Ode To Delores

Once more, Delores, of The Feathered Nest as issued her challenge.

Once more, I harness the old brain and shove it into overdrive . . .

This weeks Wednesday's Words?

Gregarious, munchkin, tipple, faint, carousing, bed pan

What am I gonna do with that . . .?

What else . . . a poem!

Delores, evil genius, you,

“Write,” you say. And write we do.

And from the words that you present,

We must weave something opulent.

But tell me how, with words I paint,

I’ll match gregarious with faint?

And Munchkin, I don't have a clue . . .

Do Munchkins tipple? Tell me. Do.

I’ve left carousing to the end,

For what to do with that, my friend?

I don’t carouse, and never will,

But nothing else will fit the bill.

I’m giving up, my brain is numb,

And feeling just a little dumb.

There is no way, it’s just too queer,

To fit a bed pan somewhere here.

And so I’ll stop, I’ve ‘uncle’ said.

My brain has gone from numb . . . to dead.

P.S. I love this! Keep them coming, my friend!

P.P.S. Drop over to Delores' blog and check out what the others came up with!

Tarp Wars

It’s raining on us.

And we’re sitting in the middle of the northern Alberta woods.

Not a good combination.

Usually.

But many, many years ago, my Husby and his good friend, Gord, instituted a tradition which has saved more than one camping trip.

Tarp wars.

The rules are simple.

Whoever can put up the tightest, smoothest, most rain-defying/re-directing tarp, wins.

And garners the most support. (ie: huddlers.)

Let’s face it. When the elements have decided to make life miserable, the place you want to be is under the tightest, smoothest, most rain-defying . . .  you get the picture.

The two men started out small. Eight feet by ten feet.

But that wasn’t big enough; didn’t accommodate the mass of humanity that required shelter.

So they went bigger.

Ten by twelve.

Then fifteen by twenty.

Twenty by twenty.

And finally, twenty by thirty.

And that’s where they stopped.

Because finding a space between trees in the Canadian North Woods that is larger than thirty feet, is very nearly impossible.

This year’s winner?

My Husby.

Mainly because our friends haven’t shown up yet.

But we declaring it a victory.

It’s not raining at this exact moment, but it will and when it does, we will all thank him.

P.S. I have pictures, but my current circumstances (ie. a slow trickle of wireless power here in the middle of nowhere) prevent me using them. Sigh.

Happy Campers

We love to camp.

We do it every year, rain or shine.

Usually rain.

Sigh.

We have used the same little tent trailer forever.

It was built in 1974.

We bought it in 1981.

It has kept the rain off of us.

Our six children.

Numerous foster children.

And now a new generation of grandchildren.

It has been almost completely re-built in that time.

We had a mouse infestation due to a forgotten bag of oatmeal, left through the winter.

We once lost the entire undercarriage out on Vancouver Island.

Had a bear come in through the back door in Slave Lake, Alberta.

Without knocking, I might add.

Replaced numerous tires. (Due, mainly to the fact that the tires they kept selling us were made out of that forgotten bag of oatmeal…)

And we lent it to our eldest son. (Who did more damage than everything else, combined.)

Still it keeps on going.

Okay, sure, it really doesn’t look like much anymore.

The canvas has faded somewhat from its glory days.

It leans a little in whichever direction the wind is blowing.

And the cushions are fast getting to the point of no return.

But it has never leaked.

And that’s something to be said in the places where we camp.

We love our old trailer.

Like us, it has aged.

More or less gracefully.

And it is comfortable.

But the other evening, a sleek new fifth-wheel trailer, pulled by an equally new and pristine pickup truck, pulled into the site next to ours.

Parents and teenagers piled out and started to set up camp.

It took seconds.

Then they gathered at the front of their site and glanced over the neighbourhood.

We smiled.

Until one of the teenagers was overheard saying, “Oh great. We’re right next to the hillbillies.”

Hillbillies? Us?

I looked at our venerable old trailer. At our open-air camp kitchen. Our perfectly-strung (though rather ratty) tarp and our ‘can-we-get-one-more-camp-out-of-them’ camping chairs. Our bird’s nest lamp that kept shedding its duct-tape shade until I finally gave up and tossed said shade into the garbage at the end of last year’s camp.

And then I realized that we are hillbillies.

But, despite what they see, comfortable.

And happy.

And Hair We Are

Mom had short hair.

In fact, most of the women I knew had short hair.

I was four. I didn’t know that many women.

But those I did . . .

Even Gramma Berg had short hair. Short, white hair.

But that just shows you what I knew . . .

We were staying with Gramma for a few days.

It was magic.

The great staircase to climb.

Table to scurry under.

Heater grate in the floor to sit on.

Stuffed moose head to run from.

Feather ticks to cuddle under.

Hidden, secret places to . . . hide in.

Exciting attics to get barred from. (Stupid brothers.)

And a whole world of farm and gardens to explore.

And, best of all, Gramma.

She of the marvelous old-world cooking. The loving cuddly arms.

And the Swedish pronunciation of ‘Di-ane’.

It was like a week in Heaven.

I’m sure you’re wondering what this has to do with short hair.

That part’s coming now . . .

I was playing with my cousins.

Some game involving daring each other to go all the way to the bottom of the scary basement stairs.

I lost.

I wandered into the kitchen.

Because.

And there was my Gramma, sitting on a chair, with my Mom standing behind her.

And mom was . . . brushing Gramma’s hair.

Hair that streamed in a silver wave over Gramma’s shoulders and down Gramma’s back.

I stared at it.

Wait a minute. Where did that come from?

It wasn't there before.

My four-year-old brain was working frantically.

Is this a trick?!

I walked over and touched it. Huh. It seemed pretty real to me.

I stroked my hand down. Mmm. Smooth and pretty.

Where had she gotten it? And even more important, where had she been keeping it?

I watched as my Mom began to braid it.

A long braid.

Which she then wrapped around the crown of Gramma’s head.

Oh. How had I missed that?

You know what?

Adults are tricky.

You gotta watch them at every step.

Today, the hair.

Tomorrow, the world.

Hillbilly Camping

We’re camping again.

With our friends.

This is our 25^th year together.

I think we could be considered family by this time.

Our kids were raised together.

We’ve celebrated birthdays, weddings, births and job promotions together.

We’ve cried together over each-other’s tragedies.

And for one week each and every year, we sit in the woods and talk and laugh and relax.

And remember all of the other times.

Particularly ‘that’ time.

The week it poured.

And I mean poured.

For five days straight.

We had twelve kids with us, ranging in age from three to fifteen.

All of their usual activities had been rained out.

And the all-important ‘swimming in the lake’ was not even an option.

Electronic entertainment was in its infancy.

What could we do?

There were board games. Several of the kids got really, really good at Rack-o and Chess.

And Old Maid.

But even those got old after a couple of days.

Remember when I said that electronic entertainment was in its infancy? Well, young as it was, it came to our rescue.

My husby had installed, by means of a couple of bungee cords, a small VCR/TV combination in our large van.

With eight kids to haul on long trips, it had been invaluable.

On the morning of third day of deluge, he emerged from the van with a huge grin.

And a whole box of VCR tapes. The entire Beverly Hillbillies series.

We grabbed it as if it were a life line.

Which it probably was.

“Kids!”  I said, “Wanna watch some TV?”

Amidst loud cheers, all of them piled into the van and The Beverly Hillbillies filled the small screen.

For the next three days, after a quick scan of the still-spongy sky, they dove into the van and, with rain drumming on the roof, they happily stayed glued to the antics of Jed, Jethro, Ellie-May and Granny.

Episode after episode.

First in black and white, then in colour.

We parents would watch, in indulgent and relieved amusement, as the van bobbed up and down when the theme song came on.

‘Come and listen to my story ‘bout a man named, Jed.’

Ahhhh . . . memories.

Now, when we camp, it is usually just the four of us.

With a bonus grandchild or two.

Oh, occasionally, one or more of the next generation will stop in with their kids.

But mainly, it’s just us.

And, as we talk and laugh, we remember.

When the whole tribe was there.

The rain drumming down.

And The Beverly Hillbillies staving off cabin fever.

Don't Even Blink

Blair. And a friend . . .

My Dad was in the blacksmith shop.
And wherever Dad went, we kids trailed after.
Because.
Why is it that everything Dad does is interesting?
For the first couple of minutes.
After that, one's short attention span rather gets in the way.
But I'm getting ahead of myself . . .
Two-year-old Blair had followed Dad to the shop.Mom was in hospital with newborn sister, Anita, and Dad was babysitting.
But that was okay because Dad did such interesting things . . .
For a short time, Blair had been fascinated with simply watching as Dad puttered.
Then, other interesting sights caught his attention.
Tools.
Horseshoes.
Old paint cans filled with stuff.
He began to explore.
Dad kept an eye on him as he toddled about.
Then, Dad turned on the air compressor.
Its roar filled the old, log-built room and drew every kid in the vicinity.
Blair.
He watched, fascinated as the wheel spun.
"Now you stay back, son," Dad told him firmly.
And he did.
For a very, very long time.
He was two.
Thirty seconds is a very, very long time when you're two.
Dad turned his back for a moment.
Blair saw his chance. He moved forward and reached out to touch the spinning wheel.
For a moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened.
Then the pain started.
He screamed.
Dad spun around to see Blair shaking his hand and spraying blood everywhere.
He grabbed him, pulled out his every-ready handkerchief to wrap around the wounded hand and headed for the house.
With his little boy screaming the whole way.
Dad made the trip to the hospital in record time.
And that is something when you are travelling on uncertain dirt roads.
Soon, Blair was home again, with a neat glove bandage around his pointer finger.
Which now was missing part of the first joint.
Dad figures that the spinning belt caught it and nipped it off against the flywheel.
A terrible wound.
Leaving a scar.
And a story to impress girls with twenty years later.
Ahem . . .
But a fixable wound.
And a solemn reminder that turning your back for a second is all it takes.
Ranches can be dangerous.

Prairie Sneaking

My good friend Delores of The Feathered Nest has issued this week's challenge.

effervescent, sanity, umbrella, tang, hustle and gumdrops.

Challenge accepted . . . 

I was at my first Prairie Party with my friend/roommate/almost-sister, Debbie (she of the effervescent eyes and sparkly personality), and my new boyfriend.

It was . . . rather exciting.

Even though the weather had been uncharacteristically iffy.

And was continuing in the same vein throughout the evening.

There was a crowd of farm/ranch kids all talking and laughing around a huge campfire, periodically opening umbrellas when the heavy overhead clouds shook out a few drops or hustling into the nearby camp kitchen if the rain increased.

Many remained sitting in the shelter, pouring drinks, eating chips, popcorn, nuts and the inevitable and still popular, gumdrops.

Which, as the liquor flowed and sanity decreased, seemed to be used mostly for target practice.

My new boyfriend and I, both non-drinkers, were sitting in his truck, one of several parked in a semi-circle around the kitchen providing light on the obviously moonless night.

Talking.

No, really. We were talking.

He was showing me his new knife and my mind was a confused whirl of blade belly, AUS 8 Steel, bevel, edge, tang, bolster and anodization.

I was discovering that he was a lot of fun and very clever.

He was discovering that I laughed a lot.

Suddenly, his head snapped around toward the kitchen. “Look,” he said, nodding.

I turned.

A shadow was making its way toward us.

Sliding between cars and generally giving the impression of cautious-ness.

It slid quickly through a beam of light and dove once more into the shadows.

Debbie.

The two of us watched as she continued in our direction.

Finally, she left the shelter of the car just to our left and, crouching, made her way directly in front of the truck we were sitting in.

My boyfriend waited for just a moment . . .

Then, grinning widely, honked the horn.

Clean Enough

The day I realized just how good I had it . . .

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.
I admit it.
Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.
And I cleaned my room/living quarters.
Again when my Mom told me.
Mom was a clean nut.
But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.
And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.
Really clean.
Let me explain . . .
We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.
It was exciting.
Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.
For purely logistical reasons.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Moving on . . .
We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.
We stepped into the entryway.
And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.
The house was filthy.
I mean filthy.
You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.
We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.
I stopped in the doorway.
Frozen.
Or stuck.
It was hard to tell the difference.
Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.
The stove was unrecognizable.
Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.
Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.
Perhaps that was a blessing.
One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.
And under the table.
My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.
"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.
Or garden.
Or feed lot.
Huh. Feed lots. And cleanliness . . .
But I digress . . .
"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.
Well in hand?!
I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.
"Diane, come and help us."
Mom had noticed my hesitation.
But had somehow missed the rising green colour.
"Sorry, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."
I remember her look.
Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm really not feeling very well."
She came over to me.
I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.
She put a hand on my forehead.
"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."
The mess went on?
I couldn't bear to venture further.
"No, I really think I'd better go outside."
I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.
"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.
My eyes widened. I could only imagine.
"Um, no. Just some fresh air."
I bolted towards the door.
And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.
Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.
Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.
With the family dog.
He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Motive for Murder

Looking for a great summer murder mystery?

            “As she drove back to Wendy’s house, the headlights cleaved the darkness and the rain, which was falling harder now. Erica had to park across the street and was nearly to Wendy’s door when she stopped suddenly, catching herself as she nearly fell over something.

It was the still figure of a man lying face down on the driveway. He was strangely unmoving. The light from the porch illuminated a puddle alongside him, which was growing bigger by the second. A chill shivered down Erica’s spine as she noticed that the puddle was streaked by dark red threads that ran and merged with rivulets of rain.”

*  *  *

Meet Erica Coleman—a gifted and quirky private investigator with an OCD-like passion for neatness and symmetry, a penchant for cooking, (ten terrific recipes are included), and a weakness for chocolate.

Erica imagined that her trip to Florida would be a slice of heaven—a chance to get away from it all and catch up with her best friend, Wendy. But one day into her vacation, all hope of fun in the sun is dashed when she stumbles, literally, over a dead man on Wendy’s driveway. With police closing in on her friend as their main suspect, Erica must find the real killer before Wendy ends up behind bars.

With Erica’s skill, solving the mystery should be a piece of cake but then a second homicide-attempt hits close to home and generates a whole new list of suspects. There’s no way to sugarcoat it, a murderer is on the prowl, and no one is above suspicion.

As the plot thickens, it appears Erica may have bitten off more than she can chew, but she forges on, sifting through mounting evidence until she hones in on the killer who has a surprising motive for murder. With a dash of romance and some surprising twists, this thrilling mystery will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

Praise from Traci Abramson and Betsy Brannon Green: 

Motive for Murder is fresh, captivating, and cleverly written. The colorful cast of characters will enthrall readers as they try to navigate the clever twists and turns of this captivating mystery. Intriguing, memorable characters, and a skillfully written mystery make Motive for Murder Marlene Bateman's finest work yet—a must read!  Traci Abramson

With a fresh, crisp writing style, Marlene Bateman introduces readers to a fascinating cast of characters and skillfully unravels an intricate plot full of twists and surprises!  I loved Motive for Murder and you will too!  Betsy Brannon Green

Purchase Info:

Seagull Book: http://www.seagullbook.com/lds-products-791144.html

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Motive-Murder-Marlene-Bateman-Sullivan/dp/1608612414/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1372179431&sr=8-1&keywords=motive+for+murder

Deseret Book:  http://deseretbook.com/Motive-Murder-Marlene-Bateman-Sullivan/i/5110664

Author Website: www.marlenebateman.info

Happy Trails

Mom

Usually, the first thing we kids in the Stringam home heard in the morning was the kitchen radio.

On a country channel.

This was followed almost immediately by the sound of pots and pans.

And . . . cooking.

We instantly knew that Mom was awake and had taken up her front-line position before the stove.

Good food was imminent.

Even now, fifty-some years later, the sound of a radio in the early morning means good food.

Though I may have to be the one making it.

But I digress . . .

Mom’s radio played throughout much of the day. If it got switched off, her country records would take up our air waves.

I loved it.

Have you ever noticed that much of the old-time country music has a certain . . . beat?

A slow, bomp-ba-dum-dum, bomp-ba-dum-dum beat?

Well it did.

And whenever it came on, I would pretend I was riding a horse.

Across the ‘lone prairie’ of the living room.

The beat was perfect.

I could keep this up for hours.

Or as long as the song lasted.

My favourite was Dale Evans’ song ‘Happy Trails’, sung by Roy Rogers.

I would ride my horse and sing at the top of my voice, “Happy trails to you! Until we meet again. Happy trails to you! Keep smiling until then.”

And, somehow, that song and my Mom became synonymous with each other.

Moving forward many, many years . . .

My Husby and I were in Jasper National Park here in Alberta.

He was attending a conference.

I was  . . . doing other stuff.

Part of my day included a long, lovely swim in the huge pool.

I know, life is tough.

I had finished my laps and was simply lying back in the water, looking up at the perfect eggshell-blue sky and smelling the scent of pine in the fresh air.

A group of men were doing some work on the roof of the great main building next to me.

The sound of saws and hammering quit for an instant.

And an exquisite (can I use that word here?) male voice floated down to me. “Happy Trails to you! Until we meet again.”

He was simply singing while he worked.

I wonder if he noticed the woman in the pool below him.

Crying.

Musical Scare Tactics

Son and Grandson

My second son is a large man.
Large.
Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.
And he is a body builder.
He works as a cop in our fair city.
Let me put it this way . . .
No one argues with him.
They just nod politely and do as he asks.
His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.
Size is important.
But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.
And tons of fun.
Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.
And he drove a big truck.
These two points are important.
Moving on . . .
One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.
His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.
He looked every inch the soldier he was.
He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.
I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.
And sunglasses.
In a monster truck.
But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.
And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".
He stopped at a stoplight.
Still grooving.
Then he glanced to his left.
A small pickup was sitting beside him.
With three teenage boys in the seat.
All of whom were staring at him.
Up at him.
Their expressions were . . . interesting.
My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.
The light changed and he drove on.
But the small truck stayed where it was.
I think he frightened them.
Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?
Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Try, Try Again

I'll get it. Just give me time.

Our children learn from what they see.And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not.
Sometimes, it's just plain fun.
My husby, Grant, had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
Mark's very favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then my husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphamism (real word – look it up!).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged.
Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.
“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the eupham . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Ho-ney!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Ho-ney!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Ho-ney!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Ho-ney!”
His father emerged, still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“Mo' pancake, Ho-ney!”
We had created a monster.

On a Bicycle Built for Me

Bygone days . . .

My daughter and I are looking for new bicycles.

And the irony is just sickening.

Let me tell you why . . .

I was five and quite ready to move up from the tricycle that had served me well. I was ready learn to ride a two-wheeler.

I could ride almost anything with four legs and, on the ranch, the choices there were nearly endless.

But when it came to bicycles, I had . . . less.

Choices, that is.

There was my older brother's bike. But the bar made the fact that I was short and couldn't sit on the seat, impossible.

The one that was closest to my size was ‘Alfred’, my brother George’s bike.

It was a hand-me-over from our oldest brother, Jerry, and had already gone many, many miles.

Been refurbished and set to go many, many more.

Younger brother on 'Alfred'. Handed down again.

But it was out of bounds for me.

Because.

That left the bigger bike.

Mom’s classic.

The old green one with the balloon tires.

The one that stood almost taller than my head.

There was no way I could remotely come near to sitting on the seat, but I discovered I could manage nicely if I just stood on the pedals.

The whole time I was riding.

The amazing thing is, for the behemoth it was, that bike was astonishingly easy to ride.

And a fantastic bike to learn on.

In no time, I was whizzing up and down the tree-lined drive, pumping madly as I tried to keep up with my

fleeter, older brother.

I don’t remember actually riding it when I could reach the seat and the pedals at the same time, but for a few years, that bike and I were good company.

My brother perched on my gold beauty
(sans tassels)

Until Dad brought home a solid gold beauty.

Just for me.

Complete with a banana seat and ape-hanger handle bars (with gold streamers) it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

We were instantly fast friends.

And I do mean fast.

And the novel ability to be able to sit while I pedaled was . . . novel.

And remarkable.

We spent many hours and miles together.

Until I outgrew it.

You’d think I would then have turned to the old, green reliable, now that feet and seat could actually work in conjunction with each-other.

But I didn’t.

Nope.

After riding my gold beauty, I wouldn’t be caught dead on that old thing.

Moving ahead many, many years.

My daughters and daughters-in-law bike every morning. With assorted grandchildren as out-riders and three of us towing little trailers, we resemble a parade.

All we need are the balloons.

And clowns.

Okay, just the balloons.

The little blue $99. special I have been riding has been sadly outclassed by my DIL’s vintage, pink marvel.

I have ridden it.

It is delicious.

I want one.

So my daughter and I have determined to find bikes exactly like it.

Now, for the ironic part.

It is precisely like the bike I learned to ride on.

The old green reliable.

The one I wouldn’t be caught dead on.

Balloon tires and all.

See? Irony.

I’ll let you know how it goes . . . 

Today. See the pink beauty somewhere in the middle? Mmmmm.

Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth

My good friend, Delores, of The Feathered Nest, issues six challenge words every Wednesday, that we participants have to make head and/or tails out of.

Usually we make both.

Here are this week's words, which just happen to coincide with the start of this year's Calgary Stampede. 

Recalcitrant, fangs, dithering, glassy, rodeo, wet

And this is my response:

Today, if they’ve dried Calgary out,

‘S the day when people cheer and shout.

This day begins the rodeo,

Come and join me, we will go!

No dithering on which things to see,

There’s something there for you and me.

There’s sexy cowboys by the score,

With hats and jeans and so much more . . .

Recalcitrant, okay, I know,

But still they have that ‘something’ glow.

And horses, (wow!) alert and bright,

Each one a glassy, shining sight.

For people who for ‘country’ yearn,

There’s much to see and more to learn.

[Regrets to vampire fans. While there,

No fangs are present anywhere.]

So come to Calgary, it’s not wet,

The floods are gone, the stage is set.

Come see (and get your money’s worth),

The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth!

The Calgary Stampede

Happy Fourth!

Today is the celebration of the birth of a great nation.
The country where my grandparents were born and raised.
And where most of my family still lives.
I both love and salute you, my neighbours!
In the best way I know how.
With pie.

My Mom. Doing what she did best!

Pie.That king of treats.The amazing union of lightly browned and flaky crust and yummy filling.And topped with a delicious scoop of iced or whipped cream . . .It's like heaven.In your mouth.Spilled on the floor and reduced to its sticky, disparate parts, it's not as good.But we won't go there.And I just finished cleaning.So . . . pie.Today is pie-making day.Whenever our family celebrates, we do it with pie.It's a long-standing tradition . . . that spans one generation.Okay, we started it, but it's still a good tradition!So, because today is the anniversary of the birth of a great nation, and every party requires pie, I will spend today making it.Pie, I mean.I love doing this.My Mom made fantastic pie. Sweet. Flaky. (This is the only place where 'flaky' is a good thing.)And utterly delicious.And so, when I make it, using her recipes, it's like spending time with her.I even have the above picture, which I prop up and talk to.Okay, it's weird, but she's been gone for over a decade and I miss her.And now, in honour of this great occasion, I am including eight of my favourite 'pie' quotes:

1. "Keep your knives, we're having pie!"  ~ My Dad. Just before Mom whacked him.
2. "Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie."  ~ The proprietress of a diner to the Duke of Edinborough.
3. "A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around." ~ E.W. Howe
4. "But I, when I undress me
Each night, upon my knees
Will ask the Lord to bless me
With apple-pie and cheese."
                  ~ Eugene Field
5. "Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes."  ~ Arcadia   Robert Green, 1590
6. "In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."  ~ Isaac Asimov
7. If all the world were Apple pie, 
And all the seas were ink, 
And all the trees were bread and cheese, 
What would we have to drink?  
                   ~ Unknown
7. "Pie? Is that those round things?" ~ My FIL. Just before my MIL whacked him.
8. "It is utterly insufficient (to eat pie only twice a week), as anyone who knows the secret of our strength as a nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents, the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished."  ~ EDITORIAL New York Times, 1902
Which is your favourite?

I have to go. My Mom is waiting.
Happy Fourth of July, everyone!

Dollies

See? Adorable!

How come my sister had one?!

Why couldn’t I have one?!

Life isn’t fair!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

The Christmas I was one, my big sister got a doll.

Well, to be honest, so did I.

But hers was amazing.

Dressed in a gorgeous pink satin dress with tiny white socks and adorable little shoes, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She had Auburn hair, like my sister and a cute little face with eyes that opened and shut.

AND SHE COULD WALK!!!

No word of a lie. If you held onto her hands, she could walk!

She was perfect.

Now, I must admit that I recognized none of this when the doll first appeared in our household.

My recognition of her perfection happened a few years later.

When I discovered this treasure sitting in lonely glory on my sister’s bed.

Did I mention lonely?

Now there’s something I should probably point out here: there were two things I could not stand to see when I was little.

1.      A naked doll. (Just imagine how cold they must be!)

2.      A lonely doll. (Oh, the poor thing!)

Okay, yes, I had issues, but I was nothing if not sympathetic. A lonely doll was just asking to be played with. Even if one had been told – many times – to LEAVE MY DOLL ALONE IT'S JUST TO LOOK AT!!!

Pfff. That was just silly. Why would anyone have a toy they didn't play with?!

I scoped out the neighbourhood, than scooped the treasure off the bed and proceeded to walk her all over.

Do you know how many baby steps it was from one side of my sister’s room to the other?

A lot.

We played happily for some time.

Or at least until discovered by my sister.

Usually said discovery was in the form of: “Mom! Diane’s got my doll again!”

Whereupon (good word) I would answer from somewhere under the bed: “Do not!”

This went on for months.

Until I discovered that one could actually buy horse models.

Of every colour and breed.

And in all different sizes.

After that, my sister’s little beauty remained in lonely glory on the bed.

And the sisterly conversation in her room changed to: “Mom! Diane’s got her horses all over my floor again!”

And me, again from under the bed: “Do not!”

Sigh.

My Best Holiday

Vacationing in style.

It was the trip to end all trips.
Disneyland.
That magical place that only existed in my dreams.
And I was going there.
My Dad had come up with the plan, mostly because we had been everywhere else on the western half of the continent.
We kids were . . . ummm . . . a bit enthusiastic.
And we were going over Christmas, so none of that pesky waiting for Christmas morning. Instead, we took care of all of that days earlier.
We handed over the reins of ranch management to a young couple, packed up the truck and camper (nothing but first class here!) and headed out.
At first, singing and talking about the wonderful and exciting experiences that were before us, sufficed to keep us entertained. Then book reading, desultory (real word) conversation and looking out the window.
By the way, looking out the window was my Mom's favorite pastime on our car trips.
Mom was decidedly predictable.
Kind of like my car sickness.
But that is another story . . .
Christmas day was . . . different.
We couldn't find a Denny's anywhere.
And no other restaurants were open.
None.
Dad finally found what could only be deemed a 'Greasy Spoon' or 'Dive' and we ate surprisingly good burgers and fries.
For Christmas dinner.
Memorable.
Then we were again on the road.
As we drove further and further south, the weather grew noticeably warmer. Slowly, layers of clothing were shed. By the time we reached Los Angeles, we were down to just one layer. (Unless you count our underwear. Which I do.)
How freeing.
We stopped at Marineland.
And Knotts Berry Farm
And Hurst Castle. Which I loved and where I would gladly have taken up residence.
Except that the guards found me.
Guards definitely don't have a sense of humor.
Or paternal instincts.
Moving on . . .
Then, finally, Disneyland.
Dad managed to find a parking spot at the outer rim of the lot, quite near Canada, actually, and we trudged with purpose towards . . . the Great Gates.
The doorway to magic land.
The entrance to dream world.
Access to . . .
You get the picture.
At that point in time, one did not buy a 'pass'. That would have been . . . convenient.
Instead, we all got coupon books.
There was a section of 'first run' attractions. A section with 'lesser', but almost as popular. And several sections after that.
The 'Haunted Mansion' had just opened.
Need I say more?
The only problem was that this was the first sunny day in Los Angeles for several weeks.
And the entire population of the planet had suddenly decided that Disneyland was the place to be.
We had to share our magical world with 70,000 other people.
Sigh.
The line-ups were so long that choosing which ride to go on was not a matter of which was the most exciting, but which was the most available.
My brother and I stood for 3 hours to see the Haunted Mansion. The entire afternoon.
Oh, it was definitely worth it, even though George refused to go in the same car with me and I had to be frightened out of my wits all by myself.
For some reason, he had a problem with me wrapping my arms around his neck and screaming into his ear.
Brothers are weird.
After that, things are rather a blur.
I remember seeing Lincoln giving an address.
The real Lincoln. Somehow, Disney had convinced him to come out of retirement (re: death) and perform for us.
We went on a few 'ride' rides that didn't have enormous lineups.
And, at sundown, went for a romantic ride on the Mark Twain riverboat.
Yes, I'm sure the sign said 'romantic'.
I was, again, with George.
Who told me to stay on my side of the boat. Okay, so, what did he think I was going to do? Cuddle up to him and coo in his ear like all of the other people were doing?
Ewwww!
I remember eating a lot.
But then, I always remember the food.
And I remember thinking it was the best day of my life.
We only had one day there, but there were no complaints because Dad then took us to San Francisco and we got to ride the trolley car and tramp around Alcatraz Island.
And I got a shirt that said 'Property of Alcatraz - Unlisted Number' which I thought was hilarious.
And then, home. Which was an adventure all by itself.
We hit high winds near Pocatello, Idaho that nearly tipped us over, so Dad and the rest of the family parked in a campground.
With the truck's nose facing into the wind to keep it from performing gymnastics.
And he put George and I on the bus home.
Apparently, the couple looking after the ranch had to leave.
Who listened?
All I knew was that I got to ride on a Greyhound.
Okay, it was with my brother, but why haggle over details?
It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

There is an addendum . . .
This summer, we were camping with our good friends and the topic of Disneyland came up.
They've been several times.
I described my own experience.
They stared at me in disbelief. "You mean you only got to go to one major attraction?!"
I described the circumstances again.
More incredulity (another real word). "You drove all that way and hardly got to do anything?!"
And for the first time, I thought about that.
Huh. We had only gone on one main ride. We had wandered round the place and seen a lot of other people going on other rides. We had eaten treats and watched exciting things.
And it had been a very long drive.
Nope, it was still worth it.
The best holiday, ever!