Whisky Specimen

Okay. This story is about urine specimens.
Ick.
Those who are faint of heart or easily queasy, stop now.
Stop.
I told you to stop.
You don't listen, do you?!
You asked for it  . . .
In today's world, when a doctor requires a urine specimen, he sends his patient to the 'lab'.

See. Handy and dandy.

Or supplies said patient with a handy, dandy little container.
Complete with antiseptic wipes.
This wasn't always the case. 
Let me tell you about it . . .
My parents had been shopping.
I should probably mention, here, that in the 50s, no one ever locked their cars.This is important.
Moving on . . .
Dad was helping Mom into the car.
A short distance away, a woman was also getting into her car.
A very obviously pregnant woman.
She opened the door. Then gasped and leaned against her car.
Dad hurried over. “Are you all right?”
Then he realized that she was laughing. Really laughing.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
The woman straightened and wiped her eyes. Then she pointed at the car seat. “The . . . the bottle!” she gasped. Then went into another peal of laughter.
By this time, Mom had joined them.
She and Dad looked at each other and Dad shrugged.
Must be a pregnancy thing.
Finally, the woman calmed somewhat and again, wiped her eyes. She looked at my parents. “I'm on my way to my doctor,” she said.
Okay . . .
She looked back into her car and cleared her throat. “I was supposed to bring in a urine sample.” She pointed into her car. “I left it there.”
My parents glanced at the empty car seat.
The woman looked at them again. “The only empty bottle I could find was a whisky bottle,” she said.
Ah.“You left a urine sample in a whisky bottle on the front seat of your car?” 

Not a drink for the faint of heart.

Dad was catching on fast.
The woman nodded.
“And someone stole it?”
Again she nodded. “They must have.”
Dad started to laugh.
He ushered Mom back to their car and helped her in. Then he got into the car and sat back, still laughing.
“What's so funny?” Mom asked.
“Well, all I can think about is how the thief will discover his mistake!” Dad said. “What if it was some kids! Can't you see it? ”
“This is whisky? What on earth is all the fuss is about!”

Well Fed and Organized

Mr. Organized

Dad was a veterinarian.
The only one for several counties.
Well . . . If you didn't count Dr. Brewster, the animal inspector at the Coutt's border crossing.
Let me start again . . .
Dad was a veterinarian.

As well as a purebred Polled Hereford breeder.
And always had an office somewhere in our home.
There were the inevitable examination counters.
And a fridge holding such things as penicillin.
Bottles of 5-way or 8-way or black-leg or rabies vaccines.
And other stuff that I couldn't pronounce.
I should mention, here, that Dad knew what each bottle did.
Probably important for a veterinarian to know.
He also had several large filing cabinets standing about the room.
Full of . . . files.
Dad knew exactly where everything could be found in his office.
He was very organized.
One day, he was working on the registration forms for his new crop of calves.
A time-consuming task that only he could do.
I sauntered in.

Yes. Just like in the old west.
Sauntering on . . .
Daddy looked up from his desk.
“Diane, could you look in that file cabinet over there,” he pointed with his pen, “and get me the 'G' file?”
I turned to the indicated file and pulled open the appropriate drawer. “This one?”
“Yes. Just the 'G' file, please.”
I started to work my way through the alphabet.
There was a large space partway through. I jumped to that.
'J' as it turned out.
“Daddy, did you know that you have a large bag of ju-jubes in your filing cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“Filed under 'J'?”
He looked at me. “Where else would they go?”
Where indeed.
I continued my search.
Huh. Chips under 'C'.
Also chocolate.
I finally found the 'G' file and, pulling it out, handed it to my father.
But then I turned back to the cabinet.
Way too interested to stop now.
“Dad, you have Oreo cookies under 'O'.”
Dad looked up. “Is that where they are?!” he said. “I kept looking for them under 'C'.”
Yep. Filing cabinets and organization.
They go together.
Like treats and snack time.
Who knew they could be so similar?

First Rule of Acquisition

And into the next generation . . .

Husby is a book lover.

Always has been.

I am, too, but not to his extent.

I remember, in our lean student days, him walking in the door, happily carrying yet another treasured acquisition. I told him if he dared to bring one more book into the house, I was going to have to boil it for supper.

He just laughed. Completely unrepentant.

Moving forward . . .

We’ve raised readers.

All six of our children love it.

I thought it was because of the hours their father and I spent with this happy pastime.

And it might be.

But last night, I was reminded of something Husby used to say when the kids were small. Something I dubbed his First Rule of Acquisition.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I’ve never been a shopper. Traipsing up and down aisles, looking at ‘stuff’ never appealed.

I’d rather stay with the ‘old and familiar and comfortable’ then look for something ‘new and exciting’.

It’s just me.

But Husby loves to shop. And is gracious enough to haul all-and-sundry around with him.

Yep. Inevitably, when there was shopping to do, we went in a herd.

Mom. Dad.

Six kids. All of whom are very greedy acquisitive observant.

They would see brightly, attractively-packaged toys and immediately want them.

If we’d received a nickel for every time we heard, “Mom? Can I have . . .?” We’d never have had to pay for our shopping.

Ever.

And that’s when their father, genius he, would tell them, “You can choose one toy.”

Their faces would brighten.

“Or two books!”

The thought process reflected in those faces as they turned it over in their minds was almost comical.

And, surprisingly, much of the time, they went for the books.

I thought they were simply cannily maximizing their procurements. (Ooh! Good sentence!)

I didn’t realize that their father was actually training them for a life-long love.

But he was.

And, fortunately, he did.

Telltale Hands

Hands tell everything.

I was sitting in Church beside my dad and comparing my hand to his.

Mine were small, white and smooth.

Unmarked by life and softly innocent.

His were large, square, calloused.

Scarred by barbed wire and by life.

Hands that had wrestled cattle and the occasional bronc.

Hauled hay and grain.

Twisted wire or pounded nails.

Smacked the occasional errant backside.

And tenderly held babies.

Hands that had accomplished something.

I measured my hand against his.

Would mine ever grow to be the same size?

I looked at my Mom's hands.

Long, tapered fingers with close-cropped nails.

Hands that scrubbed surfaces and small, wiggling bodies.

Punched bread and rolled out pie crust.

Cooked and stirred.

Gathered, sorted and folded.

Swept and cleaned.

Hands occasionally stained with ink from her writing.

And dirt from her gardening.

Scarred by her forays into the barnyard to help when help was needed.

Hands that soothed when others hurt and applied love and bandages in equal amounts.

And finally folded, blue-veined and fragile, over a still breast in peace.

Hands that had accomplished something.

Yesterday, my granddaughter was sitting next to me.

She placed her hand, soft, white and innocent, against mine.

"Will my hands ever grow as big as yours, Gramma?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"I like to look at your hands, Gramma." She pointed. "What is this scar here?"

"Barbed wire, sweetheart."

"Did it hurt?"

"Probably. But not for long."

"You have lots of scars, Gramma."

"Scars are life, written in your hands," I told her.

"Oh." She turned my hand over. "Lots of scars."

"From doing things," I said.

I thought of the 'things' that my hands have done.

Cooked. Cleaned.

Baked. Sewed.

Wrestled cattle and chickens and pigs.

And small children.

Turned pancakes and pages.

Written.

So many things.

Wonderful things.

I smiled at my granddaughter. "Your hands will do things, too," I said. "Important things."

"Like yours?"

I nodded. "Like mine." 

The Common Trough

Dad at College.

My Dad attended college in Guelph, Ontario.

Training to be a veterinarian.

His schooling there was fascinating.

His life in the off-school hours, even more so . . .

I should mention, here, that dad, the last child in a very large ranching family, had been raised with order.

And a degree of meticulousness.

Something he didn’t realize until he moved ‘out into the world’.

Back to my story . . .

Dad had secured a room at one of the local homes for the duration of his stay.

He and another Vet student happily carted in their belongings.

Met the family. Mom. Dad. Kids.

Settled in.

Appeared for their first breakfast.

And were immediately introduced to the differences in accepted family table practices.

At first, all went well.

Good food. Plenty of it.

Then, the son of the family grabbed a piece of toast and reached for the large jar of jam.

Taking the spoon that had been provided, he scooped out a large dollop and dropped it onto his toast.

Then he licked off the spoon.

And shoved it back into the jar.

Others in the family proceeded to do the same.

Dad blinked.

And decided he’d have his toast without jam that morning.

Then that same young man poured himself a large glass of milk.

Drank some.

And poured the rest back into the jug.

Something that also turned out to be a common family practice.

Dad, wincing slightly, avoided the milk.

And anything else on the table that became ‘communal’.

I don’t want to say that Dad was fastidious but . . .

Okay, Dad was fastidious.

I think I would have been the same.

Two weeks in, he and his roommate decided they simply couldn’t take it any longer.

And said roommate decided that Dad should be the one to tell their landlady.

Sigh.

In what was one of the most uncomfortable moments of his life to that date, he gave notice to the thoroughly-dismayed woman.

“But the semester’s started!” she moaned. “I’ll never fill my rooms now!” She looked at Dad. “Why?!” she asked.

Ugh, the question he had most been dreading.

Haltingly, he explained.

She stared at him.

Then let him go.

Happily, Dad and his roommate settled into other housing.

The food wasn’t as good, but it was a little less . . . shared.

And in case you’re wondering if that poor woman managed to secure new boarders, the answer is yes.

A few weeks later, Dad was talking to some fellow classmates and discovered that one of them was actually living in his old digs.

Dad asked – a trifle hesitantly – about the table manners there.

Fine. Perfect, even.

So either, that young man was accustomed to the common trough, or the landlady had taken Dad’s concerns to heart.

The result was the same.

Everyone was happy.

And well fed.

And that’s really all that counts.

Dad learned lots of things at college.

But the first was: ‘Share the sustenance. Not the Saliva!’

Yep.

It Really Blows

Okay. Picture them a little more tousled and windblown . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my (then) four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our house.

I should point out, here, that our little home was newly-built and stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

And the 2000+ trees we had planted in rows about the house were years away from providing any actual . . . wind break-ish-ness.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He had just reached the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop there.

No, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm almost sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar . . .

I managed to catch my son when he snagged against the corner post of the garden fence.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

On a Dark and Quiet Night...

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the famed moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale. 

So to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual nighttime read.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed. (And you can believe me when I say that no one could scream quite like Debbie.)

And scurried out into the front room.

Then she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Then I heard a thump. A decided body-hitting-the-hardwood thump.

Thinking something had happened, I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

To find Debbie collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should mention here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

Moving on . . .

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was lying there . . . helpless with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling up her pajama bottoms.

Then she had seen movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her!

She screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a scary sight.

Death's Academy

On occasion, when I find a great book, I review it here on my blog.
Well, it happened.
This is one I'm passing on to all of my grandkids.
Is there a ‘tween’ in your life who loves to read?
Do they love books that are just a bit on the supernatural – and fun – side?
Look no further . . .

Death's Academy 

Midnight Smith, a Hoodie, is going to be one of the best Grim Reapers . . . ever.

If he can just get into Death’s Academy to do it.

But his family history, the new and decidedly attractive Halo girl across the street, the powers that be, and the back-from-the-grave unicorns, are all standing in his way.

Literally.

Now it is up to ‘Night, his best friend, Mal, and that disturbing new girl, to save the day and the lives and livelihoods of nearly everyone they know.

But can a boy noted only for his skill in Skull Ball unravel the plot that’s been in the making for years? Even generations? Against a group that makes evil look, well . . . evil?

It’s the Hoodies VS the Halos VS the uber-nasty Unicorns, and the fate of the world as we know it quivers in the outcome.

As well as Night’s chances of getting into school.

Told with humour and plenty of action, Death’s Academy is one wild ride from start to finish.

Read it and root for the bad guys for a change!

P.S. Diane was not paid to do this review. But she sure enjoyed reading the book!

My Grandpa Stringam

My Grandpa as I remember him. With Chris and Jerry. 

My Grandpa Stringam was born in 1876, in Holden Utah.

He ranched there with his dad. Married. Prepared to welcome children.

And then tragedy struck.

His first wife, Mary Ann (May) Snow, passed away, together with her twin unborn sons, following an accident involving runaway horses.

Broken hearted, Grampa continued to ranch. Then accepted a call to serve a mission for his church to Australia.

After his return home, he married longtime friend, Sarah Lovina Williams and they set up housekeeping, first on his father’s farm, then on their own place in Teasdale, Utah.

A few years later, they had settled in Glenwood, Alberta, ranching there and in the Milk River area, and raising nine of eleven children.

My dad was the baby.

Grampa was a rancher, husband, father, grandfather, MLA for Cardston for three terms, faithful church attender and leader, neighbour and friend.

He was faithful, honest, hardworking, kind, and thorough, with a terrific sense of humour and a firm belief that actions should always speak louder than words.

My Dad loved him and tries to emulate him to this day.

Grandpa Stringam passed away when I was four.

I have only one memory of him . . .

My grandparents, in their later years, moved to the city of Lethbridge, in Southern Alberta. The main entry of their home opened onto a hallway that bisected the house, front to back, with French doors to the right, leading into the living room.

Behind those doors was my grandfather’s recliner.

At this point in time, he must have been quite ill with the cancer that finally took his life.

All I know is that’s where I found him.

Reclined in his chair, feet up and newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Grampa!” I said.

The newspaper dropped. “There’s our little Diane girl!”

That was all the invitation I needed.

There was Grandpa. There was Grandpa’s lap. Just waiting for a little girl to snuggle.

And that’s what I did.

For several minutes, I cuddled there, listening to his heart beating and the sound of his voice coming through his chest as he talked to my parents.

I didn’t follow the conversation, which was probably quite serious.

All I knew was that I felt safe. And cared for.

Breathing in, for what turned out to be the last time, the scent that was Grandpa. 

As a young man

During his mission to Australia

Oh, the missionary life!

May 4, 1903

At my parents' wedding

Gramma and Grampa Stringam on their Golden Anniversary

A Royal Welcome

Go on. Give it a pull!

Life on a ranch is glorious.

Open, endless vistas.

Fresh air.

Time with you family.

And endless hours with your 'other' co-worker.

Your steady, actually-does-most-of-the-work partner.

Your horse.

Did you know that horses are fun?
And smart?
They have distinct personalities.
Some are lazy.
Some crafty.
Some love people.
All love to play.
A favourite game when I was growing up was 'tongues'.
You would tickle a horse's lips until he stuck out his tongue, whereupon (good word) you would give it a little pull.
The tongue, I mean.
The horse would whip it back into his mouth.
Then promptly stick it out again.
Pull.
Retract.
Stick out.
Pull.
They loved this game.
They would play it for hours.
Or until you got tired of it.
You can probably guess which scenario usually happened first.

Enough background . . .
My Husby and I were touring the Buckingham Palace Mews, conducted by the head hostler to the Queen, Edward.
A very proper and pleasant British man.
Who also loved horses.
We were instantly connected.
Moving on . . .
My Husby and I were having a great time.
We had dutifully and happily walked through the storage buildings.
Gotten up close and personal with the royal family's famous Gold Coach.
And had finally headed into the stables.
Ahhh! Heaven!
Horses are intensely curious.
If something is happening, they want to be front and center.
Gawking.
Getting in the way.
Pretending to be startled and fleeing spiritedly.
Coming back to see if there was anything they missed.
For the resident horses, our tour of the stables was out of the ordinary.
Everyone wanted a look.
Heads popped out of stalls the whole length of the building.
One horse, a handsome grey gelding, quartered by himself, was especially interested.
I should point out here that horses, when they meet another horse, sniff each other's noses.
A much more civilized practice in my opinion than what one would typically see when dogs greet each other.
Ummm . . . back to my story.
The big grey sniffed me.
I sniffed him back, then started to move on.
He moved with me.
I think someone was bored.
I touched his lips.
He licked them.
I pulled his tongue.
His head shot up, startled.
He stared at me for a couple of moments.
Then he stuck out his tongue again.
I pulled it.
He drew it back in.
Then he did it again.
This went on for some time.
Grant and Edward had been standing a little ways off, talking.
The horse and I were enjoying our game.
Then I realized that the stable had fallen silent.
The men were watching us.
Thinking they had finished their conversation, I patted my new friend and started toward them.
The big grey leaned out as far as he could, nickered at me and stuck out his tongue. “Hey! I'm not finished with this game!”
I laughed and patted him again.
Then joined the two men.
Edward was still staring. Finally he shook his head and in his perfectly modulated English accent, said, “I've never seen a horse do that before!”
He looked at me with renewed interest and said,” Any time you want to come back here, you are welcome. Anytime.”
A horse lover knows another horse lover.
And all horses are the same.
No matter what circles they move in.

Baby, It's Cold Inside

Okay, I'm still in a poetry mind set . . . 

From this spell of cold and damp,

The germs in close formation, tramp,

On my resistance, blithely stamp,

And place my head inside a clamp.

These foes, I did incarcerate,

And I shiver as I, here, relate:

While hoping to ameliorate,

Oh, woe, I did deteriorate.

Companions, mucus and some phlegm,

From deep within my system, stem,

Their presence here, I do condemn,

I want no close rapport with them.

I reach for some meds and groan,

My horrid fate I do bemoan,

And for all my sins atone,

And pray that soon I’ll be alone.

Then I think a sharpened knife,

Will quickly end my woeful life,

And my existence, hereto rife

With pain and suffering and strife.

Then, all at once, my life is blessed,

The germs are gone, the rheum expressed,

And all discomfort’s been suppressed,

It’s peaceful, now, within my breast.

Cheerily, from my bed, I climb

And wash away the sweat and grime.

My life is good, my soul sublime,

At least until the *sigh* next time.

Oh, Delores, you taskmaster, you.

And I do mean 'master'.

This week's six-word challenge: Incarcerate, phlegm, damp, groan, knife, blessing

Drop by and see what her other cohorts have created!

Speaking Canadian

Buddies. Eh?

I knew what he was saying.

He knew what he was saying.

Too bad they weren’t the same thing . . .

When I was little, I hung around with my dad.

A lot.

Well, at least as often as time – and his busy schedule – would allow.

He was a rancher, veterinarian, Hereford Club director, 4-H Club director, Church leader, husband and father.

In no particular order.

Yep. When time would allow.

I made the most of every moment I had with him.

I chattered.

Constantly.

And every sentence ended with, “Eh, Dad?”

Okay, yes, I’m Canadian. It goes with the territory.

Moving on . . .

It must have been a bit annoying.

But he never showed it.

Patiently he answered me.

Every ‘eh, Dad’ was responded to with “B, Diane.”

I was happy. I thought ‘B’ meant ‘Yes’.

Our conversations must have been interesting . . .

“Horses! We love horses, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Look at those birds! They’re pretty, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Ooh! Look at the little calvies! They’re playing, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

“Mmmm! Dinner! We love dinner, eh, Dad?”

“B, Diane.”

You get the idea.

It was years before I realized that he was merely putting a non-committal ‘B’ with my ‘A’.

Just to keep the conversation flowing with a chattering little girl.

It worked.

And that’s what it’s all about, eh?

B.

My Hiding Place

See? Really old! And mysterious!

On the Stringam ranch, we had an old garage.

Really old.

Grampa Stringam old.

It was long and single storied with white, stucco siding and very small windows.

At the north end, there was the big garage door.

Opening into a large, dark room that smelled of old oil and farm cats.

Cut into the thick planks of the floor of that room, was the heavy trap door to the root cellar, described here.

But the root cellar only took up half of the 'basement'.

The other half was a strange stable.

Really strange.

The entire room was deeply covered with straw. And had solid wooden dividers, forming tie stalls, though there was no where in the stone walls to actually tie anything.

And there were no mangers if one did manage to . . . tie . . . anything.

The weirdest thing about this stable was access.

The only entrance/exit was a small window high up in the south wall of the garage.

I often wondered how one could get any animals down there.

Someone didn't plan that very well . . .

No wonder the straw was clean, even though it wasn't fresh.

The small window, however, made an eminently suitable entrance/exit for children.

Like me.

And their toys.

Like mine.

It was my secret place.

My hiding place.

Where no one could find me.

All right, I admit that it was only about forty feet from the front door of the house. Well within hollering distance.

And that when my Mom wanted me, all she had to do was shout.

But I felt secret.

Hidden.

The single window had no covering, so, during the day, the room was brightly lit. And there was no danger that one could be shut into darkness by a heavy door.

One could slide in through the window, toys and all, drop into the thick straw, and spend hours in one's own little sunlit, straw-filled world.

Perfection.

It became the place where I parked anything I didn't want the other kids to get into.

And where I hid the stuff I wasn't supposed to get into. (I once lugged in an entire boxful of old pamphlets and envelopes and stationary that Dad had tossed out. I know. Kids . . .)

I played happily for months in my secret stable.

Finally, I asked Dad what had happened to the door.

He stared at me, puzzled.

I explained that I had to crawl into the little stable through the window. What happened to the door?

He laughed. “That's no stable, Diane. That's the old ice house.”

Ah. Everything was explained.

Not.

“Um. What's an ice house?

Dad tried to explain to me that every winter, the men would go down to the river which just happened to flow right past the garage, and cut great chunks of ice.

Then the ice would be hauled up to the ice house and passed through the little window to someone waiting inside.

The straw was to keep it cold.

Weird.

I suspected that he was pulling my leg because I had played down there for months and I hadn't seen one bit of ice.

“Why would they do that?”

“Well, they needed the ice to keep food cold.”

“Why didn't they use the freezer?”

“They didn't have freezers.”

I stared at him. How could anyone survive without a freezer?

“They didn't even have a fridge.”

Okay, now I knew he was just making stuff up.

Everyone had a fridge.

Some people, like us, had two.

I shook my head. “Dad. Dad. Dad. That's just silly.”

And I went back to my playing.

But you know something?

He was right.

Sometimes dads are.

Ranching Country Entertainment

From the ashes . . .

. . . rise the new and improved.

Ranch families know how to have fun.
And it usually involves dancing.
Let me explain . . .
Our barn had burned to the ground.
On my birthday. (see here)
It was a tragedy.
We lost some livestock and all of our tack and equipment.
But out of the ashes arose a newer, better, bigger barn.
With modern conveniences and plenty of room.
And lots and lots of places to play.
That's important when you're four.
Which I was.
Moving on . . .
The new barn was nearing completion.
And needed to be properly initiated.
A barn dance was called for.
I should mention here, that, in my world, barn dances nearly always occurred immediately after the barns were built.
Before the smells from the denizens living below stairs began to permeate the hay loft upstairs.
Enough said.
People began to gather.
The Stringam Ranch is located twenty miles from the nearest town (Milk River) and is surrounded by other ranches.
With ranch families.
You have to look for your entertainment when you are that far from the bright lights.
A barn dance was eagerly anticipated and reason for a lot of excitement.
And everyone, from the elderly to the newly arrived, showed up.
Everyone.
And people began to gather early.
While my Mom was busy in the kitchen, happily baking and cooking.
There was much talk and laughter.
Old friends greeting each other for the first time since last summer's brandings.
The anticipation began to build.
Finally, the piano player arrived.
And then the festivities hit a snag.
She had counted on the Stringams providing the piano.
But our barn didn't come equipped with one.
Go figure.
And this was the 50s.
Electronic anything hadn't been invented yet.
We needed to find a real piano.
ASAP.
A quick phone call to Lethbridge secured one.
But it was an hour and a half away.
With a fast truck.
A willing group was dispatched and the rest of the party began to . . . party.
There was good food to eat and lots of news to catch up on.
The time passed quickly.
Finally, a truck pulled into the yard, horn blaring.
The piano had arrived.
Many hands pulled it from the back of the pickup and pushed into the barn.
There was a brief discussion as to the best way to transport it from the ground floor to the hay loft.
Finally, it was centered beneath a large hay chute door. Ropes were passed beneath it and willing hands pulled it up to the dance floor.
I'm quite sure it must have weighed several hundred pounds.
You couldn't tell.
It was a mere blur of movement as it made the trip.
Within seconds, and I do mean seconds, music was blaring forth.
And the dance floor was crowded.
The Stringam Barn Dance was officially underway.
I should mention, here, that this is where I learned to dance.
Standing on my Dad's feet.
Like many, many of the other kids in the room.
That's just how it was done.
The party continued throughout the night.
We danced the Butterfly, Schottische, Two-steps, various Reels, Old-time waltzes, Polkas and many others.
What the group missed in the first three hours, they made up for in the last.
Everyone started heading for home about the time the sun came up.
Just in time to do morning chores . . .

There is a codicil.
Remembering the fun we had as children, and seeing a marked decline in the great old Barn Dance, my family decided to re-introduce it to the world.
We started doing 'Family Dances' in 1990.
It was very popular.
Though we played in very few barns, and had all electronic equipment, the feeling was the same.
Families dancing together.
For nearly twenty years, we provided music and 'on the hoof' instruction to large family groups.
It was . . . fun.
And memorable.
A small slice of ranch life prolonged.
At least for a little while.

Old. And Counting

A poem.
Because it's Sunday.
And Dad's been telling stories again . . .

Daddy. Eighty eight and still counting . . .

Great Gramma and her Little Bean

Had the greatest day you’ve ever seen.

They’d talked and laughed, played games – all sorts,

Built puzzles and a blanket fort.

Played Lego, making things just right,

Baked treats and had a pillow fight.

Played knights and forts, read stories, too,

Dressed up, and sang. (To name a few.)

Then, happily exhausted, they

Decided to slow down the day.

Great Gramma’s Little Bean and she

Were nestled down quite snug-i-ly.

Then LB stroked Great Gramma’s hair,

And to her own, she did compare,

“Yours is white!” said the little girl,

Gently touching her own curls.

Then the soft, plump hand the lines did trace,

That clearly showed on Gramma’s face.

“You’re old,” she said, with honesty.

“You’re so much older, Gram, than me!”

Great Gramma smiled, as Grammas do,

And touched the lines she too well knew,

She said, “The things you say are true,

I’ve lived a lot more years than you!”

“I’m four,” said Little Bean with pride.

And a grin that went from side to side.

“I’m eighty-six,” Great Gramma said.

She sighed. “Somewhere ‘tween birth . . . and dead.”

Then LB tipped her head askew,

And grappled with this thought so new.

And then she said, when she was done,

“Great Gramma, did you start at one?”

Neighbours

Supplier of kindliness. And food.

The Stringam ranch was a large spread situated some twenty miles from the town of Milk River, Alberta.

The land stretched for miles along the Alberta-Montana border.

The buildings were nestled in a picturesque prairie valley somewhere in the middle, surrounded by tall cliffs and the lazy sweep of the south fork of the Milk River itself.

It was nine miles to the nearest neighbour.

But we got there as often as we could.

Or, at least we kids did.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In my day, the school bus service ended at Nine-Mile corner, a triangle of crossroads exactly – you guessed it - nine miles from the ranch.

This necessitated the driving, twice a day, of a vehicle to intercept said bus.

Okay, it was something unheard-of in this day of school bus service to your door, but it was a fact in the sixties.

Mom was the driver of choice, with occasional relief work by Dad.

But that’s only a peripheral to my story . . .

Less than a mile from that corner, at the end of a long driveway, was the Sproad farm. Our nearest neighbours.

Ben and Clestia Sproad were an elderly couple who raised sheep and milk cows. Their daughter had married and moved away and they had settled into a routine of farm work, household duties, grandparenting and kindliness.

Their home was a haven of peace, cleanliness, love and fabulous German baking.

Every day, after the bus had deposited our little group beside the road, and if our intercept vehicle was not in sight, we would excitedly begin the long trek toward the promise of smiling faces and wonderful food.

We didn’t make it often.

Usually, the ranch station wagon would come skidding around the corner in a cloud of dust and slide to a halt beside us, before we had taken much more than a few steps.

But occasionally, if Mom had been delayed, we managed the ten-minute walk and actually grabbed the brass ring.

Or, in this case, the freshly-baked reward for our efforts.

Served happily by Mrs. Sproad, and accompanied by her soft, cheerful chatter.

“Oh, Di-ane! You are getting zo big. Zoon you’ll be taller than me! Here. Have another.” And she was right. By the time I was in sixth grade, I had passed her by.

On these special days, Mom would appear, rather red-faced and spilling apologies. “Oh, Clestia! I’m so sorry! I got tied up . . .”

It didn’t matter. Mrs. Sproad would laugh and offer something to Mom as well.

Soon we would be on the road back to the ranch.

Still tired from the day.

But with bellies filled with yumminess and hearts filled with cheer.

Nine-Mile corner no longer exists.

And the Sproads have long been gone.

But I can still taste that baking.

And feel the love.