Parental Perception

Not-Quite-Sanctuary. The family ranch in Fort MacLeod.

You can't hide things from your parents.

Just ask me . . .

I had my first 'official' job.

My Dad would argue this, as I worked for him for eight years.

Let me start again . . .

I had my first job-away-from-daddy's-ranch job.

It involved moving to Calgary, a city two hours to the north. And all the things that 'moving out' entails.

I had been an official Monday to Friday resident of Calgary for four months. And was feeling mighty independent as I made my weekly drive to my parent's ranch to fill my gas tank and stock up on food.

You look at 'independence' your way and I'll look at it in mine.

Ahem . . .

Just as I was driving into Claresholm, a small town just north of  the ranch, an ad came on the radio.

A rather effective ad, as it turns out. Wherein (good word) different people were asked what was most important in their lives.

There were various answers. The last being 'family'. Which was followed immediately by the sounds of screeching tires and an obvious vehicle collision.

I hadn't seen my family in six days.

And, I will admit it here, I'm a wuss.

The ad hit me hard.

I started to cry.

At that point, things got a little confused.

My Old English Sheepdog, Muffy, happily ensconced in her seat of power (commonly known as 'shotgun') came unglued.

Tears did that to her.

She alternately tried to lick my face.

And crawl into my lap.

Neither of which is very desirable when one is hurtling along the road at 40 MPH.

Which, if I could have seen clearly, should have been 30 MPH.

You can guess what happened next.

Red and blue lights erupted just after the last intersection.

And suddenly a wavery figure was indicating, rather forcefully, that I pull over.

Sigh.

He poked his head into my car, took one look at my red-rimmed eyes and tear-drenched face and immediately withdrew.

"Come to my car when you've composed yourself," he mumbled.

Then disappeared.

I dried my face and blew my nose.

Then calmed Muffy, who was still under the mistaken impression that I needed some good, doggy-style comforting.

Then I made my way over to the officer's car.

We had a nice chat, which culminated in an issued ticket for $25.00 and a warning to 'be more careful'.

Then, just as I reached for the door handle, the officer said, "If you don't mind. Why were you crying?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's silly, really," I told him.

"Do you mind telling me?"

"No." I related the entire fiasco, sparked by the ad on the radio.

It lost nothing in the telling.

I so love a good story.

He chuckled. Yes. People did that back then.

"I remember when I first went out to Regina for my RCMP training," he said. "I was one homesick puppy! I had never been away from home and I really missed my family."

We chatted a while longer.

Mostly about families and missing them.

And the incongruence (real word) of airing radio ads about car accidents specifically designed to make people cry.

And cause more car accidents.

I know. It doesn't make sense to me, either.

Then I left.

A few days later I paid my ticket and all was forgotten.

Or so I thought.

Moving forward several weeks . . .

I was sitting at the kitchen table when my parents came back from a quick trip to Calgary.

Dad came in and stopped beside my chair.

"How do you know an RCMP officer in Claresholm?" he asked.

I stared at him blankly.

RCMP Officer? I didn't . . .

Oh!

I had to relate the entire story, something I had formerly neglected to do.

Because of my reluctance to confess.

Dad chuckled. See? Chuckling again. It did happen.

"So how did you find out?" I demanded.

"Your mother and I just went through a check-stop in Claresholm," Dad said.

"Oh," I said.

"And this very kind and cheerful officer took one look at my license and asked me if I had a daughter, Diane."

"Oh," I said again.

"You can't blame us for being curious."

"Umm . . . so . . . what did he say?" I could feel my face getting red.

I hate it when that happens.

"He just told us that we had quite a daughter."

"Oh."

"Your Mother and I agreed with him." Dad smiled. "He handed back my license and waved us off."

"Oh." For a normally talkative person, I was really groping around for something to say.

Dad patted my arm.

"And don't speed," he said.

See? Parents always find out.

Pony Promotions

Sorrel gelding (male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, I would present myself to my teacher at the tack shed and draw my piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

I would grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, I would pick out a suitable mount (ie: one that I could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing I was ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

And/or lazy.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining.

A fairly common occurrence.

The wind wasn't blowing.

Not so common.

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Umm . . . Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

Something that had never been done before with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day.

With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Snipe Hunt

Who could fool that face?
Actually . . .

As a young man, Dad spent his summers working on the ranch.

It was these summers that convinced him that ranching was in his blood.

And that he would make it his life’s work.

Even though it had its embarrassing moments . . .

Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.

Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.

He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.

The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness - they were mesmerized by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.

Slick.

The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.

They waited for over two hours.

Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.

Only then did they realize they’d been had.

They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.

They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.

Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.

It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.

Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.

But being cowed.

P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

Parenting Fail

Chris, Jerry and Dad.
Background: The RIVER
Eeeeek.

Sometimes, in our best efforts to raise and protect our children, we blow it.

My Mom was amazing, but even she had her moments . . .

My eldest sister, Chris, was a wanderer.

On a ranch, that is never good.

Mom often was forced to perform herculean feats in order to keep her small daughter safe. (See here.)

Hmm . . . Training for a few years down the road when another small daughter would try her patience?

And her ingenuity?

But I digress . . .

She tried many different things.

And, on one occasion, resorted to ‘reason’.

With less-than-stellar results.

Three-year-old Chris was very fond of wandering down beside the river that flowed past the ranch house.

At times, Mom had to physically pluck her daughter from the very jaws of death.

Finally, she decided to try something that would encourage Chris to police herself.

She told her small daughter that it was dangerous to walk near the river.

Because there was a giant octopus that lived there.

And it would get her if she got too close.

Chris stared at her mother wide-eyed.

“Octopus?”

“Octopus,” Mom said knowledgably.

“Oh.”

Mom went back to her chores, happy in the knowledge that her little girl would now stay far from the wicked river’s banks.

A few minutes later, she looked up to see that, not only had her daughter disappeared, but her even smaller son.

Sighing, Mom began her search.

Even though she knew that the probability of the two of them heading for the river with the ravening, slavering octopus living there, her footsteps just naturally turned her in that direction.

Good thing, too.

Because it was there on the river bank that she found her intrepid duo.

Chris had toddler Jerry’s hand and was leading him along the bank.

Encouraging him to look out into the water and see if he could spot the octopus.

Yeah. Parenting fail.

The Birds and the Bees and the Cows and the Rabbits . . .

Oh, the things you learn from the top rail...

It’s spring.

Finally.

The time of new growth.

And baby animals.

Farm kids are exposed to the mating habits of animals early in life.

They just don’t always understand what they are seeing . . .

I was sitting on the top rail of the corral fence with my Dad.

Some cows, and a few bulls, just brought in from the nether pastures, were milling about below us.

Suddenly, one bull reared up.

Right onto the rear quarters of a cow.

I stared at them.

Weird.

The bull slid down.

And another took his place.

Really weird.

After three or four re-enactments of the same scenario, I turned to my dad.

“Daddy.” Indicating the bull. “What is that cow doing?”

Where did you think they came from?

Dad got a bit red-faced.

This was the fifties. Sex hadn’t been invented yet.

“Erm. Well . . . he’s resting his feet.”

“Oh.” Yeah. I was fairly easy to fob off in those days.

Today’s kids are also educated.

At least as well.

Case in point . . .

My friend raised rabbits.

Beautiful, lop-eared, gentle, soft, furry rabbits.

And by raised, I mean hutches in the back yard, carefully and successfully monitored.

With the help – or at least close scrutiny - of her children.

Babies (kittens or kits) came with amazing regularity.

These are rabbits we’re talking about, after all.

One day, a school friend asked the daughter where the baby rabbits come from.

“From the mommy,” she said, knowledgeably.

“Oh,” said the friend. “How does that happen?”

“Well,” the daughter said, “The daddy rabbit gets on the mommy rabbit and shakes her!”

We've come so far.

What can I say but CUTE!

I'm Baaaack!

We did it!

Our steed.

Sailed the ocean north to Alaska.
And survived.
Actually, I've discovered that when one goes adventuring on a cruise ship, one should be prepared for difficulties.
Such as deciding which of 700 entrées one would like to eat at any given time of the day or night.
I think they should just weigh everyone when they come onto the boat, then again when they are leaving, and charge by the pound.
I had to take two different sizes of clothes. Pre and post cruise.
But what a glorious, glorious time!
Sun.
More sun.(Incidentally, if you've been wondering where Spring is hiding, I found it. It's in Alaska!)
Friends.
Shopping.
Food.
Fabulosity. (Is that a word?)
It was a week I will never forget!

Friends.

More friends. And Husby and I.

Amazing food. eg. Watermelon pie. Made of different flavours of sherbet. With chocolate 'seeds'.

Unbelievable weather!

Approaching Glacier Bay.

Got him where I want him.

What happens on the cruise ship, STAYS on . . .

Thank you, Honey! What a way to celebrate thirty-eight wonderful years.
Here's to the next thirty-eight!!!

Thirty-Eight Years

Kids . . .

It's been thirty-eight years since my Husby and I said "I do."
It was eight o'clock in the morning when we exchanged our vows.
The first hot, sunny day of the year.
I forgot his ring.
And tossed the bouquet so high that it hit the ceiling and dropped directly behind me.
But it was there that the adventure started.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My Husby and his brother-in-law (hereinafter known as BIL) worked as civilian guards for the RCMP.
A job that entailed long nights spent watching the prisoners.
And visiting with the 'on shift' RCMP officers.
They became friends.
The guards and the officers.
Not the prisoners.
I thought I should point that out.
Ahem . . .
When my new Husby and I were set to leave on our honeymoon, we were very careful to leave a get-away vehicle safely hidden.
In the next town.
Let's face it, with this BIL, getting away was not only difficult. It was very nearly impossible.
He had been known to fill honeymooners vehicles with balloons or crumpled newspaper. Saran-wrap them shut. Apply Vaseline to each and every surface. Stick Oreo cookies to every window. Wrap them in toilet paper.
He had a fund of new and clever ideas.
But new Husby was crafty.
He and a trusted friend had gone days before and stashed the get-away vehicle in a garage of a friend of a friend of a  friend.
No one was finding it.
Oddly enough, his BIL asked only one thing. "In what direction are you headed?"
Husby told him. "North."
He merely smiled and nodded.
Okay, yes. It seemed too easy.
Sigh.
Our friend sneaked us out of the reception and into his car.
Then he took us to our truck.
It was undamaged.
Whew.
We piled in and started out.
Just as we were about to turn onto the main highway to Calgary, Husby stopped.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"It's too easy," he replied.
I stared at him.
"Too easy," he repeated. He put the truck into gear and turned it around.
"Umm . . . so . . . what are we going to do?" I asked. I mean, going back to my parents' was sort of out of the question . . .
"We're still going to Calgary," Husby said. "But we're going by a different route!"
And we did. We followed every secondary, gravel and/or dirt road all the way from Fort Macleod to the great metropolis.
It took a bit longer.
But we arrived safely.
We checked into our hotel.
Stayed there for a couple of days.
Then headed out on our real honeymoon.
We were gone two weeks.
Two wonderful, enjoyable, surprising, educational weeks.
When we arrived back home, we were met by the BIL, who welcomed us home warmly.
And with a wide grin.
Husby could stand it no longer. "What did you do?" he demanded.
The grin widened. "I had the boys put an APB out on your vehicle," he said.
"You . . . what?"
"Yeah. They put an APB out on your vehicle. I'm amazed they didn't pick you up!"
An APB is an 'All Points Bulletin' which alerts every police station - and I do mean EVERY - that such-and-such a vehicle is wanted. If spotted, approach, detain and apprehend.
Yikes.
I mean, the police in other areas didn't know why our vehicle had been flagged. They only knew it had been.
The results may have been disastrous.
I still shiver.
And glare at the BIL.
Thirty-eight years later.

P.S. Husby surprised me with an Alaskan cruise for our anniversary!
Internet connections are few and far between.
I'll check in when I can.
And give you the full report when we get home!
Wish us luck!

Prayers With Blair

To my younger brother on his 54th birthday . . .

Happy Birthday!

 . . .or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were outdoing . . . ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly, playing quietly in the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Gentility Lost

This post is a bit of a departure for me.

I usually don’t like to discuss issues.

But something has caught my attention . . .

My daughter, son-in-law, and their children enjoy attending Cosplay exhibitions.

They get quite involved, creating costumes for their entire family, interacting with like-minded people.

Tons of fun.

At a recent gathering, my SIL saw a couple that he is acquainted with.

I stress that he knows these two people.

But only in a ‘Hi, how are you doing!’ sort of way.

He had seen them at a recent Cosplay fair and they had been dressed as a coordinated couple.

At this show, the one partner was dressed as they had been before.

The other was in something different.

Innocently, my SIL asked this person why she wasn’t in her matching costume, especially as there was a contest.

Loudly, and blithely, she informed him – and anyone else who happened to be standing nearby - that she couldn’t wear that costume this weekend because she was, and I quote, “Having her period!”

My SIL was embarrassed. He mumbled something, took his little girls and left.

Do we share too much?

Is there nothing that is personal? Or private?

Or special?

In our efforts to prove that thinking people can discuss anything, have we lost our gentility?

That thin slice of refinement that sets us apart from the less intelligent creatures of the earth?

I’ve watched my dog greet others at the dog park. They have, quite literally, no secrets.

If they can sniff it out, they will.

And do.

And they are quite happy sharing.

Have we reached this stage? When we can (and will) blurt out anything.

Anything.

Have the words: refined, courteous, gallant, cultured, polite, discrete been discarded in favour of (so-called) freedom and independence and equality.

Have we lost our gentility?

What are your thoughts?

The Great White (Blonde) North

See? Blonde.

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) did not like blondes.

And my Mother-in-Law hated beards.

These two statements go together.

Just give me a moment . . .

So . . . back to my FIL.

No one knew why he did not like blondes.

And they did ask.

“Dad! Were you dumped by a blonde?”

“Dad! Did some blonde do something horrible?”

“Dad! Could I borrow twenty bucks?” Oh, wait, that has nothing to do with this.

Back to my story . . .

He passed away without ever sharing the reasons for his aversion.

But his family knew it well.

Whenever one of his five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, the first question was, invariably, “She’s not a blonde, is she?”

To which the invariable answer was, “Oh, no, Dad! She’s not a blonde! Definitely not a blonde!”

Even if she was.

The keys would be produced.

The date embarked upon.

All was well.

Yep. FIL’s aversion was well known.

Sometimes a little too well known.

His wife had an aversion as well.

To facial hair.

Here it comes . . .

If her husband ever suggested that he was considering growing a beard, she had the perfect answer.

“I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

Even the remote possibility of beard growing disappeared instantly.

Genius.

In his later years, he did make allowances.

I mean, he personally picked me for his son, and I had the white-blonde hair only found in people of Swedish heritage (like me) or points north.

And, in fact, two of his sons married blondes.

Call it parental opposition.

But the mystery remains.

The only other statement we ever heard from him concerning blondes was, “You know why blondes have more fun, don’t you? Because they get dirty quicker!”

Hmm . . . was that a hint?

Well Served

Server and Servee.

I'm a people-pleaser.

Or try to be.

Call it a weakness.

But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.

Most of the time, it's fun.

Occasionally, not.

Let me tell you about it.

When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.

I worked hard at it.

Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.

I had meals ready at meal times.

Kept the laundry done.

Cleaned the house.

Ran errands for him.

This went on for some time.

Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.

And probably should.

Case in point:

Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.

True story.

Can everyone say “gullible”?

This went on for nearly three years.

Then, one day, we were at a reception.

My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.

Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.

The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”

Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.

And that's when I hit him.

Oh, not hard.

Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.

And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.

Ha!

There.

I said it.

Erm . . . can I take that for you?

Un-Match-ed Entertainment

That's Entertainment!

On the ranch, in the 50s, we burned our garbage.
It was the only option.
Each week, the trash cans were collected from every room in the house
Carried out to the burning barrel.
Emptied into said barrel.
And set alight.
It was an exciting job.
Okay, well, it looked exciting to me.
Probably because the task came with an 'age appropriate' rating.
And I hadn't reached that age.
Sigh.
I would scurry through the house, collecting bins for whoever was assigned.
Then help them lug everything to the trash barrel.
Then stand back and watch as they . . .
 . . . LIT THE MATCH.
Oooooo!
Most of the time, it only took one.
I was more than fascinated.
The lit match would be lowered into the barrel.
A curl of smoke would issue forth.
Then the first of the flames.
There was nothing . . . I repeat nothing . . . more exciting.
And I had been to movies.
And watched Bonanza on TV.
Okay, well, maybe I'd better exclude Bonanza which, incidentally, started with its own fire.
I mean, who could possibly compete with Pa Cartwright?
And his delicious buckskin gelding.
Ahhh.
I've wandered from the point . . .
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Garbage.
And burning it.
For years, I watched, enviously as, first my parents, then my older siblings got to light the match.
Slowly, the day approached when I would be trusted with the all-important job.
And then, it was here.
"Diane, would you please burn the garbage?"
Eeeeeeee!
I carefully collected every bin.
Toted them all down to the barrel.
Chose one at random and dumped its contents.
Chose another.
And another.
And finally, surrounded by empty trash cans, the magic moment.
I lit the match.
And dropped it carefully into the accumulated trash.
It winked out.
Huh.
I tried again.
Same thing.
This was harder than it looked.
Most of a book of matches later, I discovered that I needed to choose a piece of paper as my first victim.
Light that, then let it light the rest.
Ahhh!
Finally, I had a blaze.
I stepped back and watched proudly.
My first trash fire.
Okay, I admit it, you have to look for opportunities to shine in this life.
Within a few weeks, I was an old hand at 'burning the trash'.
I could collect, empty and light with the best of them.
And use one match to do it.
And then the gloss wore off.
Dad: "Diane. Time to take out the trash."
Me: "Can't someone else do it? I'm watching Woody Woodpecker!"
Blair: "I'll do it!"
Dad: "Blair's too little. He can help, but Diane has to light the match."
Me: [Huge sigh.] "Okay. Fine."
Blair: "Yipee!"
The fire circle of life.

Funny Friday

Funny Friday

  Today’s post is the first of what will be a monthly feature here. 

It’s called Funny Friday,
and is a collaborative project that I’ll post on the last Friday of every month. 

Links to the other bloggers’ posts are below. 
Click on them and see what they've come up with. 

I hope we bring a smile to your face as you start your weekend.

Here’s today’s picture. 

It was submitted by Confessions of a part-timeworking mom: 

1. And in other breaking news . . .

2. Lemme guess . . . Professor Plum. In the kitchen. With the . . . spaghetti sauce!

3. Dad! Mom said a bad word and now she's ordering pizza!

4. Note to self: Don't juggle jars . . .

5. The good news? The childproof lid is still childproof!


Go on. Your turn! Give us your best shot!

Click on the links below and let some other bloggers make you smile:

Baking In A Tornado 

Black Sheep Mom

Silence of the Mom 

Someone Else’s Genius 

Confessions of apart-time working mom 

The Momisodes 

Sanity Waiting to Happen 

Cluttered Genius 

Inter-Active Hockey

It was my first ‘live’ hockey game.

Okay, I know that all of them are live.

And quite lively.

Let me re-word . . .

It was the first game I attended where I was actually sitting in the bleachers.

It’s a lot more exciting when one is surrounded by fans.

And can feel the cold air on one’s cheeks.

Just FYI.

My friend, Colleen, rabid hockey brat whose boyfriend was minding the net for our team, was explaining things to me.

I glanced at her occasionally as she spouted such foreign terms as ‘face-off’ and ‘icing’ and ‘high-sticking’ and ‘penalty’. But mostly, I just sat and merrily watched the game.

Not knowing – or caring – who was winning.

Colleen was not as . . . indifferent as me.

She wasn’t very tall, but she could sure make her presence felt, bobbing periodically to her feet to launch ‘criticisms’ at whichever aggravating party was . . . aggravating. As in: “What’d’ya call that, Ref?! Are you blind?!!!”

But as loud as she was, her behaviour had nothing on the woman sitting in front of us, next to the boards.

Now that woman was vocal.

She used words I’d never even heard of, expertly launching them at the ref with practiced ease.

I tried mentally editing out the more profane. But if I’d been successful, the woman would have been sitting there with her mouth open and nothing emerging.

Sigh.

Halfway through the game, she became a little more pro-active.

And that’s when things really got interesting.

After flinging a particularly incendiary little ball of nastiness at the long-suffering ref, she leaned on the boards and waited for the man to skate past.

She didn’t have to wait for long.

If you know hockey, you know that this game goes back and forth . . . a lot.

The ref skated by, intent on the next play, whistle in his mouth and hands and feet working frantically.

The woman leaned over and swung her purse at him, knocking him clear into tomorrow. I say that because it was ‘tomorrow’ before he woke up.

He was carried from the ice with reverence and care.

The woman was escorted to the hoosegow with neither of the above.

When officers opened her purse, they discovered a bottle of whisky.

Full.

The ref made a complete recovery, living to ref again.

Never saw that woman again, though. At least not at any hockey games.

But the lesson was learned.

Alcohol, in the right purse, can kill you.

P.S. I think the refs should be pulling in the big salaries, they’ve got the tougher jobs . . 

Delores of Under the Porch Light, gives us six words each week. And issues an ultimatum. "Use these! Or don't. I'll love you anyway."

Okay, maybe not so much of an ultimatum.

This week's words?

glanced, merrily, purse, indifferent, brat and blind
How did I do?

Ceremonial Tucking

Success!

Routines are important.
Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.
The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.
Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.
Teeth brushed.
Hair combed.
Jammies donned.
Stories read.
Family prayer said.
And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.
The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.
I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".
Okay, maybe I will.
Moving on . . .
One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.
Our daughter, Tiana.
She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"
Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.
Then would follow the boosting into bed.
The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.
And the ever important good-night kiss.
Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.
At least until the post-tucking parade began.
One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.
Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.
But notice had been given.
Dad was already on the move.
He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.
Then resumed his chair and his reading.
Tiana re-appeared.
"I'm ready now," she said.
Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said.
"What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!"
"Well, I tucked somebody in."
Tiana ran to her room.
"You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.
Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, he was there!" he said.
"Dad!"
After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.
She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.
Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.
Clothing.
Toys.
Books.
Homework.
Muffy.
I repeat. Routines are important.

Paddy Craig O'Connor

He’s not a  mean or nasty lout,

In fact, were you to ask about

Our Paddy Craig O’Connor boy,

You’d find he’s just a hoi polloi.

He’ll shoulder in, with work to do

He loves his wife, and kiddies too,

He’s loyal, almost to a fault,

A fisherman – a seasoned salt.

But after a long day at sea

He’ll meet the boys occasionally,

And, of the good stuff, have a dram,

Then get himself into a jam.

‘Cause Paddy, when he’s had a few,

Well, there’s nothing he won’t do,

Though he draws the line at lawless stuff,

He doesn’t quit till he’s had enough.

He’s mixed the pigs in with the sheep,

And upset everybody’s sleep,

Howled with the dogs, sang with the cats,

Joined Ladies Aid with a box of bats.

Dropped a pig in the local pub,

Took chickens to the senior’s club.

Yes, Paddy really had a bent.

For mischief everywhere he went.

Until that time e’en Paddy knew

He’d knocked the Universe askew.

He had to make a major change.

Frivolities, he’d rearrange . . .

It’d started harmlessly enough,

With Paddy swimming ‘in the buff’.

Just floating out there in the bay

Till the Archbishop came his way.

I must admit, how could he know?

An august visitor would show,

But there He was upon the sand,

With formal robes and raise-ed hands.

Well, Paddy rose out of the waves

Wearing just what God had ‘gave’,

Advanced to ask Him “What's the craic?”

And give His Grace’s hand a shake.

And right there on the sea levee,

And in his frank and simple way,

Beseeched His Excellence to leave.

A blessing for one who believed.

The blunt request no sooner said,

His Grace’s face turned slightly red,

T’was only then Pad realized

They were the mark of many eyes.

The village, all, was there to see.

Pad sobered up immediately,

And in the mayhem that ensued,

Vowed he would be more subdued.

So if you’re staying there to sleep,

Hear pigs and chickens and some sheep,

Know, with those feats of fun and brawn,

That Paddy’s clothes are staying on.

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light gives her followers a 6-word challenge.

Last week's words were: levee, mayhem, blessing, archbishop, frank, and blunt.

Okay, yes, I'm behind. But these words were too good to miss!

Hop over to Delores' and see what her other followers have concocted!

Elementary Horse Trading

Me and Zee.
Now that's a little more like it!

At sixteen, I made my first foray into the wide, exciting world of horse trading.

Let's just say it was a learning experience.

Let me explain . . .

I had been saving my money for months to purchase my first horse.

Okay, yes, we had dozens of horses on the ranch, but none of them had been purchased by me.

See the difference?

Okay, my Dad didn't, either.

Moving on . . .

Some friends of ours knew of a rancher near Waterton Park who had some horses to sell.

Beautiful scenery and a chance to buy my own horse.

It was a perfect world.

We drove into the mountains and left the main road, winding down the mountainside and into the prettiest little ranch I had ever seen.

I was filled with anticipation.

Only the best in horseflesh could come from such a place.

I was wrong.

Just FYI.

The owner introduced us to several horses, but one little bay mare immediately caught my eye.

The rancher noticed.

Perhaps my glassy-eyed stare and drool was a give-away.

He went into his spiel.

Yes. Ranchers have a spiel.

He told me I would love her. Her gait, conformation and performance were perfection.

Here. Let's saddle up and you can take her for a spin.

He did.

I did.

Everything he had said was true.

Sold!

Money exchanged hands.

We loaded the sedate little mare into our handy-dandy trailer and headed home.

Before we had gotten back to the main road, I had a name for my new best friend.

Fancy.

It suited.

Back at home, my Dad got his first look. He examined her carefully, then shrugged. I don't know, he said. She looks pretty enough, but I don't know.

Horse sense. Some of them have it . . .

Some of us don't . . .

Sigh.

The next morning, I went out to saddle up my new little beauty.

And got a distinct shock.

During the night, someone had come and switched my sweet tempered little Fancy with a roaring, man-killing beast.

And I do mean man-killing.

The drugs had obviously worn off.

No sooner had I bridled her, then she reared up and struck out at me with her front hooves.

I should point out, here, that hooves are hard and can easily be used to cause 'blunt force trauma'.

I watch C.S.I. so I know about B.F.T.

Her first unexpected attack caught me, fortunately on the very top of my head where my skull is the thickest.

She knocked me to my knees, but did no permanent damage.

I struggled quickly to my feet and moved to the nearest far-away place.

Where I watched in wonder as she began her second attack.

Yep. The first attack had been no accident.

But I was ready and she posed no danger at that point.

My decision was made, however.

This horse had to go.

I talked to my friend, the one who had taken me to buy my little whirlwind of terror.
He was very interested.

He should be, he had gotten me into this mess . . .

He dealt with difficult horses and offered, on the spot, to trade me for a horse of my choosing.

This time, I took my Dad with me.

I may be dumb, but I do learn quickly.

We agreed on a nice, black gelding.

Tall. Lively.

But without one important aspect.

He wasn't out for my blood.

An important aspect as it turns out.

'Zee' and I became instant friends.

Something Fancy and I could never be.

Sorry, Fancy.

But it is your fault.