks and behind the seed-cleaning plant.
But, let’s face it. It was very, very close to the town.
And had been for a great number of years.
My dad raised bulls in that feed lot.
It was . . . handy.
I should maybe explain for any of you not familiar with cattle and feed lots, that a feed lot is simply a large series of corrals in which cattle are fattened.
Much like Hansel and Gretel.
To the same purpose.
But with much less candy.
Moving on . . .
Beef cattle are twice daily fed a mixture of grains and yummy nutritious stuff. (But no candy: see above.)
They happily slurp this up, then wander around the corrals and grow.
When they reach a certain size, they are sold either as breeding stock.
Or as dinner.
In a cow, as in any living being, sustenance goes in one end.
Something else comes out the other.
Let’s be classy and call it ‘effluent’.
A poorly-run feed lot will leave said effluent.
For years.
A well-run operation cleans it away.
Every spring.
Ours was a well-run operation.
And said cleaning was a dirty and vastly smelly proposition.
And now the feed lot’s proximity to the town comes into play . . .
Early one spring, just after thaw, Dad decided it was time to clean the ol’ corrals.
He hired a specialized team, who moved in with loaders and trucks.
In no time, the corrals were tidy and clean.
The evil-smelling  ‘gleanings’ were spread on a nearby field as fertilizer.
Job finished. Money paid. Hands shaken.
Dad went back to his regular day.
Now, the town of Milk River has one distinctive anomaly.
It has beauty.
It has peace and prosperity.
And it also has wind.
Mostly from the west.
That springs up . . . whenever.
Usually at the worst, possible time.
Within minutes of the field being spread, the west wind started to blow.
I don’t have to tell you where the accompanying smell went.
Fortunately, the pain was short-lived.
The hot, dry wind that was caused such agony also dried the effluent quickly.
The smell died. Within 12 hours, the people of Milk River could once more draw a decent breath of sweet, clean air.
But the damage had been done.
One woman, the town secretary, unused to the common smells of ranch life in the spring, decided to take matters into her own hands.
She wrote a letter.
On town stationary.
The letter advised my dad that “under no circumstances would he be allowed to operate a feed lot in close proximity to the town.”
Dad stared at the letter.
Really?
The feed lot had been there since time began.
Certainly since Milk River had been there.
Was he really expected to shut his business, and livelihood, down?
He went to the mayor.
Who went to the council.
Who went to the secretary.
Apparently the letter had been written without the authorization of any of them.
Well, except for the secretary who really had no authority.
Dad didn’t have to stop using the feed lot.
Something about it being an old established business.
But changes were made.
After that, he did try to be a bit more judicious about where he spread things.
To save the poor, urban noses.

Aptly Named

Ready to ride!

The Stringam ranch raised cattle.

Polled Herefords.

At the time, there was only one piece of equipment suited to working with these animals.

A horse.

A wonderful, beautiful, perfect, exquisite, delightful, magnificent, superb, gorgeous, splendid, superlative, bravura, exceptional, dazzling and really, really nice horse.

Did I mention I like horses?

Probably not, but you get the picture.

The men and other grown-ups on the ranch had their own mounts.

Size appropriate.

The smaller residents on the ranch needed something . . . smaller.

Dad purchased a little, black Shetland pony.

A pretty little guy.

With the cute little name of ‘Nipper’.

Everyone came out to see him.

My oldest sister, four, was especially excited.

Here was a horse just her size.

“I want to ride him!” she said.

Mom lifted her small daughter and set her on the small, black back.

Suddenly, she felt a pinch.

A sharp pinch.

Somewhere in her nether regions.

She turned.

Nothing.

Huh. Weird.

She turned back to her daughter. “He’s a nice pony, isn’t he?” she asked.

Chris was voluble in her praise and adoration.

Mom reached out to pull her daughter off.

And suddenly, there was that pinch again.

She turned around.

Nothing. Again.

What on earth?

She helped Chris pet the pony’s head.

He was so perfect.

“I wanna ride again,” Chris said.

Obligingly, Mom reached out to set her small daughter on the pony’s back.

Another pinch.

This time, she turned, just in time to see the small, perfect pony turning his head to face front.

And then it hit her.

Whenever she reached out to help her daughter, the little monkey had been turning his head and biting her!

Suddenly the cute little name he had arrived with made a lot more sense.

Nipper.

Let’s face it, it suited.