Flushed With . . .

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .

I told him not to laugh.

But he did.

Sigh.

I married him anyway . . .

It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.

But not just any Tuesday.

This was Tuesday, the 27^th of April, 1976.

You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind . . .?

You have a right to know.

It was exactly four days before my wedding.

Four frenzied days of scheduled frenetic activity with plans of falling into bed exhausted each night, happy in what had been accomplished.

Four days that I needed to be – healthwise - at my very, very best.

Ahem.

The day started out well.

I climbed out of bed.

I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.

I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.

Grace was said.

And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.

Soon we were all chewing happily.

Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned . . .?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”

I looked at her.

She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”

I shrugged.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.

She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.

“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.

Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!

Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.

Sighed.

“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”

Whaaa . . .? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.

Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.

Measles.

I. Had. The. Measles.

Four days before I was going to be married.

My life was over.

Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.

German measles.

I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?

And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?

I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*

“Great! How are you doing?”

“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”

Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”

“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”

“Umm . . . okay . . .”

“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”

A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” Sound of phone being dropped. And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.

Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?

We did get married.

I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.

People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.

Now you know.

Little Pray-ers

Have you ever watched the kids at church?

Or heard their daily prayers?

Well, I’ve been doing some research,

These things are true, I swear . . .

To the small girl wiggling in the pew,

“We must quiet reverence, keep!

Do you know why?” She said, “I do!

‘Cause people are asleep!”

With the Lord’s Prayer, the boy declaimed,

“Our Father, who does art in heaven.”

Then added, “Harold is His name."

And then, “Amen!” was given.

Another praying, as he had been taught,

Hoped he’d be a ‘lamb’.

“But,” he said, “It matters not,

It’s fun the way I am!”

The elder lad, who, without shame,

Watched baby brother blessed.

Spoke with the priest and then became

Unaccountably distressed,

The Service done, to Dad, Jerome,

Unquestionably blue,

Said, “Priest wants me in a Christian home,

But I want to stay with you!”

Two boys were fighting over food,

Who’d be the first one served.

Mom frowned because it wasn’t good,

“You must be like the Lord!

‘You go first!’ He’d always say.

And first, His brother’d be.”

One boy looked at his brother then,

“You be the Lord!” says he.

The small boy grabbed his father’s hand,

And led him to the beach.

A dead bird lay there in the sand,

Dad frowned. T’was time to teach.

“What happened?” his young boy inquired.

“He went to Heaven, son.”

The boy frowned down at the body, mired,

“S’thrown back when God was done?”

A small girl asked to bless the food,

For guests her mom invited.

She said, “I can’t! My prayers aren’t good!”

She was a bit excited.

“Just say what you’ve heard Mama say.”

She nodded. That was fine.

"Lord,” she said, “Just why on earth

Did I ask these folks to dine?!”

We talk of Faith, we talk of Hope.

We talk of Charity.

We follow prophet, priest or pope,

Find comfort on our knees.

Though we’re sincere in thought and word,

With pomp and pageantry,

There’s no one closer to the Lord,

Then the children that you see.

Pig-Riding

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?

Okay I wasn’t supposed to do it.

And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.

But that just made it all the more fun.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, behind the chicken *shudder*coop was the pigpen.

It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.

A destination in itself.

A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.

And boredom was threatening to set in.

Or one was feeling petulant and/or adventurous.

One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Perch there on an upended bucket.

And pick out a heretofore unidentified victim co-conspirator.

I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.

When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.

And a taste.

And they love to be scratched.

Back to my story . . .

All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.

Scratch a couple.

And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.

The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.

And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.

Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly ephemeral (Ooh! Good word!).

One’s raging father could – and often did – appear at any time.

How did he do that?

But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.

Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:

Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.

Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!

Yeah. Let’s just cross future rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

Delores of Under the Porch Light has done it again. 

Assigned six words that evoked such memories.

How does she do it?

This week's words: Petulant, raging, pigpen, unidentified, bucket, ephemeral

Supermom!

This many kids. One adult.

My good friend was in hospital for a couple of days for some minor surgery.
Her four kids (three girls and one boy) were staying with us.
And our (then) four kids. (Three boys and one girl)
The kids were perfectly matched.
Boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl and boy-girl.
And got along very well.
My house was quieter with eight (ranging in ages from 1 to 7) kids in it, than it was with just my own four.
They were all playing happily.
Then I suddenly realized that I needed to go to the store.
Sigh.
The status quo was about to change.
I buckled in what amounted to essentially four sets of twins and started off.
All went well.
We arrived and I immediately hunted up a cart.
No way I was going to try to herd this bunch without some modern conveniences.
The two babies were buckled into the baby compartment on the cart.
The two toddlers went into the basket.
The two kindergarteners hung onto the outside.
And the two seven year olds were allowed free range.
But with strict instructions to stay close.
We were off!
My errands were run in record time.
Surprisingly.
And, quite suddenly, it was snack time.
I looked into my wallet.
I should point out, here, that my husband had just graduated from post secondary and was working in his first real job.
We were poor.
Well, rich in children.
But poor in things that can actually . . . purchase things.
Moving on.
My wallet held the grand total of two dollars.
Which in itself was a miracle.
I was standing in the middle of the food court, contemplating my options.
They were . . . limited.
Finally, I approached a kiosk called, The Loaf, which specialized in sandwiches made from thick slices of 'freshly-baked-on-the-premises' bread.
"What would you charge for just a slice of fresh bread and butter?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
She scrunched up her face in thought.
Really.
Scrunched.
Then she said, "Twenty-five cents."
The magic words.
I ordered eight slices of fresh bread and butter and handed her my two dollars.
Then I passed out slices of thick, warm, fresh bread to each of my little hoard.
Who happily chowed down.
A cowboy term for tucking in.
Which is another cowboy term for . . . oh, never mind.
You get the picture.
They ate.
And enjoyed.
A couple walked past while my kids were busy . . . umm . . . enjoying.
"What a good idea for a snack!" the woman exclaimed. "I think you are the best mother I have ever seen!"
I smiled, rather self-consciously.
'Best mother' is obviously code for 'too-broke-to-buy-anything-else'.
We finished our snack and headed back to the Sears store for one last item.
My friend's eldest daughter, who had been following closely asked if she could dart over and peek at the girl's blouses.
I told her that it was fine. I would just walk slowly so she could catch up.
And continued down the aisle.
I passed one of the entrances to the store.
Two women had just come in.
They, a mother and her mother, were struggling to control a small boy of about two.
Who was red-faced and screaming.
Actually, now that I think of it, all of them were red-faced and . . .
Ahem.
Back to my story.
The grandmother looked up and noticed me walk past with my cart full to overflowing with children and said," Here the two of us can't control one child and that woman," she pointed, "has . . . five, six, seven!"
Just then, my friend's oldest daughter rejoined our group.
I smiled at the women and said, "Eight."
And walked on.
Okay, I know it wasn't strictly truthful.
But it was so much fun to say it!!!
And, just for a moment, I felt like one of those uber-organized, amazing women one sees who are always neat, tidy and . . . well . . . together.
Controlling hoards of children and still managing to look serene.
Yep. Just call me SUPERMOM.
But only for the moment.

Grandpa Names

We have a tradition in our family.

I know what you’re going to say . . .

Another tradition?!

Hear me out . . .

When we were expecting our babies, and fighting arguing considering possible names, my ever-helpful Husby gave me a list from which to choose.

My Husby’s an historian. Did I mention that?

It’s significant.

Moving on . . .

The list was seven pages long.

And included such classics as: Trophimus. Trogillium. Vafthrusdinal. Gundohar and Gundobad (If we should ever be blessed with twins.)

I see your face.

Mine sported a similar expression.

And I named our babies.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering about the aforementioned tradition.

That comes here . . .

Because I was rude ignorant smart enough to ignore his helpful advice, my uber-determined Husby started in on the next generation.

With one significant change.

Our children weren’t given a choice.

Nope. They were given a name.

One name per grandchild.

Oh, they chose their own names, too. The names that would appear on birth certificates and numerous and sundry other legal places throughout the child’s life.

But each of them have a Grandpa Name (hereinafter known as GN) as well.

Unofficial, but just as important.

Let me enlighten you. These are the names as they now stand:

Megan Sarah. GN: Cruchenperk

Kyra Danielle. GN: Ataxerxes

Odin Erik. GN: Dashley

Thorin James. GN: Ragnowinthe

Erini Tiana. GN: Salmanezer

Bronwyn Bell. GN: Pintiquinestra

Jarom Elliott. GN: Abindaraz

Linnea Viktoria. GN: Adrevalde

Hazel Jane. GN: Bardowick

Willow Victoria. GN: Cantabrie

Leah Brooke Rachelle. GN: Ettelwulf

Aksel Grant. GN: Burthred

With each one, there’s been the usual angst. And the ‘Why don’t they use my good names?’ question.

Maybe you can answer that.

Why am I telling you all of this? Number thirteen is on his way.

I’ll keep you posted . . .

Mom Song

Mom's favourite picture.

There is a line from a Joe Diffie (yes, I’m a country music fan) song that goes:

Home was a back porch swing where I would sit, 

And mom would sing Amazing Grace, while she hung out the clothes.

That line reminds me of my own Mom.

Mom was always singing. The first thing she did when she entered the kitchen in the morning was switch on the radio.

And hum along with the current favourites while she stirred up breakfast.

Later, radio off; I can picture her with her hands in hot, soapy water, belting out ‘Darling Clementine’.

Or hoeing in the garden to ‘Till We Meet Again’.

It’s amazing how ‘Amazing Grace’ or any number of other songs go along with milking the cows. The rhythm just works.

Folding clothes? That will always remind me of ‘You Are My Sunshine’. When she could convince one of us to join her, sung in two-part harmony.

‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’ was waltzed with the broom across the kitchen floor.

And what would pea-shelling and bean-snapping be without ‘My Easter Bonnet’?

And early morning without ‘Good Morning, Mary Sunshine’?

Or bedtime without ‘Irish Lullaby’?

Riding out to the cows inevitably brought a rendition of ‘The Old Grey Mare’.

And evenings with the family - at least one chorus of ‘Whispering Hope’, again in harmony.

There are dozens more. I can’t picture Mom without a song in her heart and on her lips.

And her kids all do it, too.

Sing, I mean. While working.

More than once, I got smacked on the back of the head for bursting into song at inappropriate times during school.

Oops.

It’s been too many years since I heard my Mom sing.

But in my memory, she’s singing still.

The last lines from that same Diffie song are totally appropriate for me: My footsteps carry me away. But in my mind, I’m always going home.

My Kids

The original eight...

I have six kids. Yes, that’s a lot,

But a love for kids is what I’ve got,

I’ve welcomed each with open heart,

‘Cause every one’s a work of art!

There’s Mark, the eldest by a hair,

My blondie boy with brown-eyed stare,

With lively mind and crooked grin,

Hatching plots nefarious and grim.

My streamlined Erik’s next in line,

My soldier/cop with steely spine,

Who, daily, faces down the foe,

Then hurries home to bake or sew.

My Duff is third, my little prince,

Of his love, I am convinced,

E’en though he brought (I did not grouse),

A boa constrictor in my house.

Fourth child, first girl was Caitlin, dear.

My dreamer when she first appeared,

She lives to read; by fiction, stirred.

Is ‘lackadaisical’ her word?

Tiana’s next, our busy girl,

She gives hurricanes a whirl,

Just shake her up and let her fizz.

Like seltzer in a bottle  . . . is.

Then Tristan, last of all my joys,

My other classic brown-eyed boy.

Young AGM of his hotel,

An acting job that he does well.

There you have it, that’s the group,

Others have pointed at my troop.

“You’ve too many!” ‘S the concern,

I wonder which ones I’d return . . .?

Each week, Delores of  Under the Porch Light gives her followers a challenge: 

Use these words! Or else! Well, she couches it in the form of a request . . .

This week's words?

Nefarious, boa, streamlined, lackadaisical, seltzer, classic

What else could I do but describe my kids?

Pi(e) Night 2014

As the evening began . . .

Sixty-two pies!
Sixty two.
And they ate all but twenty . . .
Left-overs anyone?!

As it ended . . .

And a fun time was had by all . . .

Well, by me at any rate!

Cleaning up now.

See you tomorrow!

Great Gifts

It's Pie night! 32 done and 20 more to go. 

Eating starts at 6! Grab a fork and join us!

So, a repost of parties past - by request - from a year ago...

My parents were a social sort.

And often entertained.

With friends and food and games galore

And fun for hours, sustained.

And in those days of party fun,

When er’ food came in sight,

There were no paper plates to serve

With gusto and delight.

Only the best that could be found

Would aid my parents’ guests,

And so they served on china, fine

And silver for the rest.

And when the meal was done, the guests

Rose quickly to their feet.

And, as a group, cleared table, and

Would in the kitchen meet.

The duties there were quickly giv’n,

Who’d man the towels and sink.

And in an instant, all was done,

E’en faster than you’d blink.

When I was ten, above the rest

Stood out one woman there.

I watched in awe as she took towel

And dried the silverware.

Her movements were that quick, I found,

My eyes could barely follow.

And soon a gleaming pile she had

All ready for tomorrow.

“I’d love to be that fast,” I said.

“My goal is clear to see.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, dear,

You won’t be fast as me.”

I took it as a challenge then

And practiced faithfully.

And finally knew just what she meant,

“You won’t be fast as me.”

For some of us receive one gift,

And some another. True.

Her gift was drying silverware,

And mine is telling you.

Forever Blowing Bubbles

On the street where we lived...
The tricycle in the background sits on Penny's drive.

I asked my youngest daughter what was her favourite memory of growing up.

Her answer surprised me . . .

When our family moved to Beaumont, Alberta, our first home was ‘up on the hill’.

A term for all of the houses built before 1980.

When the town was still . . . small.

Every home on our lively little side-street was filled, quite literally, with children.

We once tried to count all of the kids.

And got lost somewhere around fifty.

Yep. Lively.

On any given day, rain or shine, sleet or snowstorm, the street seethed/boiled/churned with children.

They were running everywhere.

Between homes.

Through backyards.

To the semi-private park tucked neatly into the corner.

It was a safe, perfect world in which to raise them.

Perfect.

Across the street from our house was the home of Penny and her family.

Penny was my best friend.

And our kids liked each other, too.

Bonus.

On a warm day in spring or fall, with the afternoon sun shining on her front yard, it wasn’t unusual for she and I to be found sitting on her front step, visiting and waiting for our school-age kids to make their way home.

And blowing bubbles for our still-at-homers.

Our little learners would come around the corner, spot us up there on the porch, and quickly join in the fun.

Talking about their day between batches of bubbles.

It was, in a word, peaceful.

I remember it as a fun, happy time.

My youngest daughter remembers it as the very best of times.

Penny and her family moved away.

We are still in touch, as time and distance allows.

But, sometimes, in my mind, I’m sitting on that front porch visiting with my best friend and waiting for my children to gather.

Forever blowing bubbles.

I think my daughter is right.

Getting There

Navigate this! (Taken from Blarney Castle. Just after I kissed the famous stone.)

In Canada, we have The Dominion Land Survey. 

And my husband has iron boogers. 

These two are connected.

Maybe I should explain . . .
First:
My husband's favourite program on TV was the Tim Allen show, Home Improvement.
In one episode, Neighbour Wilson told Tim that men are actually endowed with minute bits of metal in their noses that aid in navigation.
Tim, putting his twist on it, called them 'iron boogers'.
A term that my husby whole-heartedly embraced and endorsed.
And:
When Canada was first being mapped/documented, it was divided into a perfect grid.
Or maybe an imperfect grid, but a grid, just the same.
We were raised in an area where the roads were straight and regular and one mile apart.
If one road was blocked, you could find 113 other ways to get where you wanted to go.
It was a perfect system.
People growing up in that environment developed an unerring sense of direction.
Thus, my husby.
See the connection?
Moving on . . .
We were travelling in Ireland.
Have you ever heard it said that there is no green quite like the green of the Emerald Isle?
It's true.
But I digress . . .
We had just driven into town and were looking for our bed and breakfast.
Our map only covered the specifics of reaching said town, not the particulars of what to do when we got there.
There was a woman walking down the street.
Grant pulled over and we asked her how to reach Thus-and-So Bed and Breakfast.
These are her exact words, "Oh that one. It's rather difficult to describe. You need to go up that hill (pointing) and turn right. There is a hotel there and they can direct you further."
We thanked her and did as she directed.
Except for the 'turn right' part.
My husby turned left.
At which time, I gave up.
He drove around for a total of thirty seconds, then pulled over to the side of the street. "Why don't we just stop here?" he said.
I looked out of the window and gasped.
Thus-and-So B&B. Right there.
In front of us.
I gasped and turned to stare at him.
He merely tapped his nose and looked at me significantly.
From then on, I used the map merely to get us to the next town, then tossed it into the back seat.
Grant was much better at finding our destination when he wasn't hampered by such distractions as maps.
Old Iron Boogers.

Old Iron Boogers.

Honey For Sale

Perfect for each other.

My Mom had been raised on a ranch.
She knew cattle and could speak the language with anyone.
But there were times when she very much longed to change the conversation . . .
She and Dad were out with a group of friends.
Fellow Hereford breeders.
The conversation veered, as it always did, to the discussion of the newest miracle bull.
"That 55L! What a bull! Longest animal I've ever seen!"
An animal's length is important. More beef on the hoof.
Just FYI.
The men were enraptured.
The women, silent, polite listeners.
Mom tried to add some colour other than red and white to the conversation.
"We did something different this weekend," she said. "We went to a Gilbert and Sullivan . . ."
But the men's conversation continued unabated.
"You know, 55L was unknown until his calves hit the ground! Long. Tall. Big as colts!"
"We saw the Pirates of Penzance," Mom finished weakly.
No one heard her.
She sighed and withdrew.
But her mind was working busily.
A few days later, Mom again took a back seat to Dad's cows. Giving up on a much anticipated wedding because Dad couldn't go.
That was the last straw.
The next day, she decided to play a prank on him.
She called the local paper and had this ad inserted:
            HUSBAND FOR SALE - Cheap
            Complete with blue jeans, SSS monogrammed shirt,
            rubber boots, old floppy hat, B.S. spattered coveralls,
            pitch fork, scoop shovel, feed bucket,
            25 Hereford cows and one grumpy bull.
            Not home much.
            Speaks only COW. Call 244-2108
Then she waited.
Not a word was said, though she saw my father reading the paper and knew that he always finished every word.
The next day, another ad appeared, directly below Mom's.
This one read:
            HONEY FOR SALE
            The sweetest gal this side of Texas. Good mother,
            helpful, kind, patient, understanding, loving,
            cheerful, caring, cooperative, self-sacrificing,
            grateful for all favours, especially a frugal income,
            and as a bonus, is beautiful and loves
            my Hereford cows. Call 244-2108.
Enough said.

Catching Sunshine

The afternoon sun spilled through the living room window like golden honey.

Making the air glow and creating a cozy pool of warm delicious-ness.

I watched my three-year-old granddaughter, white-blonde hair a shining halo about her smiling face, as she tried to capture the floating dust-motes in the beam of light.

“Gramma, look!” she said excitedly. “They’re dancing!”

And suddenly, I was remembering another time.

And another little girl . . .

I had just graduated from the Nursery. The place, in our church, of food, toys, warm hugs, and sitting on the floor. Also the room in the basement. With the least amount of windows.

My fellow three-years-olds and I had been guided upstairs and into the sunlit chapel. Then given the gi-normous (expressive/made up word) front pew to sit on.

Don’t get me wrong, we were used to those pews.

But normally we sat on them with our parents/families.

Suddenly that great expanse was ours. Alone.

We were ‘big kids’ now.  

My classmates alternated between sliding about on the polished, golden oak surface and staring at the women in charge of this meeting.

I was seated furthest from those women. And nearest the tall window next to our pew.

The late afternoon sunshine was streaming through.

On me.

For a while, that was amazing enough.

Then, I discovered that there were floating . . . things . . . in that golden beam of light.

Things that danced and swirled about when I waved my hand.

Things that gently, but effectively, eluded capture. No matter how quickly I moved. Or how hard I tried.

While the rest of the kids in the room sang or listened to stories, I concentrated on the little ‘floaties’ so tantalizingly close and so difficult to actually grasp.

Suddenly, the girl seated next to me slid to her feet. I looked around, startled. Our little group was following Auntie Grace and filing out of the room. I glanced one last time at my golden beam of magic, and reluctantly followed.

We were led to a tiny classroom that opened directly off the chapel.

And sat down on chairs.

Real, our-size chairs.

Auntie Grace smiled at us and welcomed us warmly.

Then she said something I’ll never forget. “Diane was playing in the sunbeam during opening exercises.”

I stared at her. Was I going to get into trouble?

She looked at me and smiled again. “Diane, that’s what you are! That’s what this class is! Sunbeams! You’re not in nursery any more. You’re all Sunbeams now!”

I blinked at her, not quite certain what she was telling us.

But I never have forgotten.

ABC Gum*

Chris. Taste is everything . . .

My parents were travelling and had made a stop in a small town for lunch.
At a tiny hotel restaurant.
They perused (real word) the menu and made selections for themselves and their -then- three children.
This was pre-Diane days. (Oh, the joy that was in store for them! Soon they would welcome Diane . . .)
Wait.
Where was I?
Oh yes.
Restaurant.
Lunch.
Ahem . . .
They made their order.
And waited.
Suddenly, Mom noticed that my elder sister, Chris, age four or so was chewing happily on something.
She watched her, suspiciously, for a few moments.
Finally, "Chris, what are you chewing?"
My sister looked up at Mom and said, "Gum."
"Oh."
Mom thought about it for a moment.
"Wait a minute. You're chewing on gum?"
"Umm-hmm," Chris said, still chewing.
"I didn't give you any gum." Mom turned to Dad. "Did you give her some gum?"
He shook his head and pulled Jerry out of the sugar bowl. "Enough sugar, son."
"Well where on earth did she get gum?"
"Why don't you ask her?" Dad said. "Jerry, leave the salt and pepper alone."
Mom turned to Chris. "Honey, where did you get the gum?"
Chris slid the wad in her mouth to one side and said, "Here, Mom!"
She pointed . . . under . . . the table.
"There's lots more! You want some?"

*Already Been Chewed

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."