Summer Pittings

Summer has come to Edmonton!!!

You see a fire pit. We see a . . . target.

We have a fire pit.
The gathering place for our family for every day of the summer.
When the weather allows.
It is the scene of wiener and marshmallow roasts and long, long talks into the evening, watching the flames and embers glow.Where parking toes within comfortable toasting distance and children running dangerously close (to the dismay of their parents) are the norm.
Oh, and because it’s the Tolleys, the fire pit is also the scene of . . . pittings.
Let me explain . . .
Our favorite summer food is cherries.
Cherries have pits.
That are fun to spit.
Pit spitting.
Or pitting.
See it now?
Over the years, my Husby has been able to hit that fire pit with better and better accuracy. He taught his children.
It was fun.
Until they grew up, got married and discovered manners. Or rather, discovered that their spouses had  manners.
Thus, the pittings ended.
For a while.
But in recent years, he has discovered a whole, new group of neophytes. Small people who are ready and willing to embark on any adventure he introduces.
Imagine this: A line of children, of various sizes, cherry juice dripping down their chins, spitting enthusiastically towards the fire.
Sound like fun?
Their parents don’t think so, either.
But Grampa and Gramma do.
And it’s our pit.

Cow's Fault

At least one of us was a lady . . .

It was hot!
I was tired!
Give me a minute, I'm sure I can think of better excuses . . .
The milk cow had been quartered in the east pasture, waiting for her to 'freshen'. (A cowboy term for 'give birth'.)
I know.
Cowboys are weird.
Moving on . . .
Her moment was getting close and it was time for her move into closer quarters.
I was elected to do it.
On foot.
Sigh.
Dad dropped me off at the gate with specific instructions. "Just chase her along the ditch, past the ranch and into the near-west pasture." I nodded. Instructions received and understood.
He drove off.
Things went well at first.
Right up until we reached the ranch entrance.
Madame Cow (I use this term lightly) couldn't quite get into her head the part of our instructions that said, "PAST the ranch."
I should explain here that the entrance to the ranch was on the north side of the road. The ditch we were following toward the west was also on the north side of the road.
And, when the breach in the fence appeared, Madame Cow insisted on turning . . . north. Towards the buildings. I had to sprint around her (remember I was on foot) and turn her back towards the road.
At which time she took the corner and headed east up the ditch we had just come down.
Another sigh. A little more forceful this time. And accompanied by a "Stupid cow!"
I got around her (feet, again) and turned her back west.
She followed the fence and again turned towards the ranch.
Way wrong!
"Stupid, dumb cow!"
Back towards the road.
Please head west. Please?!
Nope. East.
*#$! Cow!
Just a little swear.
This went on for some time, and my language, I'm ashamed to say . . . worsened.
Or got more colorful. That would be the 'PC' term.
Remember, I was raised around hired men. Experts at the English language. Or at least a colorful part of it.
Not an excuse, just a reason.
Again and again, I got round her and tried to head her in the correct direction.
Again and again, she . . . didn't.
And my language got more and more peppered with, shall we say, 'colorful metaphors'?
None of which explained to said cow exactly what I expected of her.
I have to admit that the poor animal was probably quite confused by this time.
There were the buildings. With hay and comfort.
Why were we going the other way?
Okay, strange human, I'll just go back where I came from.
No?
Except that it would have probably sounded more like this:
Food!
Home!
Food!
Home!
In 'cow' of course.
Finally, after what seemed hours of chasing back and forth, and turning the air blue with . . . ahem . . . profanities (me, not her), the cow skipped past the ranch entrance and, wonder of wonders, walked right over to the proper field.

Okay, I'd rather go here, too . . .

Eureka! (real word)
I opened the gate and she stepped sedately through.
Then turned and looked at me.
Stupid human!
At least one of us had retained her gentility.
I closed the gate and started back towards the ranch, humming happily. All that had gone on before conveniently forgotten.
Dad's truck slid to a stop beside me. "Need a ride?"
I climbed in, still humming.
Dad drove for a moment. Then he said, not looking at me, "I got a real education this morning."
I looked at him, innocently, "Oh?"
"Yes. I discovered that my middle daughter knew words I didn't even think she had even heard of."
"Oh." Very tiny voice, "You heard me?"
"Heard you! They heard you in town!"
"Oh."
That was all that was said.
It was never brought up again.
But I knew that Dad knew.
And he knew that I . . . never mind.
I'd like to say that I never used 'foul' language again, but I'd be lying.
For some reason, working with cows brings out the lowest form of expression.
Probably a good thing I don't work with them any more.
And I should probably point out that swearing isn't an easy habit to get rid of.
Even now, years later, a very strange word will pop into my head.
I'm happy to report that it never makes it past my lips, but I feel some dismay in the fact that it appears at all.
Sigh.
I'm a work in progress.
I should have taken lessons from the cow.

Mom. And Food.

The ranch cook. With Chris and Jerry.

Mom could make anything taste good.
And it didn't matter what she had going in her life, meals were always plentiful and on time.
She would serve a full, cooked breakfast of ham, eggs, pancakes and oatmeal, with lunch simmering on the stove and dinner baking in the oven so both meals could be produced quickly as soon as she got done gardening, cleaning or doing chores, got back from driving us kids to school, picking up whatever was needed from the hardware, the feed store, and the grocery, and attended one of her numerous Herefrord club meetings or quilting or sewing bees.
Sometimes I think about the scheduling nightmare that her life must have been.
Thinking about it makes me tired.
But back to the food . . .When Mom was 10 years old, she went with her dad and brothers up to the Berg family's 'other place' to cook while Grandpa and the boys brought in the hay crop.
She often described the little wood stove she used for her meals.
“It had the littlest oven,” she told me, “just big enough to fit in one pie.”
She was making pie???!
At ten years old???!
By herself???!
Okay, amazing just doesn't quite cover it.
By the time I was ten, I figured I was doing extremely well because I knew how to eat pie.
But I digress . . .
So, at the age of ten, she was doing all of the cooking for her father and three older brothers.
Well, she certainly learned how to cook.
Mom could open the fridge (that same fridge that one of us kids had just looked into and pronounced, 'empty'), and produce a hearty, rib-sticking meal.
In minutes.
And totally without the aid of a microwave.
Okay, she had all the modern conveniences. Electric stove. Running water.
Toaster.
Cheese Whiz. (But that is another story . . .)
But still, the meals she could produce.
Her roasts were works of gustatory art.Her pastries and pies had to be tasted to be believed.
Even her vegetables were unsurpassed by anything available in the vast dining world.
Mom could take cauliflower that she had grown and preserved (freezer – another story). Cook and serve it in such a manner that not a scrap was left over.
I tried it with my kids.
Somehow, when I prepared frozen cauliflower, it just came out . . . soggy.
And disgusting.
Oh, Mother, where art thou?
I did learn how to make her pies. But that was all.
To this day, my siblings and I contact each other regularly, asking if anyone knows the recipe for . . .
No one does.
When I cross over to the other side, it will be with a pen and paper in hand.
The first thing I will ask Mom will be, “What the heck is your recipe for your angel food cake topping?”
Notice I said 'heck'. That's because you can't use anything stronger in Heaven.
Where I know Mom is.
Probably cooking.
Sigh.

The Bus to Sleepytime

Blair and Anita.
And me. In my beautiful 'fur' coat.

Okay. I was six. Grade one is hard work! I was tired!
And we lived a million miles from town!
Enough background.
Living 20 miles from the local schools might be a blessing during ‘snow days’ in the winter when the buses didn’t run, but the rest of the time, it merely meant a very long ride. A very long, boring ride.
If one didn’t have someone to visit with, the trip was interminable. Especially to a six year old.
Which I was.
Seating was a highly organized, painstakingly structured fact of bus life.
The eldest kids got to sit in the back. The youngest directly behind the bus driver.
Okay, maybe not so organized . . .
Hijinks were restricted to the back two rows. Your progress through school and through life was largely measured by where you sat in the school bus.
I had never sat behind the first seat.
Until that fateful day.
The Lindemans weren’t on the bus. Will and Louise's seat in the second last row was empty and just waiting to be claimed.
My day had come. Happily, I perched in that heretofore inaccessible spot.
Our bus driver, a wonderfully kind and loving man named Dick Sabey was responsible for delivering us safely into the waiting arms of our mother, Enes Stringam, at Nine Mile Corner. It was a corner situated, interestingly enough, exactly nine miles from our ranch buildings.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.
Day after day, our faithful friend dropped us off at the corner, waving to us cheerfully as we began the trek towards home.
Usually, we managed only a few yards before our mother’s car, trailing a cloud of dust on the country road, appeared around the turn. She would skid to a halt and load us in, questions and news being tossed back and forth before the doors had even closed.
Occasionally, when our amazingly busy Mom was late, we would manage to make it to the Sproade’s, an elderly couple who lived about ½ mile from the corner and whose house was always filled with the rich smell of wonderful German baking. Baking which needed to be eaten by ravenously hungry school children.
We prayed every day our Mom would be late.
But I digress . . .
It was chilly. I don’t remember if it was Spring or Fall, but the weather necessitated the wearing of fairly warm clothing. I had a golden faux fur parka. Purchased by my Dad specifically for a trip to cut our family’s Christmas tree. A coat that could easily have doubled as a bear disguise. But which was wonderfully warm . . . and cozy . . . and *yawn* comfortable . . .
When I awoke some time later, Dick and his dear wife, Scotty, were standing over me, shaking me gently. I sat up and looked around. It was dark. The lights of the Sabey home were shining dimly into the shadowy bus.
Nine Mile Corner was nowhere to be seen. Or my brothers and sister. Or my Mom.
That’s when the tears started.
Dick picked me up and carried me into the house, where Scotty calmed me and cuddled me. And fed me. (Amazing how so many of my stories revolve around food.)
Later, my relieved parents arrived to pick me up and the story was finally told.
The Stringam kids always left the bus in a group. The bus driver, watching alertly to make sure they were safely on their way, noticed that Diane wasn't with them.
But sometimes, kids stayed in town for some reason or another.
The accepted practice in such an instance was to give the driver a note explaining their absence.
But it wasn't unusual for said note to be forgotten.
Dick surmised I had had piano lessons . . . or something.
And since I hadn’t been sitting in my usual spot, my brothers and sister had concluded the same thing and headed quickly toward the Sproade's. By the time our Mom arrived and my absence was noted, the bus was long gone.
The time for panic had truly arrived.
Cell phones existed only in the imaginations of science fiction writers. The only phone connection available was a single party line, installed by my father (and enormously entertaining, but that is another story).
Mom wasted no time in calling the Sabey household and raising the alarm. Dick hadn’t yet returned from his route, so Scotty waited breathlessly at the front window for the bus. When he arrived, she met him and the two of them quickly searched the bus.
They soon discovered that a bulky coat, discarded on one of the last seats, actually contained a person. Not a very big person, to be sure, but a person just the same.
Me.
Some time later, with my Mom’s arms around me, I could see the humour of the situation.
Almost.
Until I grew taller, about grade nine or so, I never again sat anywhere but directly behind the bus driver. It was safer there. And less forgetful.
And, oddly enough, I find it impossible to fall asleep in a moving vehicle.
Except when I’m driving.

Gardening With Toddlers

It seemed a good idea, I thought

                Some hours in the yard.

The winter months had been so long

                And I felt the need of working hard.

So armed with gloves and rakes and things,

                I started out the door.

Trailed by two toddlers

                Who loved to help with Gramma’s chores.

Things went well for a tic or two,

                As Gramma started in,

The girls spun circles in the yard

                Till Linney fell and bumped her chin.

A kiss and cuddle, tears were gone

                It really wasn’t hard.

I set her down and looked to see

                That Hazel’d wandered from the yard.

She’d not gone far, I scooped her up

                And carried her back home.

Then penned them both behind the gate,

                And told them sternly ‘not to roam’.

While toddlers watched, I grabbed my rake,

                But got no further then,

‘Cause Hazel shrieked; I had to run

                She’d fallen in the mud . . . again.

I fished her out and cleaned her off,

                A kiss and all was well,

Then turned just as another shriek,

                Told me Lin was stuck as well.

I’m sure by now you’ve realized

                I didn’t manage much.

With Lin caught in the tramp’line springs

                And Hazel eating chalk and such.

Four trips to bathroom, ‘Pee, potty now!’

                And squabbles over things,

And pouring sand in someone’s hair,

                And all the angst that action brings.

Searching the yard from stem to stern

For Linney’s missing shoe,

Then doing the whole thing o'er again

                Cause Hazel’s hat was ‘somewhere’, too.

With helping up and helping down

                And watching in between.

It’s no wonder that my work just sat,

                With little progress to be seen.

Last night when all were sound asleep

                And peace had been restored,

I looked out the window there,

                And sang my praises to the Lord.

For though my tools were strewn about

And no sign of success,

My time was so well spent, because

                Two little girls, my day did bless.

Cleaning. And Underpants

Mom, with Chris and Jerry.
Mom's the goofy one in the middle.

Mom liked cleaning.
With six kids, one husband, assorted hired men and various other duties and hobbies, she did a lot of it.
A lot.
I think she did it in her sleep.
Certainly, she did it in ours. If we lay down on the carpet in the front room for a nap, we would be picked up and cleaned.
That's just how Mom was.
But, as with any demon cleaner, sometimes the clutter and rubble would get away from her.
Particularly if she was busy with a project and unable to follow us Neanderthals around, picking up and tidying after us.
I can remember two instances when this was brought hilariously to my attention.
The kids in the neighbourhood had been playing at my house.
I don't remember what we were doing, but it involved toys and games.
And mess.
After most of the kids had left, Mom came out of the kitchen and surveyed the detritus that can only be the result of many small bodies . . . having fun.
While she was standing there, Laurie, from next door, twitched her apron.
Mom looked down.
"You sure have a messy house, Mrs. String-am!"
I don't know what Mom said in response.
Probably something tactful, knowing my Mom.
But the story lost nothing in the retelling.
Another time, George and I were playing under the kitchen table.
Yes. Under.
I know. Weird.
Mom was bustling around in the business area of the room.
She opened a cupboard.
And pulled out something . . . unexpected.
"What the . . . who put this underwear in my cupboard?!"
What she was holding was actually a pair of swim trunks.
Light grey.
With sharks printed on them.
But why quibble over details.
George and I stared at them.
Then laughed uproariously.
Mom snorted, folded them neatly, and carried them to their proper home.
We never found out who left them there.
Over the years, I've made up several scenarios that would account for it.
None practical.
Or believable.
But after that, at least once a week, George and I would hide something 'underwearish' (not a real word - I made it up) in Mom's cupboard and wait for her to find it.
Then laugh ourselves silly when she did.
Okay, we were little.
Things were funnier then.

There is an addendum.
I was busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning.
One of the myriad duties that accompany the care and feeding of six kids and one husband.
I set a pot in the sink and turned.
"What the . . . who put these dirty socks on my cupboard?!"
I had turned into my mother!
It's a good thing.

I Want That!

There really aren't 20 mule teams inside. I looked.

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.
We had one TV channel.
And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.
Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.
And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.
He read stories and played music.
Just for me.
Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.
And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)
Each memorable by itself. And each enhanced by the ads woven skillfully between and throughout.
I loved the ads. Those wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.
Or whiter teeth.
Or better coffee.
We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and then answered by, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”
How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”
Inevitably followed by, “Mom, I want to brush my teeth!”
Or, “J-E-L-L-O!” Which was the immediate precursor to snack time.
I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”
That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.
We simply couldn't do without it.
Mom had to buy it.
Or make it. Or do it.
The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens.
Mmmmm. Mom could do that.
The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware.
Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.
But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.
“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”
Moms are weird.
The Marlboro ads convinced me that I wasn't a real man if I didn't sm . . . okay, so I know I could never be a real man, but . . . never mind.
Mom was off the hook there.
She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”
She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.
I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.
I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.
She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the tiny little driver and team.
I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' from playtex or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from the same company.
And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.
Every time.
I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.
Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.
Mom probably can.
Moving on . . .
We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.
I also wanted the bowls they ate from.
Because.
She balked at that.
She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.
Oh, occasion, she tried to substitue some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.
I had seen the ads.
I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat.
'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, Jiffy pop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'
Okay, I have to admit it.
Ads worked for me.
It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.
Mom never would have survived.

When Phones Were Phun

Stringam Ranch.
Everything . . . except a phone

"Operator."
“I want to talk to Jody.”
“Number, please.”
“Six.”
Electric ringing.
“Hello?”
“May I talk to Jody?”
“Yes, one moment.”
“Hello?”
“Jody! We got our phone!”
It was the most exciting day of my life.
The Stringams. That weird family who lived at the back of beyond, had joined the twentieth century. The modern world had finally found its way to our door.
But therein lies a story.
The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the bustling metropolis of Milk River (pop. 499). The phone lines went as far as Nine Mile Corner, a bend in the road situated, astonishingly, just nine miles from the ranch buildings.
The phone company refused to take the phone lines any further. Why would people living that far from civilization need the convenience of modern communication?
Why indeed.
But Dad wanted a phone.
As the only veterinarian in the area, he needed a phone.
Dad was determined to have a phone.
Finally, he bought all of the poles and cable to run his own phone line.
He and the hired men spent several weeks installing said poles and cable.
Voila!
The magical day dawned.
The phone company unbent enough to hook up our line to theirs. (And then proceeded to run many, many lines off of it, but that is another story.)
The family gathered around the large, wooden box.
It shrilled. Twice.
Two longs.
We stared at it.
Then looked at each other.
We had arrived.
From that moment on, the peace of the Stringam home was often shattered by the shrilling of the magical box in the hallway.
And the pounding of numerous feet as various denizens of the house sprinted to answer.
It was a whole new, and very exciting, experience.
Followed, soon after, by the discovery that, if one was careful, one could gently lift the receiver and . . . wonder of wonders . . . listen in on other conversations on the 'party' line that had nothing to do with you.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you why it was called a 'party' line.
My sister and I became the masters of it . . .
“Well, I'm sure she meant well. But I can tell you that Gloria wasn't very flattered.”
“Well, I can imagine. Poor Gloria!”
“Yes. I mean, I can only guess, but I would well imagine that being told that one was as big as a whale, albeit a pretty whale, wouldn't go over too well.”
“Well, I wish I'd been there. I would have given her a piece of my mind!”
“Well, Dorothy brought a yellow jellied salad with bananas in it that was just divine. I got her recipe!”
“That reminds me. I wanted to get Dorothy's recipe for her devil's food cake.”
“Oh, I have it, just wait a moment.”
“Ladies?”
“Umm, yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the 'phone.”
“Oh, sorry, Hank. Problems?”
“Yeah. I need to talk to Joe at the feed store.”
“Go right ahead. Grace? I'll get that recipe and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Mabel.”
This was fun!
Another conversation . . .
“Well, she was out half the night!”
“No!”
“Yes! Until midnight! And when she got home, Papa could smell . . . liquor on her breath!”
A sucked in breath. “Oh! What did he do?”
“Well, he wasn't happy, I can tell you! She's grounded for a month!”
“A month!?”
“Yes! And that includes prom and everything.”
“She might as well die right now!”
“Exactly!”
And another . . .
“Well, Doc, my poop looks like . . .”
We ended that conversation before it was begun.
And . . .
“Okay, don't spread it around . . . yet . . . but the Larsons are going to be away next weekend.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Jeff says his folks should leave about 6.”
“So what time does the party start?”
“Well, he has to do chores and tidy up the dishes, so 8:00 should about do it. He will beep the phone line twice when he's ready.”
“We'll be waiting.”
Finally . . .
“You have to be careful what you say on this line. Uncle Bob may be listening in.”
“I am not!”
It was the most fun we had ever had.
Until we were introduced to . . .
“Hello?”
“Is your 'fridge running?”
“Just a moment, I'll check.”
A pause.
Then, “Yes. Yes it is.”
“Well, you'd better go catch it!”
Ah. the memories.
I don't remember the last conversation I had on the old party line.
I should.
Because now, phone lines are private.
And boring.

Name Game

Mom and Dad, with Pimple Pants, Red, Jerry and Bert

Parents put a lot of thought and even prayer into the naming of their offspring.
Why, then, do they go to such lengths to never use those names?
My name is Diane. Mom loved that name, so, when I made my appearance, she was happy I was a girl. Now she could use it.
Let's face it, 'Diane' for a boy just doesn't fit quite as well. But that's another story.
As a second name, she chose Louise, after my Aunt Louise. A really, really sweet lady.
So, Diane Louise.
Works for me.
I called myself Tony. I'm not sure why.
My Mom's working name for me, however, was 'Pixie'.
?????
Ocassionally, she would vary it.
“Oh, here's my little Pixie-Girl.”
Or, “What do you want, Sweet-Little-Pixie?”
I think it might have had something to do with my size.
Okay I know that, looking at me now, one would find this hard to believe, but, at one time, I was under height. And definitely under-weight.
Those were the days.
Sigh.
Moving on . . .
Later, when I was nine, I got my hair cut. Really short.
I loved it.
So did my Dad.
He changed my name to 'Mike'. I'm almost sure it had nothing to do with our dog. He of the same name.
Mom was horrified. “Mark! She has a perfectly good name. Use it!”
I know he was as bewildered as me. Ummm . . . which name? Diane? Louise? Pixie? Tony?
Are you beginning to see why I'm such a confused person?
So, 'Lou' I became.
????? again.
Mom retaliated by calling me, 'Diane'. For the first time in my life.
Then, my brother, George, got into the game.
His name for me was Bert.
Because.
Coming from someone whom Dad called 'Dard', and Jerry called 'Pimple Pants', I wasn't worried.
Rusty, or Chris as she had been christened, had no opinion.
Neither did Blair . . . er, 'Bare Blue', or 'The Great Root Blair'. Of couse he was only two, so he could be excused.
And Anita was a baby. She was 'Sweetheart' or 'Sister'. One day to be known as 'Nutty Nita'.
Jerome got off easy.
Actually, that's a story in itself.
He was always, 'Jerry' to everyone. Except when Mom got angry.
Then, he became Jerome Allen, or worse, Jerome Allen Stringam.
All the 'angry' names, as they are truly known.
But I've wandered from the point.
Which was me.
And my names.
So, I've been through Diane, Louise, Tony, Pixie, Mike, Lou and Bert.
Now, my Honeybunny (don't ask) calls me, Honey. And my kids call me Mom.
Or grandma.
Dad still calls me Lou.
I'm so blessed.

Going Ape

Ahh, Sinbad. Hero. Heartthrob.
Nightmare inducer extraordinaire.

Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I’m hooked on them.
And have been since . . . forever.
In Milk River, we got movies twice a week.
First run movies.
Which was a real scoop for a town of 499.
My Dad told me it was because there were a limited number of prints and that the theatre owner in Milk River had been around longer than the bigwig in Lethbridge, so had seniority.
Yes. I’m sure ‘seniority’ is the word he used.
I only knew that we got all the cool movies first.
For example, when ‘Lassie Come Home’ was released, everyone in Southern Alberta came to Milk River to see it. I remember the theatre owner setting up rows of folding chairs all down the aisles and across the front.
Fire regulations were obviously in the conceptual stage in the early 60’s.
But the theatre was crammed full and everyone cried together when Lassie finally came home.
Lassie came to Lethbridge several days later.
Na-Na-Na-Na-Na.
But I digress . . .
Every Bonanza Day (Milk River’s fair day) the theatre owner would offer a free movie to everyone in the town.
Usually, it was the hit flick, ‘Santa Claus Meets the Martians’, but sometimes, he would get creative and offer, ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I don’t have to tell you which I enjoyed the most.
Or which one inevitably gave me nightmares.
I think it was the scene when Sinbad, my hero, had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed himself back into a tiny crevasse in a stone wall.
The Cyclops, a little piqued that his lunch would have had the temerity to run, was hunting him.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad, who would press himself a bit tighter back against the wall.
This time, the creature would get him!
No. This time!
I was into it.
And it didn’t seem to matter how many times I saw the picture, I still gasped and grabbed my Mom’s arm every time the huge hand reached.
At the end, with Sinbad safe once more and kissing the pretty girl, I would shiver with delight.
And that night, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . definitely not scary.
No, my dreams inevitably starred a huge gorilla.
And he was going to eat me.
Okay, yes, I know that they don’t eat little girls, but I was four.
And they had teeth.
Enough said.
My gorilla would chase me through our house and finally, corner me underneath the dining room table.
I would shrink back to the far side as that hairy, dark hand reached for me.
And missed.
Barely.
He would move around the table and bend over, looking at me. Then he would stretch out his arm again.
I would slide to the other side of the table and stay just out of reach.
This would go on until I finally awoke, dripping with sweat and whimpering.
And still, I was the first in line when the theatre showed ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I think the term ‘Glutton for Punishment’ was coined by someone who knew me.
Maybe the Gorilla.

FireWORKS

Today is Husby's and my anniversary.
Thirty-seven years with an amazing man.
Happy Anniversary, Honey!

Grant.
Don't ask.

My husband, Grant, loves fire.
Really.
When we lived on the farm, our neighbours always knew when he was home. Inevitably, his presence was betrayed by the large column of smoke emanating from our property. And his tall figure silhouetted against the flames, happily poking whatever garbage he had been able to find.
Our farm was amazingly trash-free.
After our move to the city, his love of fire had, of necessity, to be squelched. For the good of the neighbourhood and our own personal safety.
Neighbours can be notoriously crabby when it comes to garbage fires in their back yards.
Just FYI.
For these reasons, he commuted his love of fire to a love of fire . . . works. They sizzled. They sparked. They exploded. They were a budding ‘pyro’s’ citified dream. They filled the void left by his unfortunate, but necessary, separation from fire.
He began a tradition. Fireworks on New Year’s Day. It was a relatively safe time. The world heavily coated in fire retardant – commonly called snow. Everyone in a festive mood, ready to celebrate.
Permits and regulations were disregarded. One merely had to invite the mayor and his family over for dinner and a show to get around those. I mean, who’s going to ticket the mayor?
We won’t go there . . .
There was a large snow bank in a field just outside of the town limits. Perfect for the display. An array of fireworks, chosen specifically from the abundant possibilities, were thrust carefully but firmly into this bank to hold them steady before their spectacular flight.
Grant had everything organized. Our second son and his friend were on hand to light things up. Strictly in order.
Chaos controlled.
Explosions only on his command.
The stage was set.
The first sparklers went off without a hitch. Starlight exploded in the sky. Red, Green, White, Blue. The display was dazzling. We oohed and aahed on cue. Everything was proceeding well.
Then the event.
One candle had ideas of its own. Not a good thing when you’re a firework. It went up, but before it could fulfill the measure of its creation, its trajectory . . . changed somewhat. 180 degrees, in fact. Straight into the box of remaining fireworks.
For a moment, Grant stared at it, perhaps too shocked and surprised to really take in what had just happened. The firework spluttered warningly.
He screamed.
Not a good sound in the middle of a fireworks display. In an amazingly graceful leap, he cleared the snow bank, taking the two boys with him. The three of them landed in an ungainly heap.
Then, totally abandoning dignity, they scrambled frantically for the snow bank the rest of us hid behind as the real fireworks display began behind them.
It was like a scene out of a movie. For several minutes, the crackers fizzed and shot everywhere, sending up showers of sparks from wherever they happened to land. A few even made their way skyward. It was spectacular. Amazing. Fun. Everyone screamed and laughed . . . and ducked.
Then . . . silence.
After waiting several minutes, Grant finally figured it was safe to move. He crawled behind the snow bank, using knees and elbows. Sort of like a soldier approaching a bunker. A very cold, snowy bunker. With exploding things inside it.
Yes, just like a bunker.
He emerged some time later holding the still-smoking box, with the remnants of his collection and a very chagrined face.
Fortunately, no one was injured. But Grant never again held a fireworks display. For one thing, he was out of fireworks.
For another - how could he ever top that?

My Baby Brother

My Blair

Baby Brother
The words conjure up so many pictures . . .
A little boy, playing with his father's boots.
Riding King Prancer.
Sliding on his snow saucer.
Getting scraped off his horse.
Getting mad.
Singing on the tractor.
Doing chores.
Becoming my 'twin'.
The stories and memories are endless.
Let me see if I can pick out a few . . .

My sister, Chris and I were riding. And little Blair had come along for the first time.
I should explain, here, that the cliffs surrounding our ranch were heavily seamed, with giant crevasses (is that a word?) leading from the prairie up top to the river's edge. These openings were so steep and sandy that fencing just wasn't possible. Inevitably, the fence that ran along the top of the cliff only made a token gesture of following the radically sloping surfaces to the very bottom of each crevasse (that word, again).
Bottom line? If one wanted to use a crevasse to travel from the top down to the river, one had to duck at the appropriate moment.
Chris and I did.
Blair didn't.
There was a gasp. Then the sound of something small hitting the ground. Then a 'whoof!"
We stopped and looked.
Blair was sitting on the ground directly behind his pony, Shammy, staring up at her in surprise.
She had stopped and was looking down at him, equally surprised.
Neither was hurt, more particularly Blair, but we sure thought it was funny.
I guess you had to be there . . .

Blair and I were painting a granary. I was up on the ladder and Blair was painting lower down, his feet happily planted on good old 'terra firma'.
For some reason, we had a long two-by-four leaning up against the granary beside me.
I can't remember what we had been using it for, but, whatever it was, we no longer needed it.
I told Blair I was going to push it down. He nodded and moved to one side.
I pushed the plank.
It followed Blair.
I screamed out at him to run.
He did, darting around the granary and out of my sight.
Unerringly, the plank tilted sideways and followed the curve of the little building.
And Blair.
Slowly, I watched it fall.
It tilted further. Further.
And then hit something.
My brother.
I thought I had killed him. I started down the ladder.
Then he came around the granary, rubbing his head and glaring at me.
"You did that on purpose!"
I really hadn't, but I should have.
Even the Three Stooges couldn't have done it better . . .

Blair and I were having an argument. Not a usual thing for us.
And at the top of the stairs.
Location is everything.
I don't even remember what the argument was about, only that, for my final statement, I gave him a shove.
And sent him down several steps.
From which he quickly recovered and shot back up the stairs towards me.
I stared at him. When Blair got really, really angry, the veins stood out on the sides of his neck. Huh. I'd never noticed that before. Maybe because he'd never before gotten really, really angry.
I panicked and darted into the nearby bathroom, slamming the door and pulling out all three drawers.
You should know that the bathroom drawers were right next to the door and provided excellent barriers when one wanted to be left alone.
Usually, they worked.
Today, however, Blair was angry enough that he got a butter knife from the kitchen and began working at the drawers through the crack of the door.
Inch by inch, he worked the first drawer shut.
I let him get it closed.
Then, as he started work on the second, I pulled the first one open again.
"Oh, man!" He gave up.
One thing about Blair, he wasn't stupid . . .

Blair and I were stacking hay. Me on the big stack, Blair on the tractor, bringing me the stooks.
He was singing.
Now a tractor is noisy. Really noisy.
One can't even hear oneself when in close proximity.
But, somehow, the noise of the tractor seems to . . . boost . . . any sounds the driver is making.
To someone standing a bit away, the sound of the engine comes faintly, almost drowned out by the singing of the driver.
I was treated to Blair's version of nearly every popular song of the period.
Total entertainment . . .

We were getting the cattle ready for our annual production sale.
Blair and I were manning the grooming chute.
One of the prospective buyers walked in with our Dad.
For a few minutes, the two of them stood watching us.
Finally, the buyer turned to Dad, "I didn't know you and Enes had a set of twins."
Blair and I were both white-blonde. With our hair cut in the exact same style (Mom only knew how to cut boy's hair, which was just fine with me . . .) and the same height and virtually the same skinny figure.
I had five more years and a couple of extra curves, but whose going to point that out?
"Ummm . . . twins?"
The man nodded at us.
Dad laughed. "I can see what you mean!"
Within a month, Blair had passed me by on his way up.
But for a little while, I had a twin . . .

Blair was late for early morning religion class.
"Diane! Could you please milk the cow?!" as he dashed past.
I stared after him.
"AGAIN?!"
"Sorry!" faintly from the opened window as the car went down the drive.
I did milk his cow.
It really wasn't that much of a problem.
In fact . . . don't tell him . . . but I enjoyed it.
And I wish we were back there so I could do it again.

Okay, I have to admit, my little brother isn't so little any more.
I guess 50 years, marriage, fatherhood and a Doctorate in Engineering will change a person.
But I still remember the little boy who loved to play with his Dad's shoes . . .
Today, he is fifty-three.
Happy birthday, Baby Brother!

Freaky Freezer

Admit it - this strikes terror into your heart!

Mom and dad had a freezer.

Chest style. 26 cubic feet.

Whatever that means.

To me, that just meant that it was large.

They had had this behemoth since they were married.

It had far outlived it's 'best before' date.

Oh, it still froze anything and everything that was put into it.

It just didn't stay closed anymore.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad's freezer, aptly named 'Frigidaire', sat in solitary glory, in the downstairs bathroom.

In a space created especially for it.

Beside the shower cubicle. And across from the 'porcelain throne'.

For years, it had been humming busily along, doing . . . freezer stuff. Keeping cold things cold. And slowly filling with ice.

Every couple of years, Mom would take out whatever food was left in it, stack it all neatly aside, and attack the ice build up with an ice pick and a butter knife.

Then, she'd scrub it shiny, replace the food and start the whole cycle over again.

It was fun to watch.

Okay, yes, I probably should have helped, but why deprive Mom of something she so obviously enjoyed?

Well, that she appeared to enjoy . . .

Okay, I should have helped.

Geeze.

One thing of note: when one closed the freezer, one had to be very careful to push the handle in till it clicked, or in the middle of the night, or some other equally inconvenient time, the door would open. All by itself.

With scary amusing results.

One afternoon, the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I was in the bathroom . . . minding my own business.

Without warning, the lid of the freezer opened.

With an appropriately eerie squeal.

Eeeeeeeeeeee . . .!

Now, my head knew that Dracula never really existed, except in the brilliant mind of Bram Stoker. And certainly, if he did exist, the last place he would appear would be in an old freezer.

In the middle of the bathroom of the Stringam ranch house.

By no stretch of the imagination would that be . . . romantic. (Does that word work here?)

But, no matter how frantically and reasonably my head was whispering all of this to my heart, my heart was still expecting Count Dracula to sit up, in all his dark majesty, maybe with a touch of real frost in his dark hair, and say, “Good evening!”

My business of the moment forgotten, I charged out of the bathroom, frantically zipping my pants as I flew.

Once in the family room, I stopped.

Sanity returned.

And I started to laugh.

And laugh.

I went upstairs and told my Mom.

She laughed.

One by one, we told it to every member of the family.

They all thought it was a huge joke.

Okay, we're weird.

I did remember to go back into the bathroom and latch the freezer properly.

Later.

And every time thereafter.

But now, years later, whenever I see a glistening white freezer, I half expect the door to open and to see Dracula sit up and smile menacingly at me.

It still makes me want to . . . mind my own business.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Yummm!

Though we lived at the back of beyond, the modern world did at times intrude.
Certainly it was there in the tools we used and, increasingly, in our entertainment.
Sometimes, miraculously, in both at the same time.
It was that way when we got our first ever television.
I remember it well. A large unit which stood on its own stubby legs and emitted a magical black and white picture. Mom would turn it on in the morning and I would sit and watch.
The Indian Head Test Pattern.
For hours.
That picture was amazing. It never occurred to me that it was unchanging.
It was there. I stared at it.
Okay, I was really waiting for ‘The Friendly Giant’ to come on.
But Mom would craftily switch on the set long before the program aired and I was caught. Snared by the light that flickered from the magical box. Her little 'dear' in the headlights.
It was the first ever electronic baby-sitter.
What genius!
As time went by, we discovered that, with an enormous antennae perched at the very top of the tall tower on the hill which rose to the north of us, we could miraculously get . . . two channels. The variety: endless. The choices: unlimited.
Sundays were the best.
On Sunday evening, after dinner, there was a whole line up of goodies. First was The Disney's Wonderful World of  Colour (in black and white), followed by Ed Sullivan Show, and finally, if I had been really good, Bonanza!
Surprisingly, I watched it often. It was amazing how a week’s worth of mischief could be erased by the advent of Sunday evening.
Peace filled the land, and flickering light filled our living room. We were glued to the set, as adventure after adventure unrolled before us.
But at some time during the week was the best program of all. The one I waited breathlessly for. The show with the best and biggest of heroes. And the nicest horses.
Gunsmoke.
Sheriff Dillon was my hero.
But I loved Chester, with his limp. I just knew that, when I got older, I would marry Chester.
Okay, my knowledge was sadly lacking, but the spirit was there!
There was only one hitch to my love of this program.
My pronunciation.
I couldn’t say it.
If Mom made the mistake of telling me a wee bit too early in the day that it was a Gunsmoke night, I would walk around all day chanting, “Gunmoke! Gunmoke!”
And I do mean all day.
It probably got a little . . . irritating.
My Mom would try her ‘Mommy’ best to help me. She would kneel in front of me and say, and I quote, “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
I would stare at her and move my mouth with hers.
She would repeat. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
She would smile at me encouragingly. “GunSSSmoke. GunSSSmoke.”
Expectant silence.
I would open my mouth.
Mom would nod.
“SSSgunmoke! SSSgunmoke!
I never really noticed her disappointment.
Or irritation.
I was too happily watching my hero of heroes.
Sheriff Dillon.
On Gunmoke.

Warm Hearts

Romance lives here.

Winter is loosening its grip and slowly receding in Northern Alberta.

Slowly.

Maybe it’s being driven off by the people . . .

Mari and Lee met over twenty years ago and have been married for just past eighteen.

A good marriage.

A marriage that has withstood some hefty bumps and setbacks.

And thrived.

Once again, it's time for the annual Library Conference in beautiful Jasper, Alberta.

Mari’s presence is required.

Lee’s is not.

So, for the days of the conference, they have been apart.

But really only separated by distance.

Let me explain . . .

Last night, Mari received a phone call from her sweetheart.

They chatted.

Then he asked her if she was wearing her warm, comfy, red pajamas.

I should mention, here, that warm, flannel sleepwear is a necessity in the frozen north.

Just FYI.

Back to my story . . .

It was an odd question.

“No. I’m wearing my warm, new, black and white jammies,” she said.

“Well, I wanted you to wear the red ones,” he said.

“Umm . . . I don’t have any red ones.”

“Yes, you do. I saw them in your suitcase.”

Puzzled, Mari went to said case and sorted through. Could Lee have possibly meant the orange pajamas?

She took them out and allowed them to unfold.

A note dropped out.

An I-love-you-even-when-you’re-far-away sort of note.

Suddenly the separation and distance didn’t matter.

They would always be together.

How do people survive in this cold, rather forbidding six-months-of-winter-per-year climate?

Warm hearts.

Creating Worlds

You see food. I see . . . possibilities.

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 . . . it.
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 . . .
Just 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.

Swindled. Rats.

I just got scammed.

It’s true. I got taken for $160.00. I’m still mad about it. See (Web Site Scam)

But I take small comfort in the knowledge that I’m not the only person in the world who has been swindled by someone with no ethics.

Allow me to illustrate:

Gramma and Grampa Berg on their wedding day

My Maternal grandparents emigrated from Sweden.

Grampa came first and started farming/ranching in Idaho.

Gramma followed later and they were married.

A short time afterward, they headed north, enticed by offers of beautiful farm land in Alberta. They settled on a half-section they acquired in the Brooks area.

Soon afterward, they met another couple who had been farming unsuccessfully in the area for some time and were ready for a change.

The man had a scheme.

A sure-fire, can’t-miss scheme.

“Trapping is the answer,” he said knowledgeably  “I’ve done it before. Get yourself a trap line and, in one winter, you can make enough to pay cash for the equipment you will need to farm.”

Grampa was intrigued by the idea.

No stranger to hard work, he was excited by the idea of trading long winter hours for the chance to start his farming operation with such a leg-up. He and Gramma decided they’d do it.

They studied the maps and decided on a tract of land further north of their new home place. A spot near Lac La Biche. They staked out their claim and moved into a small cabin near the train tracks.

Originally, the cabin had been erected for the use of the crew when they were laying said tracks. Their new friends (Remember the guy with the idea? Him.) had used it before.

It was . . . cozy, but it had every amenity. Walls and a roof. And a window and door. It also had a little stone oven that Grampa built. Outside. Gramma would build up a fire, let it burn down, then bake bread by the heat that remained in the stones. Beautiful bread. It was the one perk of living in a tiny cabin at the back of beyond.

Gramma Berg and her bread

For many long winter months, they and their friends/partners lived there and ran the trap line. Gramma’s first son, my uncle Glen, was born there.

They had a measure of success. In fact, by March, they had an abundant supply of furs.

The winter drew to a close. Even in northern Alberta, it does happen . . .

Plans were discussed to take the winter’s catch to the city to trade.

The decision was made that Grampa would stay at the cabin for one more week to take whatever animals he could in those last few days.

His partner would haul their furs to the city to trade.

The partner left.

Grampa caught up with him a week later in the city.

And that’s when things fell apart.

The partner claimed that he had lost their entire catch in the river when his boat swamped.

Their entire catch.

There was nothing Grampa could do.

He loaded up his wife and new son and their few belongings and headed back to his land near Brooks. One wasted, useless winter behind him. And a new farming operation ahead.

To be started without the leg-up he had counted on.

He did make a success of it and he and Gramma raised eight sons and my mom.

I’m sure the pain of that first set-back was completely overcome in the ensuing years.

That’s what I’m counting on now.

Sigh.

The Epic Tales of a Misfit Hero: A Review

Great read for the young man in your life!

Have you ever started reading a book, expecting one thing and discovered something quite, quite different?

That is what happened to me when I opened the covers of The Epic Tales of a Misfit Hero. The blurb describes it briefly as a coming-of-age story. But it is so much more than that. I laughed. I cried. I glared at my daughter for interrupting me.

It was THAT good.

And it has been written specifically for pre-teen/young teen boys.

Andrew is a young man who has just turned twelve. And to add to the daily challenges associated with being a young man, coping with other young men, being a member of a large family, and forming a strange new attachment for the girl next door, he is going on his first, ever Scout camp.

With other twelve-year-olds.

Near-monsoons, a run-in with a porcupine, voracious mosquitoes, granola bars, a bear, a flaming pink poncho and at least one major accident later, he and his companions return to civilization, not only older, but far wiser.

And infinitely more faithful.

Told in an engaging and humorous vein, TETOAMH will tickle, entertain, surprise, frighten, challenge and enlighten you.

Read it!

Here is a brief description of the book:

From passing the sacrament with his fly down to failing miserably at capture the flag, Andrew knows he’ll never be able to fulfill his duties as a deacon. But when tragedy strikes on his Boy Scout backpacking trip, Andrew’s whole troop must become stronger than they ever imagined. This hilarious coming-of-age story is bound to have you rooting for a “misfit” hero!

Meet the Author:

Matt Peterson has been working with Scouts and young men for over ten years. He has lead adventures into deep canyons, up tall mountains, and through raging rivers. Search and Rescue has only been called once. Matt lives in Mesa, Arizona, with his wife and four kids. He served a mission in São Paulo, Brazil, where he learned Portuguese, how to love the people, and how to walk really fast. In his spare time, he runs a free neighborhood sports league for kids. To learn more about Matt and his book visit his website here: mattpetersonbooks.blogspot.com