Smoke/Dust Gets in Your . . . Eyes

Okay.
Which is more hazardous to your health?
This?

Two little ten-year-old girls had been given an assignment.

Then left alone to do it.

Mischief happens . . .

My family was raised on a large cattle ranch.

Dealing with cows, and the myriad tasks that followed them, was our daily life.And when our annual sale/production day approached, work increased as not only the cattle, but the entire ranch must be presented in their best light.

My little sister, hereinafter called ‘Anita’, and her friend, Jo-Ellen, had been given the assignment to sweep out the sale barn - a large building built for the sole purpose of exhibiting cattle, one-by-one, to scores of people seated in the bleachers.

Or this?

Said people were then expected to ‘bid’ on said animals.

On sale day, that building was the hub of all activity.

And, incidentally, sale day was the most exciting day of our entire year.

Moving on . . .

These two little girls had already had a busy morning. You have to know that we were a family of firm non-smokers. The only cigarettes and/or other smoking paraphernalia that ever came onto the ranch, came in visitor’s vehicles. These two little girls had spotted a packet of cigars in a prospective buyer’s car.  They had stolen borrowed liberated two cigars from it.

I know. What were they thinking?

And now, in sole possession of the sale barn, they neglected their duties to take turns pretending to be either ‘auctioneer’ or ‘buyer’. The one would take a seat at the high auctioneer’s booth while the other would light her cigar, sit on the bleachers, and ‘bid’.

Anita was the first ‘buyer’. She puffed at her cigar in her best ‘I’ve-watched-them-and-I-know-how-it’s-done’ manner, and nodded at the auctioneer at salient times. Then they switched places and Jo-Ellen assumed the buyer’s duties, cigar and all.

After a while, the two of them decided they had better get to work. Sweeping.

They pushed a load of straw and dirt out into the barnyard.

And that’s when Anita lost what little remained of her breakfast.

Oh, man she was sick.

And then the same thing happened to Jo-Ellen.

The two of them crawled up into the bleachers and sat down. For several minutes, they sat there, wondering what on earth had happened that both of them became so sick so suddenly.

They never did figure it out, though they concluded that it must have something to do with sweeping.

And/or buying/selling.

Either activity was obviously hazardous to one’s health.

Just FYI.

The ring-leader . . .

Edible Snakes

It'll get you!

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour.
Just saying . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.

Jolted to Attention

Shop class was for learning.

Woodcrafting, metal work, welding, automotive.

These were the things that should occupy the young men’s minds.

Was food mentioned in there anywhere?

No. Because as in the library, in the Fort Macleod high school shop class, food was forbidden.

Did that stop them from trying to sneak food in?

Pfff. These were young men.

The mere fact that they weren’t supposed to, simply made it a challenge.

Some of them were good at it.

Some weren’t.

Monty was in the latter group . . .

The boys had just come in from their ten-minute break between classes.

Monty had bought himself a fudgecicle during said break.

And he wasn’t finished with it yet.

Deftly, sneakily, he ducked down behind one of the workbenches to continue enjoying.

The teacher came in and looked around. “Where’s Monty?” he mouthed silently to the assembled lads.

No one answered, but enough eyes turned toward the boy’s hiding spot that the teacher spotted him easily. He leaned down.

The bench Monty was hiding behind stood up on legs that held it several inches off the floor.

Teacher smiled a slow smile.

Now, I should mention here that this teacher moonlighted in the evenings and on weekends as a rancher.

He drove a pickup truck.

Equipped with the modern conveniences of ranching.

And that truck was parked directly outside the shop-room door.

Silently, he went out, quickly returning with what we ranchers affectionately call a ‘stock prod’.

It is a long, metal stick, filled with batteries, and equipped with two metal prongs on one end. The whole contraption is specifically designed to give a jolt to notoriously thick-skinned cows when working with them in tight spaces.

The boys watched, a little uncertainly, as their teacher carried it in.

A stock prod gives a harmless zap to heavy-hided cattle.

Thin-skinned humans don’t fare as well.

But Teacher didn’t, as they feared, simply jab their chum in the rear.

Nope.

He slid the prod under the bench next to his student and waved it slowly back and forth.

Monty looked down.

Huh. What was that? The rod moved away. Then closer.

And Monty, ever vigilant, grabbed it.

With a yelp, he sprang to his feet, fudgecicle forgotten.

“Monty,” teacher said.

The boy looked at him.

“No eating during shop class.”

Lesson learned.

Orange You Glad to See Her?

Contraband!

Mervin stared at the tell-tale pile of orange peels.

Then, at the  large, strictly-forbidden, freshly-peeled, plump and juicy orange in his hand.

He and his friends could all hear the sound of the approaching librarian.

Their nemesis was only two book stacks away.

Death was certain.

What to do?

What to do . . .?

In Fort Macleod in the early seventies, the new library of the equally-new local high school was under the watchful gaze of Mrs. (Eagle Eyes) Mason.

A crack-a-jack librarian who could, quite literally, spot evil-doing across the room and through twenty stacks of books.

Watching her in action was a thing of beauty . . . erm . . . if one wasn’t the culprit.

Something would trigger her radar.

The glasses would be whipped from her face.

And she would peer, narrow-eyed, around the room – inevitably zeroing in on the virtually invisible culprit.

Call it a gift.

Her cardinal rule?

Never, ever bring food into the library.

Food attracts silver fish. (Google it – I had to . . .)

And silver fish eat books.

And soon, every book would be destroyed.

And children would then grow-up in complete and utter ignorance.

Yes, her rules were simple.

Her logic? Unerring.

Her reach? Vast.

And still, the students tried to, in her words, ‘get away with it’.

Case in point . . . Mervin.

And the telltale orange.

Though he and his friends were literally at the very furthest point from the librarian that the library afforded, the instant he had cracked the outside of his handful of citrus deliciousness, the fragrance had wafted straight to those sensitive nostrils.

The glasses had come off. “Who’s eating an orange in the library?!”

And the footsteps of doom had started.

And drawn ever closer.

Mervin’s friends stared at him.

Mervin stared at the evidence.

Finally, desperately, he shoved the peels in his pocket.

Then, opening his mouth, shoved in the large, juicy orange.

Whole.

I am not making this up.

Not only did he get that entire fruit inside.

He then  . . . closed his mouth.

Just as Mrs. Mason rounded the corner.

“Who here is eating an orange?” she demanded.

His friends had been staring at Mervin in amazement. They turned to the librarian.

There was a chorus of ‘Not me’s!’ From everyone except, of course, Mervin.

Mrs. Mason peered at them suspiciously, then turning, continued her hunt.

The boys looked back at their friend.

Who had spit his orange into his hand and was calmly starting to eat it.

Looking for somewhere to hide things?

A place you know will be safe and secure?

Undetectable?

If you really don’t care of its inevitably moist condition.

Call your big-mouthed friend.

Little Balls of Death

Warning: Use with caution...

“Gramma! Can we make some popcorn?”

Words so innocently uttered.

So casually agreed to . . .

Some of our grandchildren were over for the evening.

A movie was indicated. And what’s a movie without popcorn?

We are a popcorn family. We have a large, ‘theatre’ popper.

Fully capable of keeping up with the masses.

Gramma enjoys making it.

The kids enjoy watching.

Everyone enjoys eating.

It’s a perfect world.

But, sometimes, even perfection has its drawbacks . . .

The machine was in full pop. Kernels sizzling and swelling in the ‘cooker’.

Spilling out in a fluffy, white, delicious tide over the side and into the ‘hopper’.

Then . . . a tiny problem.

The twin lids over the cooker are merely metal flaps. Designed to hold in the hot, rocketing little explosive devices that are popcorn kernels. And to flip up as needed to let the deliciousness out.

One of these flaps got jammed open.

Little molten balls of death were spewing everywhere.

I had quickly ushered the assembled grandkids away.

And was approaching the machine, set on repairing the problem.

And that’s when it got me.

A sneaky little smoking-hot kernel.

And the term, ‘smoking hot’ is, in this case . . . not good.

It hit me above the collarbone, then proceeded to roll into my collar and from there, down under my shirt and into my bra.

Where it stayed as I tried, madly, to reach it.

The dance I performed is classic.

The blisters I have are noteworthy.

After things had calmed down, and noting my woebegone (Ooh! Good word!) expression, Husby decided to cheer me up with a story.

Of someone who had it far worse than me . . .

It was in high school shop class.

Husby and his fellow classmates were being taken, carefully, through the basics of welding.

“Remember, boys,” the teacher said in. “Never, ever, weld over your head!”

Now the consequences of such an action should have been obvious. 

Right

And they were obvious. Except to Monty.

A few days later, he was happily welding.

Directly over his head.

Now I probably don’t have to explain that the temperatures of metal and binding substances used during welding reach temperatures of 1200 (F) degrees. 648.889 (C)

Ummm . . . hot. Really, really hot.

A piece of slag dripped from his project and down the open collar of his shirt.

Where it formed a small ball of death and proceeded to roll - consuming skin, hair and anything else it encountered - down the boy’s body.

Lodging somewhere way too near his groin.

Wrong

Screaming, dancing and frantically shedding clothes, Monty finally retrieved the little purveyor-of-death and spilled it out onto the floor.

While his classmates, teen-aged boys all, laughed at his discomfort.

He and his appendages survived.

Though they sported some rather impressive scars.

Husby was right.

Suddenly my little popcorn kernel took on a whole diminished perspective.

I have seven little blisters.

I’m glad I wasn’t around to count Monty’s.

Something Fishy

Oh, fish, you wet and slip’ry folk,

The butt of every smelly joke,

Of small or monolithic size,

You look so good . . . next to my fries.

And now, the jokes I spoke about,

Through all my grandkids, I did scout.

Some downright finny, some, so-so,

If you find better, let minnow.

A seahorse moves from cave to cave?

He scallops through the billowing wave! 

The Tsar’s favorite fish to eat at court?

Tsardines! They’d serve them by the quart!

A fish of large and ancient mein,

With threat’ning gestures at your spleen,

Makes you an offer you can’t snub?

The Codfather. Oh, that’s the rub!

Where’s the sad and smelly lout,

The octopus that’s down and out?

Well, he’s (Oh, you must be aware),

On Squid Row in a burrow there! 

What’s a fish that has no eyes?

A fsh! That comes as no surprise.

What’s nutella sauce on salmon get?

Why salmonella. Don’t forget!

One more, and then I’ll let you be . . .

There’s two fish swimming in the sea,

Into a wall, they headfirst ram,

One says unto the other, “Dam!”

Each week Delores gives us words,

From thought-provoking to absurd.

There’s lots of us who join the fun,

Now go. And see what they have done!

This week's words: billowing, ancient, monolithic, fish, burrow and court

The Scar

She was sitting on my knee, studying my face as only a toddler can.

Wha's that, Gramma?" She pointed.

"My chin," I said helpfully.

"No, Gramma . . . that!" She pointed again.

"Oh, that's a scar, sweetheart."

She touched it. "Owww!" she said.

"It doesn't hurt, sweetheart. It's old. Like Gramma."

"Oh."

"Gramma got it from a cow."

She stared at me. Skepticism writ large in the two-year-old expression.  No way the gentle cows from the books we read could ever have given Gramma the two-inch scar she sported across her chin.
"Yep. A cow," I repeated.
So, for my granddaughter, and those who haven't heard the story, a repost . . .

Me and GollyGee. Ready for action...

I never used a saddle.

Only a 'riding pad'.
Tacking up was amazingly easier. Riding much more natural.
And no stirrups to get in the way.
But it afforded other . . . complications. For one thing you could never use a rope.
Nothing to dally to.
Chasing down and securing a calf presented . . . certain challenges.
But . . . Adapt. Adopt. Become adept. The theme song of ranch life.
I simply rode up beside them and leaned off to one side, catching said calf by the tail. Then I slid off on top of him. Or her.
It was fool proof.
Until I met Cow 175.
Head on.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
The day started out much as any other. I was 'riding herd'. Checking to see if anyone had calved, or needed help in doing so. I came across a small, obviously newborn calf hidden in the tall grass.
I should explain that a new cow mother will instruct her new calf to lie quietly until she returns.
I don't know how they do this. But they do.
The new little calves will simply lie there while you vaccinate them and check them over.
But the final step, the one where the calf is officially identified and tagged to match mama, is the trickiest.
Because this requires the attendance of said mama.
Imagine trying to pick out the mama when all the cows and calves . . . look the same.
I found that the best way was to straddle the calf and make 'distressed baby' noises. Guaranteed to encourage any mama to come on the run.
It worked.
She came.
She saw.
She attacked.
Now I should mention here that my Dad raised Polled Herefords. The breed known for their gentle dispositions. Oh, and also a breed that has no horns. Thus the word 'polled'.
They don’t need them. Let's just say that if they had them, my scar would look a whole lot different.
And this story would have had a vastly different ending.

See that 'poll' on her head, between her ears?
Avoid that.

Moving on . . .
175 hit me with the pointy part of her head. The part between her ears made entirely of bone. Really hard bone.
I saw stars and quite a bit of the prairie as I left the calf.
In a summersault.
Backwards.
The culprit and her offspring wasted no time in vacating the area.
I got to my feet and stared after them, fuzzily. I had lost my glasses in the encounter. But that didn’t even slow me down.
I piled back onto my horse and started after the two, quickly nabbing the calf once more. This time, I took the precaution of dragging it beneath my horse.
Something else you should know is that throughout my years on the ranch, I was known for riding really . . . ummm . . . green horses. Usually radically unsuited to ranch life. GollyGee, my mount of the moment was totally in keeping with this reputation. She was an ex-racehorse. Tall, lean, fast, and really . . . un-smart. Usually, a person walking anywhere near her would have sent her, by the most direct route, to the moon.
And a person dragging something toward her? To Jupiter.
Perhaps the anger radiating off me - in waves - had a stupefying effect. Perhaps she was merely trying something new. Self preservation.
Whichever. She stood like a rock as I dragged the 50 pounds of protesting red and white calf beneath her.
Now most cows are afraid of horses. Fortunately for me, this particular cow was only over-protective, not suicidal.
She did laps while I injected and tagged her calf.
Then I stood up, releasing the baby, but before it could regain its feet and rejoin its mama, I walked over and booted her. Twice.
I don't know what it did for her, but it made me feel good.
Then I watched as the two of them headed for some human-less spot.
Riding back to the scene of the crime, I searched around until I finally discovered my glasses. Miraculously undamaged.
Then I rode home and stabled my horse.
And here is where the story really gets interesting . . .
My Mom was the daughter of a rancher. Her years of ranching experience were many and varied. But she could still be shocked.
Something I did.
On a regular basis.
When I walked in the kitchen door, she screamed. And ran for a towel. It was only then that I realized that I could feel the tip of my tongue.
Through my bottom lip.
And that my shirt was completely covered in blood.
Huh. How did I miss that?!

The (Not Really) Safe Sidewalk

Me.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.
The one . . . umm . . . in town.
It was a whole different lifestyle for me.
I had a tricycle. A hand-me-down from three siblings before me.
Red.
Sturdy.
With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.
Which I did.
Often.
I was the master of the universe!
I could go anywhere!
As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.
The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.
There were dragons there.
Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.
It was so much better.
So, back on the tricycle.
I rode it endlessly.
Doing laps of our block.
The different homes there were categorized according to points of interest and/or what foodstuffs could be procured on the premises.
Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend, Laurie, lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.
It was paradise.
For me.
I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their driveway on her trusty steed.
At least they were kind.
And polite.
All of this is just my long-winded way of saying there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.
Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel street in search of anything else?
It just didn't make sense.
So I stayed on my sidewalk.
And was safe . . .
There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.
Occasionally, it was used for vehicles.
Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.
And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.
I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.
On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.
Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.
I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.
For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.
But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.
Okay, well, it was bigger.
I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.
I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.
In fact, they barely had mirrors.
Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.
Or my tricycle.
It could have been a disaster.
I pulled into the alley entrance,
And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.
Closer. Closer.
Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.
I did so.
The truck kept backing.
Backing.
There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle, folding it in two.
Huh. There's something you don't see every day.
The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.
He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.
I watched him go.
Then looked at my tricycle.
Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.
Sigh.
Dad would fix it.
I ran home.
Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.
Brighter red.
And two little tassells instead of one.
And I think he made it a little bigger.
Dads could do anything.
Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.
Conquering worlds.
Staying safe.

My rocketship.

The True Gentleman

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.
1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.
2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.
Oh, and . . .
3.      Poor guys.
I was herdsman for my Dad. Had been for two years.
It was a simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.
My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.
Much like a mother hen.
On horseback.
The perfect job.
The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the field.
Okay, groups of young men weren't a normal - or necessarily unwelcome - sight in our part of the country.
And these were seismic crews  in groups of ten or so who were more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.
So, riding past them wasn't a difficulty, really.
But I did feel rather . . . conspicuous.
Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.
On this particular day, in full view of about ten pairs of eyes, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sigh.
I smiled, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.
I wasted no time in heading to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.
It didn't happen.
By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.
And with nothing to do but watch me.
Perfect.
I dismounted and opened the gate.
Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.
I led my horse through.
“Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned.
One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.
I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him. “Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”
I handed him the post and stepped back.
He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.
It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.
I should point out here that a barbed wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire - one top and one bottom - on the lead post. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on said post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.
The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.
With the swat of one hand.
His manhood was now on the line.
He pushed, while trying not to appear that he was pushing.
Still no progress.
He began to get red-faced.
He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.
Still a gap of two or three inches.
A mile in 'gate' terms.
I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.
He did so.
And was still an inch out.
Oh, man.
He had offered to help me.
And he couldn't.
I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.
I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”
And gave him my biggest smile.
Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.
A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.
It was fastened.
I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.
At least I wasn't around to witness it.
But I will always be grateful.
He was a true gentlemen.
And even a cowgirl appreciates that.

'Under' Dressed

Swimsuit? Or underwear. You decide.

It was a hot summer day.
The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.
One girl came without a swimsuit.
“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”
She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.
The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressed in a modest blue two-piece.
Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.
And struck a pose.
“What do you think?”
Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.
The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.
All eyes were on her.
“F-from your drawer, like you said.”
“The top drawer?”
“Y-yes.”
“That's my underwear drawer!”
“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.
She had been covered.
In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.
But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.
I thought this cartoon was hilarious.
Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.
Well . . . something similar, anyways . . .

Our family was getting ready for church.
My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.
I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started talking.
Something I excelled at.
But I digress . . .
My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.
I kept talking.
But for some reason, my boyfirend woudn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.
I kept talking.
He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.
Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”
I did.
As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.
At first I saw nothing wrong.
She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.
Skirt. Stockings.
Oh. Wait. Something was missing.
Her blouse.
Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.
He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.
Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.
Okay, so observant, I'm not.
Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.
Which was funny.
She had been completely covered.
Modestly, even.
In at least three layers of cloth.
But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.
As I would have been.
As anyone . . . you get the point.
Aren't we weird?

Deja Vu

January 31, 1988.

Five months pregnant with my sixth baby.

And playing center for my women’s basketball team in a winter tournament.

We had won both of our games, positioning ourselves for the semi-final the next day.

My slightly pudgy self had even managed a break-away and lay-up.

Only one, but hey . . .!

And in a euphoric haze, Husby and I were heading over to an activity at the church.

Where we’d be playing volleyball.

My team scored a point.

I leaped into the air, kicking one leg and punching both hands upward in triumph.

Then I looked down.

Huh. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, both of my legs had kicked out.

Together.

Weird.

I fell heavily on my right hand.

Ouch.

Back on my feet, I continued to play.

Went up for a spike.

And realized that something was definitely wrong.

Hands aren’t supposed to hurt like that.

Long story short, A quick trip to emergency confirmed my suspicions.

Badly-broken wrist.

Not only had I broken the bottom right off the bone, but my continued playing had then crushed the broken-off piece.

Double ouch.

I won’t describe the process to get everything back where it should be, or the needle from hell.

Suffice it to say, because of an excellent doctor, I was soon on the mend.

Six weeks in a cast.

Moving forward to yesterday . . .

My daughter and I had decided to go snowboarding. I’m always up for something new.

She had just started and loved it!

The conditions weren’t ideal.

It had been warm and snowless for a number of weeks and the only powder was what had been ground up by the resort’s grooming machines.

But we had fun.

I stayed prudently on the bunny hill with several dozen little kids.

Had, after three tries, mastered the rope tow.

I was king of the mountain!

Up the tow.

Down the slope in an ever-increasing need for speed.

Okay, you have to know that the speed I was needing was just slightly faster than a walk.

Yeah. Daring, I’m not.

We decided on one last run.

And that’s when it happened.

A spectacular crash.

And an all-too-familiar ‘weak’ feeling in my right wrist.

Uh-oh.

It’s been 26 years, less four days.

I’m back in the cast again . . .

Sigh.

The Nose Knows

The nose is okay. The teeth . . .

Okay, yes, I had been told never to do it.

In fact, I had been threatened with certain death punishment if I did do it.

But it was my favourite indoor thing to do!

I was four. I admit it, my world was small.

My family was living in the ranch house on the Stringam ranch.

Two bedrooms downstairs.

And . . . umm . . . two bedrooms up? (I think. Counting past four made my mind crazy. And it was dark and scary up there.)

I had my own room on the ground floor.

I had recently graduated from my little ‘kitty’ bed to my own giant, iron bed.

My giant, iron bouncy bed.

You can probably see where this is going . . .

During the night, bouncy iron beds are good for sleeping.

During the day, they make perfect trampolines.

Yeah. My mom didn’t get it, either.

She would come into my room.

Kiss me awake.

Make the bed.

And leave.

Probably the part where she ‘left’ was her biggest mistake.

Or making the bed.

It’s a toss-up.

There was this remarkably smooth surface.

That was incredibly bouncy.

It was a no-brainer. Literally.

So I did.

Bounce, that is.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

First, on my knees.

Then, graduating to my feet.

Oh, you can really catch air when you use all of you!

This is fun!

“Diane! Are you jumping on the bed?”

Stopping. “Umm . . . no!”

“Don’t jump on the bed! You’ll get hurt!”

I looked around at my lovely, soft friend. “Pffff! How could I possibly get hurt?”

Boing. Boing.

“Diane!”

How did she know?!

Boing.

“Diane!”

Man, that woman could see through walls!

I sat there for a moment.

Then I heard the kitchen door close.

Mom had stepped outside for some reason.

My time had come!!!

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boiing. Booiing. Booiinng. Booiinngg!

Okay, now I was really flying!

You remember when I mentioned that mine was an iron bed?

Well, this is where that fact comes into play.

And FYI? If noses and iron come into contact?

Noses lose.

CRUNCH!

It took a moment for me to realize that something had happened.

Because something had definitely happened.

“Ahhhhhh!!! Moooooommmm!!!!” I can’t quite produce it here. Think of something high-pitched and piercing. Like an air raid siren.

Mom ran into the room and wrapped her erring daughter in warm, loving, Kleenex-bearing arms.

My little nose was shattered at the point of contact. The bridge.

I sported two very black eyes and a sore snout for many, many days.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson.

And I did. Sort of.

After my wounds had healed, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I still jumped on the bed.

But I hung onto the iron headboard.

That way, it couldn’t leap out at me unexpectedly.

Genius.

I’m happy to report that today, over 54 years later, I no longer jump on beds. The ceiling is simply too close for comfort.

But I do jump on trampolines.

Oddly enough, whenever I do, my nose hurts.

It remembers.

Garbage Girl

For five years, I worked in a bookstore.

The best of jobs.

For a writing/reading addict like myself, the most perfect of jobs.

In the years I worked there, I don’t think I brought home a single paycheck.

Does that reflect badly on me? I know Husby shook his head more than a few times . . .

My duties at the store consisted of (in no particular order): de-boxing, labelling and shelving, organizing, entertaining children, making new flannel dust cloths, receiving, ordering, cleaning the bathroom, decorating the window, answering the phones, smiling till my dimple showed, cashier, and security.

And it was all fun!

All of it.

I tried hard.

I did.

But, sometimes, despite my best efforts, I made mistakes.

Case in point . . .

The store had just gotten new phones.

Units that clipped to your belt.

Okay, I’m notorious for leaving the phone wherever I happen to be when I finish a call.

Call it a weakness.

Back to my story . . .

AND we had just gotten in a shipment of new books.
My duties were clear. De-box, apply price labels and shelve.

Oh, and collapse the boxes and haul them to the dumpster out back.

All was going well.

Then, the phone rang. Main console. I reached for the unit that was clipped to my belt.

That should have been clipped to my belt.

That was not clipped to my belt.

Panic did not ensue. I'm stronger than that.

That was reserved for AFTER I had done a complete and fruitless circuit of the store.

Oh, man!

I carefully retraced all of my steps.

I had been to that shelf. And that one. And that one. And that . . .

Oh. Let’s face it, I had been to. Every. Single. Shelf. In. The. Store.

Sigh.

That phone wasn’t around.

The only other place I had been to was the dumpster.

Oh, no.

By this time, the phone had long since quit ringing.

I had my co-worker dial again, from her phone.

While I stood out beside the dumpster.

Yep. The garbage was ringing.

I’m sure I don’t have to describe to you what happened next.

But I will . . .

The agitation of said garbage as I swam through, looking for one little phone.

The up close and personal interactions that should never be up close and personal.

The reek.

Then the having to stay at work for six hours after my little diving experience.

Working in a bookstore.

An adventure.

On so many levels.

All part of the job . . .

Once a week, Delores of Under the Porch Light, issues a challenge. Six little words.

Use them or abuse them.

This weeks words?

window, dimple, entertain, agitate, flannel and dumpster

Which did I choose? Use or abuse?

Peeling Poo Prevention

It's magic!

Okay, this is as gritty as I get . . .

Last night, we were having dinner with our good friends.

Lots of talk. Tons of laughter.

And some eating fit in there somewhere.

You know the drill . . .

The talk turned from our kids (our favourite topic) to dogs.

Another favourite.

Our friend, I’ll call her Tammy, mentioned with a shudder, that their miniature schnauzer (hereinafter known as Ruby), sometimes would . . . umm . . . eat those droppings she should have left far behind.

Yes, this was during dinner – now you know why there was more talk and laughter than eating.

Moving on . . .

Tammy had read, recently, that this usually indicated a lack of potassium.

And that the best treatment was to feed her dog a bit of banana.

Did you know that dogs like banana?

Well they do.

Ruby snapped it up like manna from heaven.

And the . . . umm . . . unfortunate tendency . . . disappeared.

Ta-daa!

Tammy’s husby, . . . I’ll call him Gord, spoke up.

“You know,” he said. “I knew it would work!”

We all looked at him.

“Yeah. I’ve been eating bananas forever . . .”

We waited for the punch line . . .

“. . . and I’ve never once been tempted to eat my droppings!”

Banana. Tasty prevent-er of so many things . . .

Lava Love

“Gaahh! Mom! You’re standing in the lava!”

Mom and Dad had taken us kids to see the movie ‘Krakatoa, East of Java’.
(Okay, yes, I know that the title is geographically incorrect, but that was what it was called.)

It had scared me to death. All my young, six-year-old mind could think of after that was trying to get away from the slowly-flowing river of death.

And my favourite game became the daring deathwalk over precariously-placed pillows across the lava lake that was the front room.

I was at it again.

And Mom wasn’t cooperating.

“Oops! Sorry!” Mom jumped lightly onto the closest pillow.

Whew! That was close! I didn’t have a lot of Moms to spare. I’d sure hate to lose this one.

For hours, my brother and I made up scenarios that necessitated leaping back and forth across the pillows and landing, temporarily safe, on the couch or coffee table.

It was fun.

And we never got burned even once.

Nimble kids that we were.

Fast forward a few years . . .

My kids were downstairs playing.

I went to check on them.

They had pillows placed at strategic intervals across the family room floor.

“Careful, Mom! Don’t step in the lava!”

Now where did they get that idea?

The déjà vu was frightening.

And, moving forward again - a lot of years . . .

Yesterday, my daughter and I were visiting in the front room, seated comfortably in recliners.

Her daughter and another granddaughter were playing.

They had been through the toy box.

And had graduated to hiding under piles of cushions on the couch.

Giggling.

A few minutes went by.

“Careful!” the three-year-old said.

I turned to see what they were doing.

They had set the cushions out across the floor in a line and were hopping back and forth along them.

“Stay on the bridge!” the three-year-old cautioned. “Don’t get hurt!”

The two-year old jumped off the last cushion and onto the floor.

“Gaahh!” my daughter and I said together. “You’re stepping in the lava!”

Okay, now I see where it comes from . . .

A Moving Meeting

See? 4-H. Totally important.

 I was raised on a ranch near the small town of Milk River, Alberta.

On the Alberta/Montana border.

Farming and ranching country.

We were, quite literally, children of the prairies.

Big brother, George. And calf.

And the highlight of our young lives - the very pinnacle we could aspire to – was 4-H Calf Club.

Our world was small, I admit it.

Yep. When we turned the age of twelve, we could – at last! – join the calf club.

We learned many things there.

Of course, the main (and most obvious) were the care and feeding of your calf.

In my case, handled almost exclusively by my big brother, George.

Because he’s amazing. (Are you reading this, George?)

Big brother, Jerry, ditto.

But there was also the record keeping. (Which George completely refused to do for me. Sigh.)

And the monthly meetings.

Wherein (Oooh! Good word!) we were supposed to learn the proper, accepted, efficient way to run a gathering of that type.

I emphasize the words ‘supposed to’.

Because we didn’t.

Always.

In fact, at some point during many of our meetings, our current club president would throw up his hands and exclaim, in loud and carrying tones, “I don’t know why I do this! I’m getting outta here!”

Something he never did.

Returning to the idea of running a proper meeting . . .

Me. With glasses. And calf.

We had been taught that, if we had something to offer, we should do it in the form of a ‘motion’. As in: ‘I would like to make a motion.’ And then followed by ‘I move . . .’

We were getting it. We were.

One evening, the meeting had been going well.

Everyone had been unusually attentive.

And our leader hadn’t, even once, cried out in despair.

Then one shy young man stuck up his hand.

He was recognized by the ‘Chair’.

And he proceeded. “I-I-I w-would like to m-make a movement!”

There was silence. Then some sniggers.

Umm . . . first door down the hall? Says ‘boys’ on the door?

One of the leaders whispered into his ear, “Motion.”

“Motion!” he corrected himself, turning bright red. “I-I w-would like to make a motion!”

Things carried on.

But the mood had definitely been lightened.

Who says meetings have to be boring?

4-H. Don't you wish you were here?

The grand finale.

Let Them Eat Corn

I can only dream . . .

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this in the middle of winter?

Because it’s the middle of winter.

Moving on . . .

For over thirty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

Cautious, that it.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating .

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.

In the Ear

My Sweetie and Me

Newly married.

What a wonderful time.

A time of love. Friendship. Companionship.

A time of discovering for the first time that one has a true and forever friend. Someone to be with. Always.

It's magical.

Then, too, it is the time to discover those frailties that we have tried so very hard to keep from our sweethearts. 

And finally have to admit to owning. 

Everyone has bodily functions.

Get over it.

My husband I had been married for a couple of weeks.

He had risen early in the morning and disappeared into the bathroom.

I had stayed where I was. Warm and comfy and still deliciously drowsy.

Soon the door opened and my new husband emerged, but . . . not looking as he had when he went in.

He had blown his nose, while attending to other necessities, and given himself a nosebleed.

Easily fixed. Just stuff a Kleenex into his left nostril.

Oh. He had discovered a pimple in his right ear. Quickly disposed of. And another Kleenex inserted to blot up any discharge.

Now, back to bed to snuggle with his new wife.

I stared at this apparition who was approaching my bed. It looked like my husband. But it had white tissues issuing from nose and ear. Could it possibly be . . .? I braced myself up on one arm. "Is that one Kleenex?" (Hand gestures to suggest pulling something which had been run into the head through the ear and now protruded from the nostril.)

"Harrumph!"

"Was that a 'harrumph'?"

With a glare, he jerked the Kleenex out of his ear, spun around and headed back into the bathroom.

And firmly closed the door.

He never answered my question . . .