Backing Up

Ah. The good old days . . .

I had to take a couple of horses to auction.

One of the more painful aspects of ranching . . .

In the old days, when I was ranching with my parents, a truck and trailer (chosen from the selection on hand) would appear magically outside the ranch house, loaded and ready to go.

Oh, the good old days.

This new ranching-on-my-own required much more forethought.

I had the horses.

And the pickup.

What I needed was a trailer.

A rental was indicated.

As an absolute neophyte in this area, I did what one did back then.

Went to the Yellow Pages.

Huh. Did you know there were dozens of companies whose sole purpose was to supply one with the best, biggest, lightest, heaviest, sleekest, cleanest, most-efficient, strongest, easiest-to-pull, prettiest (okay, I added that one), most-amazing trailer in the area?

Well there are.

I chose the nearest dealer.

And a trailer that looked like one of Dad’s.

Better the evil you know . . .

I drove over and, trying to look like I had done this all my life, hooked up to my newly-borrowed piece of equipment.

Okay, that part was easy. Back up the truck as near to the trailer hitch as possible.

Or until the attendant hollered, “Whoa!”

And hook up.

Okay. From that point I was more-or-less comfortable. I had pulled a trailer many times in my life. My real problems arose when I tried something new.

Like backing up with said trailer attached.

This is where I admit that my brother or Dad had always done the ‘intricate’ work.

Have you ever tried this?

Backing up a trailer, I mean.

It’s perverse.

You have to turn the controller vehicle in the complete opposite direction you want the trailer to go.

All the while looking backward over your shoulder.

It’s like trying to write something on a wall behind you by looking in a mirror.

Everything screams at you to turn the other way.

Usually while your spotter/attendant is screaming at you to do it right.

Sigh.

I did make it to the auction.

Horses, truck and trailer intact.

And, after much, MUCH backing up and re-backing up and adjusting and backing up again, and attendants sweating and swearing, finally moved the trailer close enough to the ramp to off-load two confused and rather dizzy horses.

Then I got the heck out of there.

I stopped at the ranch to clean out the trailer.

A nervous horse is a poopy horse.

Just FYI.

And I took the trailer back.

Now, when I had picked up the behemoth, it had been parked among its fellows in a neat line.

Second from the end.

When collecting it, I had only needed to back the truck, hook on, and leave.

Simple.

Returning the trailer wasn’t going to be as easy.

I would need to maneuver it, without scarring its fellows on either side, back into its home.

The key word here is ‘back’.

I was sweating before I even drove into the yard.

The attendant cheerfully indicated my parking spot.

Yep. Right where I expected.

Cue the Hitchcock violin music . . .

I pulled ahead and shoved the truck into reverse.

Then, taking a deep breath, pressed down on the gas.

And slid in as neatly and perfectly as any trailer-jockey out there.

On my first try.

Huh.

The trick then was to try to not look as surprised as the attendant.

And to keep the swagger (mostly caused by relief) out of my walk as I helped unhook.

And to suppress the desire to turn hand-springs on my way back to the truck.

Yep. Sometimes, the planets align.

All things work together.

And one is allowed to feel that sense of accomplishment that goes with a job well (and perfectly) done.

Not often.

But sometimes.

Enjoy it while it lasts . . .

Gossip

Still catching up.
These are Delores' words from last week.
Drugged, scandalous, frying, clerk, entrance, hidden
What would I do without her?!

Gossip

“It was scandalous, I tell you! Scandalous!”

The weekly afternoon tea of the local Ladies’ Aid Society was hitting on all cylinders.

Mrs. Petrie had the floor. Currently, she was making her point by jabbing a tiny, half-eaten petit-four in Mrs. Hall’s direction.

Mrs. Hall nodded solemnly, her own cake untouched as she carefully sipped a fresh cup of hot tea.

I watched as Mrs. Petrie took another nibble of the rich frosting, heavy jowls quivering in delight.

“Do you know what happened?” Timid little Mrs. Barry’s soft voice took advantage of the momentary break.

Mrs. Petrie puffed up importantly and launched in again, crumbs of cake flying. “Oh, my dear, I know everything!” she said. She reached for a second petit-four, then a third, and set them carefully on her plate.

I glanced at the laden tray in the center of the table and sighed, praying silently that I’d made enough.

Mrs. Petrie’s stories do tend to go on . . .

“Well . . .” Mrs. Petrie looked around the table, making sure she had collected everyone’s attention. Her voice lowered. “They found her at the entrance to the park!” she said. “Drugged, they said!”

“No!” someone gasped.

“Yes!” Mrs. Petrie’s voice slid up a notch. She stuffed her second cake into her mouth and chewed quickly. “She was wobbling about, hardly able to walk!” She swallowed and reached for more cake. “Her brains are absolutely fried!” She shook her head woefully and pushed in another bite. “They say she’ll never be the same!”

“But that’s awful!” Mrs. Barry said, shocked.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know the half!” Mrs. Petrie said, her voice lowered again. “They’re saying it was the clerk she’d been seen with! He did it to her!”

Mrs. Harris looked quite shaken. “Do you mean to tell us that that boy gave her . . . drugs?”

Mrs. Petrie nodded, her face grave.

“Oh, but that’s terrible!” Mrs. Butterfield dabbed at an imaginary tear. “What on earth will Margery do?”

“Well I know what I’d do if it was my daughter!” Mrs. Petrie said stoutly. “I’d put her on bread and water for a week!” She stuffed in another cake.

“But her brain!” Mrs. Butterfield said.

“I know!” Mrs. Petrie said. “She’s been absolutely ruined!”

Seven heads shook in sympathy.

I sighed and reached for a cake. The tray was getting perilously empty.

Just then, the door opened.

Seven heads swung around. Seven pairs of eyes speared the newcomer.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Mrs. Beaker said, breathlessly. “I had to . . .”

She got no further.

“Marjorie!” Three of the ladies had risen to their feet. “We just heard!”

Mrs. Beaker paused in the act of removing her coat, frowning. “Heard what?”

“About your daughter!”

“Oh, that!” Mrs. Beaker laughed. “What a mix-up!”

Several people glanced quickly at Mrs. Petrie, who calmly claimed the last cake and started eating.

“Umm . . . what happened?” Mrs. Barry asked.

“Well, that boy Abby’s been seeing took her for a walk in the park,” Mrs. Beaker said. “Apparently, he’d been planning on surprising her with a proposal.” She smiled.

“What was he proposing?” Mrs. Hall asked suspiciously.

“Marriage!” Mrs. Beaker said.

“What?” Someone drew the question in with a shocked breath.

All eyes turned to the now-silent Mrs. Petrie, who continued to chew solemnly.

“But it was sort of a disaster,” Mrs. Beaker said, seating herself at the table. She glanced briefly at the empty tray, then nodded her thanks as someone filled a cup for her.

I slid my untasted cake in front of her and she nodded again.

“Really?” someone said. Everyone leaned closer. “Do tell!”

“Well, he had hidden the ring somewhere in the park, but, as they were walking, it began to rain.” She took a sip of tea. “Oh, lovely!” she said, smiling at me.

I smiled back.

“Then what happened?” Mrs. Butterfield asked impatiently.

 Mrs. Beaker frowned. “Well, as far as I got the story straight, he had to run to the spot where he’d hidden the ring because he was afraid that the rain would wash it away and Abby ran after him and broke the heel off her shoe!” She laughed. “I guess she went down in a heap! By the time he had rescued his ring and his future fiancée, both of them were a little worse for the wear!”

The ladies at the table were silent.

“They staggered out of the park, their arms around each other . . .” Mrs. Beaker laughed again. “I guess it was quite a sight!”

“So . . . no drugs?” Mrs. Hall asked.

Mrs. Beaker frowned. “No. Well, Abby took a couple of painkillers after they had collapsed onto the bench outside the park,” she said. “She had given her ankle quite a turn.” She looked at me. “This cake is divine!”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“And now, Abby is engaged!”

There were several rather forced expressions of congratulation and, for a few seconds, the other ladies silently sipped and nibbled, casting the occasional accusing glance in Mrs. Petrie’s direction.

Suddenly, the visibly un-repentant woman sucked in a breath. “Oh, girls!” she said. “Did I tell you about Old Man Gunnar?”

All eyes turned toward her.

“Apparently, someone is trying to murder him!”

“Do tell!” someone said.

Phil

Okay. Picture him even smaller and glued to a dog...

Phil was a tiny boy.

Not yet two.

With the dubious honour of being both the youngest of the ‘Three Musketeers’ and of his family of seven.

He had been dropped off at Auntie and Uncle’s place for a few days while Mom and Dad took a brief holiday.

For the first few minutes, he followed sisters and brothers around the unfamiliar house, whimpering and trying to make sure they didn’t disappear.

Like his parents had done.

Then he saw his Auntie’s three Old English Sheepdogs.

Tears were forgotten as his face brightened.

His small world . . . changed.

For the next two days, Phil attached himself, quite literally, to the big male, Chiefy.

Whom, in his baby way, he thought was called ‘Chiefy-Sit’.

During that time, whenever Chiefy moved, it was with two small hands clutching fistfuls of long, grey hair and a little man toddling along as fast as he could, babbling, “Chiefy-Sit! Chiefy-Sit!”

When Chiefy finally did ‘sit’, Phil would pounce on him. Burying his little face in the soft, gray hair.

If Phil was distracted and moved away, Chiefy followed.

When the little boy slept in his crib, it was with one small hand through the bars, still clutching the long, soft hair.

They were quite literally, inseparable.

It was a short, sweet, two days.

But it ended.

Phil’s family moved away and visits were few and far between.

He grew up and Chiefy grew old.

They never saw each-other again.

Moving ahead twenty-plus years . . .

Tomorrow, my Husby and I are travelling down to Portland, Oregon.

We are going there to witness Phil and his bride marry.

He’s all grown up now.

But when I see him, I will be thinking of that little boy.

And his short-term furry best friend.

It will be a wonderful, happy time.

I can feel the tears already . . .

Catching Up

Each week, my good friend and fellow blogger, Delores issues a challenge to her neophytes. 'Use these words, my Hardy Wordsmiths!' And we do.
But I am playing catch-up. These are last week's: Crystallize, morbid, fragrance, cling, instant, blueprint.Oh, what fun I had . . .

I sniffed. “I smell it again!” I said.

Norma looked up from her newspaper and frowned, confused. “What?”

“That fragrance! That weird fragrance!”

She pursed her lips and sniffed, audibly. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Come over here. It seems to . . . cling to this exact spot!” I stepped to one side and indicated with both hands. “Right here!”

Sighing, Norma set down her paper and heaved her bulky self to her feet. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m only doing this because you’re my sister.”

“You’re a true friend,” I cooed, giving her just a bit more space.

Obligingly, she manoeuvred herself into the designated spot. “Okay. Here I am.”

“Now sniff!”

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then frowned and did it again. “Huh,” she said.

“Right?” I watched her.

She stepped to one side and sniffed once more. Then stepped back and repeated the procedure. “Huh,” she said again. She looked around, then slowly dropped to her knees. “I only do this because I love you,” she said, glancing up at me.

“And I love you,” I said. “So what’s making that smell?”

She bent down and sniffed the carpet. “Huh. Nothing.” She sat back on her heels and stared thoughtfully upwards. Her eyes brightened. “Maybe it’s the spirit of some former resident,” she said.

I gave her my best ‘tell-me-another’ look. “Right. A former resident who haunts only this spot?”

“Well, maybe she died right here.”

“Don’t be morbid,” I said, moving a step away.

“No! I can see it! Her body laying here, crystallizing slowly.”

"Ugh!" I said. Then grinned and picked it up. “Her spirit hanging around till her mortal remains are discovered, then deciding in that instant that it must always stay . . .”

“Exactly!”

“Pfff! What will you think of next?!”

Norma made a couple of shuffling movements, then sighed and held up her hands. “Could you?” she asked.

I shook my head and reached out to help her to her feet.

Both of us sniffed the air again.

Suddenly, a whisper of sound. A . . . hissing. It burst inside my head. “Blueprint!” it said.

I spun around, then looked at my sister. “Did you . . .?” I said no more. The look on her face told me everything.

For Greater Things

Tristan and his wife, Jess.

When we were teenagers, my husby and I got involved in theatre.
And stayed involved.
This year marks 44 years for me.
And slightly more for him.
I know, I know. Do the math.
That makes us both . . . old.
But we love it.
We raised our children on the stage.
All six of them.
Our most recent production, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers closed recently.
To a standing ovation.
Our youngest son, Tristan was singing the role of Adam.
And as I watched him, I couldn't help but remember his first time on stage, at the age of 5.
We weren't sure if he would remember lines, so we made him a mute.
Big mistake.
He hasn't stopped talking since.
Then I thought about all of the roles he has had in his short lifetime.
And other experiences he has had on the stage.
Let me tell you about one.
We were setting up the stage for a production of “I Hate Hamlet”.
Look it up. It's funny.
We were trying different configurations with our set pieces.
One piece, a double glass door in it's own frame, was built by a home builder.
He hadn't understood that set pieces were supposed to drag around easily.
And be . . . light.
He had built it according to building code requirements.
So . . . definitely not light.
We had stood it up and were discussing where it should go in the grand scheme of things.
My son, Tristan was sitting innocently in a chair on stage, waiting for his parents to finish moving furniture around.
We stepped away from the door, intent on another piece of scenery.
And that's when it tipped.
The door, I mean.
Forward.
Towards my son.
It was one of those things that you could see happening.
But were powerless to stop.
For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
The door dropped.
Down.
Down.
And smacked the back of our son's chair off.
Really.
A large, heavy, wooden chair.
Broke the back right off.
Our son turned and looked.
The door had missed him, quite literally, by a whisker.
I watched him singing last night.
And thought about that wall falling towards him so many years ago.
Obviously preserved for greater things.

Vanity, You Heartless Wench

   

Ready to work.
If you look closely, you'll note the absence of glasses.
And the presence of the band-aid.

     1. My new boyfriend had a medical condition I wasn’t aware of.

           2. The world refused to coalesce into remotely recognizable shapes when I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

           3. I was vain.

There. I think I’ve covered all of the bases.

Would you care to try to convene these statements into a story?

I’m almost sure it would be better than mine.

Fine . . .

My new boyfriend was ‘working’ for my Dad.

Which meant that he spent a lot of time on the ranch, following me around, and occasionally did some actual work.

On this bright summer afternoon, we had been assigned the arduous task of moving the milk cow from her pasture on the east side of the buildings to the more convenient pasture on the west side.

We were on foot.

He was heeling.

I was heading.

Which meant that I was in the front to get in the way if said cow decided to turn in the wrong direction.

He was behind in case she suddenly felt that she couldn’t bear to leave her former pasture.

I should probably point out here that I always wore glasses. There’s nothing more embarrassing than discovering after a lengthy, one-sided conversation, that the person you are talking to is actually the neighbour’s mule.

I will say only that he was a good listener.

Back to my story . . .

On this bright and sunny afternoon, I had removed my glasses because I was trying to improve my tan lines. Large, white, goggle-shaped circles on one’s face weren’t conducive to beauty.

Oh, I also had a band-aid on my nose for the same reason.

Lets’ not talk about this any more . . .

At first all went well.

Then, they didn’t.

I ran ahead to stand as a human shield when the cow crossed over the entrance to the ranch buildings.

Once I was in position, I turned to ascertain progress.

The cow had turned and was heading back to familiar ground.

Trevor had disappeared.

Whaaaat?

I quickly ran up the road, got around the retreating animal and turned her back in the right direction.

Then spent the next twenty minutes sweating, hollering and cursing.

Oh yes. I cursed. For the whole story, read here. It’s not a pretty tale, but we’ll wait till you get back . . .

Finally, I had the stupid, perverse, ornery, cantankerous, belligerent, of-questionable-heritage, stupid (I repeat the word, deliberately) animal where she needed to go.

Daddy picked me up for the short ride to the ranch buildings.

And that’s when I remarked that my boyfriend, he of the dubious intelligence, had abandoned me.

Had just disappeared.

Dad frowned.

He turned into the drive to the ranch.

Then stopped.

Shoved the truck into reverse.

And, tires squealing, sped back along the main road.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your boyfriend,” Dad said, coming to a skidding stop.

“Oh.”

And there he was. My boyfriend. Lying in the ditch.

How had I missed that?

Oh, right. Glasses.

Turns out that he had a medical condition that caused him, at times, to faint.

Who knew?

Fortunately, he had simply slid down into the soft, thick grass that lined the ditch and slept peacefully in the warm sun until we discovered him.

Dad got him up and we helped him make his woozy way to the truck.

By the time we reached the ranch buildings, he was well on his way back to normalcy.

After we had gotten him seated on the couch and supplied with drinks and eats, Dad turned to me. “Glasses,” he said simply.

 I nodded sheepishly and went to fetch them.

I learned something from this:

         1. When acquiring a new boyfriend, always ascertain health concerns.

         2.  Don’t ever try to outguess your optician.

         3. Don’t be vain.

       You learned it here.

Tough to Say Goodbye

For over twenty years, we've spent part of each summer roaming the trails and mountains around Banff, Alberta.
The most beautiful spot on earth.
I'm not prejudiced . . .
Our kids learned to swim in the condo pool.
Saw their first bear while hiking those trails.
Scrimped and saved for their annual trip to the Rocks and Gems Shop.
Or the all-important Candy Store.
Watched the elk and deer saunter through from the second-floor balcony.
Laughed at the squirrels as they chattered and scampered.
Learned to play horse-shoes and croquet on the lawns.
Played games, watched movies and slept in.
Till Seven.
Now the next generation is experiencing those same wonderful things.
It's tough to say goodbye.
Even though we know it isn't forever.
This is why . . .

First hike.

Hiking's HARD work!

When you run out of trail, keep going!

Old Husby of the Mountain.

Umm . . . no comment . . .

How can we leave it behind?

Till next year, Banff, farewell!

Driving Under the Influence

Oh, sure. She's smiling now . . .

There are about thirty miles of smooth, fast highway between Claresholm and Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

And Mom was a strict teetotaler.

These two facts will become significant.

Later . . .

Mom was heading home.

She had been out running errands and attending meetings and doing various ‘Mom’ things and supper was beckoning.

Another ‘Mom’ thing.

She was also DUI(C).

Driving under the influence of children.

Between glances into the backseat and numerous yoga-moves to reach and supply her various and sundry children’s needs, her concentration on the road, and her straight-driving-ness (my term), were sorely hampered.

From time to time, the car . . . wove.

Said weaving was noticed.

A flashing light appeared in the rear-view mirror.

Mom frowned. A ‘what-on-earth-is-this-about?’ frown.

And pulled over.

A young policeman appeared at her window.

“Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice that you were weaving a bit in the lane,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”

Mom sucked in a deep, indignant breath and glared at the young man. “I SHOULD SAY NOT!!” she said.

Her voice was . . . let’s just say ‘firm’.

With just a bit of fire behind the words.

The poor policeman turned red and literally crumbled. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he mumbled. Then, bidding her a hasty good-night, he left.

Or rather, retreated.

Mom nodded resolutely and, putting the car in gear, continued on.

The police car made a U-turn and fled.

The reason I’m thinking about this right now?

Where was Mom when another young policeman was handing me my speeding ticket for doing 40 in a 30?

I guess some people have it.

And some people don’t.

Sigh.

Learn. Then Teach

Okay, a bit older than our car, but you get the picture.

At some point during our junior year in high school, every student was required to take Driver's Education.
It wasn't an imposition.
Though most of us were farm/ranch kids and had been driving since we could see over the dashboard, none of us had ever been allowed to drive on a real road.
Okay, well, I have to admit here that some of us had.
Driven on a real road, I mean.
It's just that our parents didn't know.
Moving on . . .
So it was to be our first experience driving on a real road . . . officially.
The anticipation mounted as we completed every session of pre-driving training.
The lectures and films grew longer and more boring.
More and more, we craned our necks to glance outside at the shiny new car that would soon become ours.
We were getting feverish to actually take the wheel and floor the accelerator.
Finally the day came.
In groups of three, names were drawn.
And then it was my turn.
My time slot allotted.
My waiting at an end.
All right, yes, I still had to wait, but at least I knew just how long the wait would be.
Sheesh.
My group was scheduled to go out in a couple of days, after the end of the school day.
I counted the minutes.
And finally, it was our turn!
The other two students from my group slid into the back seat.
Our instructor, alias: my biology teacher, and I got into the front.
And that was when I discovered that this wasn't quite like any other car I had ever seen.
For one thing, it had two sets of foot pedals.
One on my side.
The other on his.
Weird.
We started out.
Slowly. Though every gram of me (and that was a lot of grams) was itching to stomp that gas pedal to the floor.
We made a circuit of the town.
So far so good.
I was instructed to head out of town along the highway.
Obediently, I followed my instructions.
All went well.
We made a safe (it can be done . . .) U-turn and headed back towards town.
As we were approaching the town limits sign with its stark and very pointed suggestion of speed, I turned to my instructor. "Does that mean we need to start slowing down when we get to the sign, or should we be going that speed when we reach . . .?"
I got no further.
My teacher decided, then and there, to teach me what the second set of floor pedals was for.
He stomped on the brake.
Whereupon (good word) I had a heart attack.
Fortunately, my varied experiences on the ranch had taught me that I could still function, even when my heart had permanently taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
But the lesson was well and truly taught. One must have already achieved the strongly suggested speed limit by the time one reached the sign.
Point taken.
After a few tense seconds of hands-over-the-face whimpering by both I and my teacher, we were once more off.
The rest of my turn passed without further incident.
Which was probably a good thing for my heart.
And my passengers.
We stopped back at the school and one of my team members exchanged seats with me.
I could officially relax.
For some time, we drove around the town.
Then, as we were following the dirt road north, on the far east side of town, our Social Studies teacher approached and flagged us down.
He did this is a subtle, yet clever way.
He drove past, honking, then pulled over to the right directly in front of us.
Our young driver squeaked out, "What do I do?"
Whereupon (that word again) our instructor told her to pull over directly behind the other car and put our car into 'park'.
Done.
She sighed and leaned back against the seat.
The four of us watched our social teacher walk around to our instructor's window.
The window was rolled down and the two began to visit.
Meanwhile, our driver was looking forward.
Towards the other car.
Which appeared to be getting . . . closer.
She stomped on the brake and quickly discovered that it wasn't we who were moving.
Ah! The other car was rolling backwards.
Toward us.
Our driver began to shriek, "Ooh! Ooh! What do I do?! Should I back up?!"
Both teachers looked up.
Just as the 'parked' car collided with us.
Shock warred with embarrassment on both faces.
It was quickly ascertained (another good word) that no damage had been done, either to property or personnel.
And everyone went back to what they were doing before our social teacher had entered the picture.
We completed our training.
Receiving full credit and accolades.
And all of us received our driver's licenses.
It really wasn't that difficult.
Look at the guys who taught us.

Dreaded First Day

Standing: Bern, Eldor, Glen
Sitting: Mom

On Mom's first day of school, she spoke almost no English, only Swedish.
This is her story - in her own words from her journals . . .

My first day of school was anticipated with the fear and anxiety which had been passed down to me from my brothers who went before me.
I recall horror stories with exaggeration about strappings, sitting on a stool at the front of the room for being late, and beatings from older boys.
Beware of the 'older boys'.
As the time came for me to make my debut, my legs became so numb that I could hardly walk.
I was so afraid.
Winnie Charleton (two years older) kindly took me by the hand and led me into the one-room schoolhouse.
Mrs. Hunter smiled as she pointed to the desk at the front of the room where I would work.
Four other girls sat behind me in the same row.
"Good Morning, boys and girls!" said Mrs. Hunter.
"Good Morning!" responded the class.
All except me.
Mrs. Hunter looked at me with a lop-sided smile.
"Can't you say, Good Morning?" she asked.
"Yah," said I, then quickly, the line I had rehearsed with Mama, "Min nom Enes. I am half past six."
Little titters rippled around the room.
"Would you say that again, please?" asked Mrs. Hunter.
Luckily, I understood.
"Min nom Enes, I am half past six."
The giggles turned into a roar as the thirty or so children rocked with laughter.
I was so humiliated that I laid my head on the desk and covered it with my arms.
What would my punishment be for this, I wondered?
Mrs. Hunter simply said, "Enes - that's a nice name."
Then she turned to the blackboard and wrote her name.
I worried all day about the punishment I would receive, but nothing happened.
We were given our first primer and we tried to copy the words DOG and CAT. We copied numbers, 1 to 10, and played 'I Spy'.
My fears finally dwindled.
School was actually fun!

Going Back

Prince of Wales Hotel at Waterton Lakes Provincial Park.
Paradise.

I have always lived in the shadows of the Rockies.
And by doing so, have been in close proximity to one of many national parks.
Nowadays (real word, I looked it up), that means either the Banff or Jasper National Parks.
In my early years, it was Waterton Lakes.
How our family loved Waterton!
Every summer we spent at least a week there, staying in one of the tiny, rustic cabins perched on the very shore of Upper Waterton Lake or in the beautiful old log cabin which belonged to some good friends.
We would swim in the gi-normous (my word) outdoor community swimming pool. Spend endless hours riding around the town on rented tandem bikes or surreys. Visit Cameron Falls or hike to Cameron Lake. Climb Bear's Hump. Explore Prince of Wales Hotel. Shop.
Then there were the lakes. One could fish there. Or boat or 'swim'. (I use this last term lightly because this was a mountain lake, and only a couple of degrees above freezing . . .)
The activities were many and varied.
Paradise for a little girl.
Especially since it was the fifties and crime hadn't been invented yet.
Mom could feed us breakfast and send us out the door, secure in the knowledge that we could play safely throughout the townsite.
Except that we had strict instructions not to go near any wildlife.
And Waterton certainly had that.
It wasn't unusual to open the front door and see a herd of deer lying around the front yard, placidly chewing their cud.
Or to have to retreat into a store because a bear was making its way slowly down main street.
That was especially okay, because ice cream was easily obtained and one could enjoy a treat and a show while one waited for the rangers, or for the bear to move on.
Whichever happened first.
It was no wonder that our annual pilgrimage to Waterton was our most anticipated tradition.
My family went back for a reunion.
I was amazed at what had changed in the years since my last trip.
Oh, there were some fondly remembered places still in existence.
Many of the stores and shops were the same, or at least similar.
The topographical sites were still there. Bear's Hump. Cameron Falls. The hiking paths I had enjoyed as a child.
And the Prince of Wales Hotel still majestically dominated the townsite.
But all else had changed.
We tried renting a tandem bike, but the only one left had a towel for a seat and was so rusted and stiff that riding it was more torture than pleasure.
The swimming pool had disappeared.
In its place stood a great hotel complex.
Our friends' cabin was gone, burned to the ground in a massive and heart-wrenching fire. It, too had been replaced by newer and more modern.
Our little cabins were also gone. The campground had been expanded to include the lot where they had stood.
We wandered around for most of a day, reminiscing.
It was still Waterton.
There was still a lot to see and do.
Watch the deer and other animals wander freely throughout the townsite.
Hike. Explore the great Hotel. Fish. Shop.
'Wade' in the lake. (We now called it for what it was . . .)
Boat.
Swim in the new hotel's grand indoor pool.
Just not the things we most fondly remembered as children.
Who was it who said, 'You can never go back'?
They were wrong.
You can.
Just be prepared for some changes.
Where did you spend your summers?

Waterton Lakes National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, an International Peace Park, and a Biosphere Reserve. The only park in the world that has these three designations.
Visit it!

Heroes of Faith, True Stories of Faith and Courage

I love stories of heroes.

People with strength and courage who stand up for themselves and others.

Even when standing up would be uncomfortable and sometimes downright dangerous.

There have been many in history who have given everything for what they believe. Joan of Arc and the ancient apostles of Jesus Christ spring instantly to mind. 

And Jesus Christ, Himself.

There are modern examples as well. And many are showcased in the new book by my friend, Marlene Bateman Sullivan: Heroes of Faith, True Stories of Faith and Courage.

Marlene has collected stories of people who survived impossible hardships, such as A.C. Christensen in a Japanese prison camp. Held to their beliefs in the face of unsympathetic regimes like the Torontos in Germany. Carried on through vast physical challenges as did blind Samuel Jenkinson.

Each is a story of determination, strength and real courage.

I loved this book.

I am in awe of such people.

And wonder if I would ever have their courage.

I hope I never have to find out . . .

Synopsis

Our fast-paced society loves adventure and it loves a hero—but what about Latter-day Saint heroes?  Are there any?  There are plenty!

Heroes of Faith, True Stories of Faith and Courage, is a collection of twenty-four riveting stories about people who rose above difficulties and impossible odds to emerge triumphant. You’ll read about stalwart men and women who stood firm and valiant in the gospel in spite of dangerous mobs, flying bullets, physical handicaps, extreme hardships, and dictatorial regimes.

It's fascinating to read about the exploits of real heroes and when that hero is acting in accordance with the principles of the gospel, the adventure is not only thrilling, but inspiring as well. In these days of increasing trials and tribulation, we can all use some worthy role models, especially those that strengthen our faith and increase our testimonies.

Biography

Marlene Bateman Sullivan was born in Salt Lake City, Utah.  She graduated from the University of Utah with a BA in English. She is married to Kelly R. Sullivan and they are the parents of seven children. 

Heroes of Faith is available at these outlets: 

Amazon 

Deseret Book 

Books & Things

Dirty Work

Oh sure, she looks clean now . . .

Ranching is not 'clean' work.
I had been main herdsman for my Dad for several months.
This combined my favourite activity, riding, with various other responsibilities.
Like checking the herd every day for cows that were calving. Cows that looked like they were about to start calving. Or cows that looked like they were thinking about starting to calve.
Ranching takes a lot of head work . . .
Also helping them when it became necessary.
And hauling feed.
Cleaning pens.
And grubbing around the barnyard doing whatever Dad came up with.
Yep. Not clean work at all.
This day, though, I was determined to stay . . . unsoiled.
My new boyfriend was stopping by and I wanted him to see me as the picture-perfect cowgirl.
Sun in her hair and smelling of the outdoors - grass, sage, and fresh air.
Things started well.
I buckled the riding pad on my horse, thus eliminating the possibility of being covered with hair when he arrived.
Then rode out to the calving pasture.
It was a bright, fresh morning with just a bit of a breeze.
Perfect.
I finished my initial sweep.
The easy, treeless part of the field.
Hmm . . . no cows inconveniently doing messy things.
I started back, this time through the brush and small trees.
Still nothing.
Everyone was grazing happily, or contentedly lying down, chewing their cud.
It was a peaceful scene.
A clean scene.
I rode into the last copse (real word, I looked it up) of trees.
And there she was.
That one cow determined to undermine my perfectly planned morning.
Obviously calving.
And just as obviously having trouble.
Rats.
I rode over.
Yep. Trouble.
The calf's head and feet had emerged, but the little creature was obviously caught at the shoulders.
Poor thing.
Thoughts of my pristine wardrobe disappeared as I considered my next move.
The cow had to be herded to the ranch buildings.
And quickly.
We made it in record time, considering she was in heavy labour.
Finally, she was enclosed in the nearest empty corral.
I slid off my horse and quickly erected a 'pen' of plank walls around her, further hemming her in.
Then I reached for the calf's little white feet.
But this cow didn't want my help.
And certainly wasn't disabled by any discomfort she might be feeling.
I should have realized that a cow who had made the trip from the field to the ranch building at the speed she had, while in labour, was actually SUPERCOW.
As my hands closed firmly over her calf's feet, she made a leap, flattening my hastily-erected fence and pulling me through the rubble.
Now a normal person probably would have let go at that point.
I guess I'm not normal.
Because I didn't.
Let go, that is.
Instead, I desperately hung on to those feet as the cow pulled me around the corral.
Through the dust.
And a couple of icky pools.
And that's when the calf . . . fell out.
Soon, mother and baby were happily together.
And I was headed to the ranch house.
I needn't tell you how I looked.
From head to foot.
My boyfriend's truck and I reached the front gate together.
It's all about timing.

Almost Struck. Twice.

Blair in a less threatening situation. A bit less . . .

The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a half mile from the ranch buildings.
Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.
But a marathon in length when you were pushing sick, weary stock.
Dad, always the thinker, came up with plan 'B'.
Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.
Genius.
In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent (good word) to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition.
Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.
Heavy-duty. Solid.
And set up at a moment's notice.
The answer to all of our prayers.
Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.
Moving on . . .
We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.
I can't tell you how easy it was.
Okay, I probably could, but . . .
Ahem.
All was going well.
Never say that when ranching.
Because the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.
And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.
On this particular day, he sent Nature.
Capital 'N'.
Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.
But this storm was a bit different.
There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.
Or rain.
There was only lightning.
And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.
I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.
My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.
We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.
The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.
Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!
There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.
It exploded.
No, really.
It was there one moment.
Then gone the next.
A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been.
It was rather hard to ignore.
We all froze in our various positions.
Dad and I outside the corral.
Blair stuck in the middle.
With several head of cattle.
Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.
“Freeze!” Dad barked.
Blair did.
The cattle weren't as obedient.
Now that I think about it, cattle never are.
Obedient, I mean.
But I digress . . .
Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?
They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.
“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”
Sometimes I hate it when people are right.
Again, the greenish colour.
Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!
Again the exploding.
But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral.
That green lightning magnet.
Completely helpless.
I know I did do some praying then.
That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one.
And then the storm moved away from us.
We started breathing again.
Moving.
I probably don't need to describe Blair's sprint across the corral.
And vaulting of the fence.
Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.
For several minutes, we just stood there. Breathing.
Outside the corrals.
Thankful to be alive and safe.
It was some time before Dad could convince us to get back to work.
Not an unusual challenge.
But this time we had a good excuse.

The Call of Nature

Our Steed. I'll explain . . .

Our oldest daughter believed that there was something called the 'Universal Animal Call'.
It was a simple whistle. A single note rising in pitch at the end.
Tweee-eet!
She swore it worked on all animals.
We thought the idea was hilarious.
Enough background.
My husband, for our 25th anniversary, surprised me with a trip to Greece.
And a cruise around the Mediterranean on a tall ship.
My dream of a lifetime.
And the vacation of a lifetime.
Ten days of unbelievable bliss.
I probably don't have to mention, here, that I enjoyed it.
But I will anyway.
I enjoyed it.
Immensely.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .
What? Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Greece.
Mediterranean.
During the cruise, we discovered the joy of laying in the nets beneath the spritsail at the bow of the ship, watching the Mediterranean slip past far beneath us.
It was the most relaxing experience of my life.
On the second last evening of our cruise, we introduced several new friends to this delicious experience.
Let me describe the scene . . .
The sun was setting, glowing orange and red on the clots of cloud floating far above us in the darkening sky. There was just enough breeze to fill every rosy sail and push us forward through gentle, perfect waves on impossibly blue water.
The air was a caress. Soft. Fragrant.
The only sounds were the occasional call of the sea birds as they floated on still wings alongside us.
Rocked gently, we hovered at the edges of complete peace.
Conversation lagged as, one by one, the members of our party flirted with the idea of succumbing to the call of Morpheus.
Drowsily, I turned to my husband and said, "What a perfect evening."
He laughed. "No, we need one more thing to make it truly perfect."
"What is that?"
"Dolphins."
He was right. The last perfect touch would be dolphins, chittering and giggling as they leaped and played in the water beside us.
"We could always try the Universal Animal Call."
We explained the UAC to our new friends, and joined in their laughter.
Then I sat up.
And whistled.
Tweee-eet! Tweee-eet!
And we laughed again.
Silence settled over us once more.
Silence broken, suddenly, by . . . chittering and giggling.
We looked down.
Several dolphins were leaping and playing alongside us.
I blinked and stared, open-mouthed.
Then rubbed my eyes and stared again.
Yes. There really were dolphins.
And yes, they really were playing beside the ship.
My husband and I looked at each other.
And laughed.
Happily, this time.
Maybe the UAC actually worked.
Or maybe it was just an amazing coincidence.
But it made the evening truly perfect.
And I'll never, ever forget it.