Bogged Down

How peaceful it all looks.
So deceptive . . .

The 'tree field' on the ranch was just that.

A field.

With trees.

Distinguished from all of the other fields by their lack of said trees.

Because it had trees, it also offered cover. An ideal place for spring calving.

I was Dad's herdsman. It was my duty to oversee the spring calving and make sure that all calves . . . and their mothers . . . survived.

Normally, things went well.

Occasionally, they did not.

But that is another story . . .

Usually, when I rode out to check the cows, I rode.

On a horse.

Usually one of a selection of brain-dead, bone-headed ex-racehorses, I will admit.

But on this day, I was in a hurry.

So I fired up Dad's one-ton truck - the one with the dual rear wheels - and headed out to the field.

I should explain, here, that the tree field had trees because it was situated next to an irrigation canal. A wide trench that meandered through the country side. In the spring, the gates are opened and water from the Old Man River diverted into the various canals for irrigating the dry land farms and ranches throughout Southern Alberta. An effective system.

But the canals were getting old.

And water seeped from them into the adjacent land.

Great if your land was close by and needed water.

Which the tree field was.

And did.

Thus – trees.

But the land could also become quite saturated.

And boggy.

Particularly in the clearing in the centre of the trees.

We thought it was very entertaining.

One could stomp on the seemingly dry ground and the land all around would quiver.

Cool.

There was enough dry soil on top to hold up a cow.

Or my horses.

But remember, I was in the truck.

Considerably heavier than any horse or cow.

Back to my story . . .

I innocently drove out to check the herd.

The first pass, the one on the higher ground near the road, went well.

But there were no cows near the road, either.

Sigh.

I moved into the trees for a second pass.

Starting at the far east side of the field, I worked my way west.

Stopping now and then to walk into the trees to investigate a barely-seen patch of red hide.

I reached the far west side and started to turn.

It was then that I realized that I . . . and my truck . . . were sinking.

Here's something you don't see every day. A truck, sinking out of sight in the middle of a dry land ranch in Southern Alberta.

I had two options.

1. Holler for one of my parents.
2. Mat that gas pedal and pray.

My parents were my parents. They lived to get me out of scrapes.

Right?

Ahem.

But both of them were at the ranch a mile away to the West.

I was on my own.

I went with my second option.

Mud and water sprayed from those dual tires as the truck struggled for purchase.

For a few, heart-stopping moments, it looked as though the bog would win.

Then, slowly, the truck started to climb up out of the hole.

Finally, I was flying along atop the bog.

I kept the gas pedal to the floor until I was through the tree line and solidly back on dry ground.

Then I stopped the truck and simply breathed.

I left the truck and walked (I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.) back to inspect the ruts I had left.

They were three feet deep and rapidly filling with water.

My brother told me later that I was a heartbeat away from losing the truck entirely.

“And the only thing that would have salvaged the situation would have been to call in a cherry-picker.”

I don't have to tell you that the 'cherry-picker' he is talking about had nothing to do with picking cherries.

And everything to do with being expensive.

Thank goodness for gas pedals.

And prayer.

My steed.

June Funny Friday

June Funny Friday

Today’s post is June’s Funny Friday, a regular feature published on the last Friday of every month. Funny Friday is a collaborative project. Each month one of the participants submits a picture, then we all write 5 captions or thoughts inspired by that month’s picture. 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’s the picture that inspired this whole project and was submitted by The Black Sheep Mom.

1. This is my number. CALL ME!

        Signed: Made For Each Other!

 2. Okay. This is New York. We’ll just blend in.

 3. Turn here to get to the boat. It’ll take you right out to your pedestal. Stay there!

 4. You know, I thought you’d be bigger…

  

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

Someone Else’s Genius

Confessions of a part-time working mom

The Momisodes

Sanity Waiting to Happen

On the Alberta/Montana Border

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Baking In A Tornado

Black Sheep Mom

The Cow Pony

Daddy at 6 on Peggy.
Another good cow pony.

A good cow pony is more than just transportation in the ranching world.

It is partner, confidante, shelter, and yes, even protector.
Dad's horse had been superbly trained.
By him.
Calving season is a rather exciting time of the year. For at least a couple of reasons.
Because new babies are appearing in the fields. And new baby calves are cute.
But also because you are getting up close and personal with warm, furry creatures who outweigh you by several hundreds of pounds.
See? Exciting. In an unpredictable/ohmygoodness sort of way.
Most cows on the Stringam ranch calved between January and March.
Without ceremony or fanfare.
In the field.
Calves were tagged and given their newborn shots within a few feet of where they were born.
I should mention here that Hereford cows are docile and easily managed.
Except when they have a newborn calf nearby.
You've heard the stories about getting between she-bears and their babies?
Well, Hereford cows would kill to have that reputation.
Hmm . . . Actually, they would have to kill to get that reputation.
Just thought I'd point that out.
Because it really has nothing to do with this story.
Moving on . . .
Hereford cows may not be the black-leather-clad, chain-toting members of the bovine family, but they can still be rather aggressive when their babies are in danger.
Or when they think their babies may be in danger.
As when people are around.
My Dad found this out the exciting way.
He had come across a newborn calf, lying 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Dismounting, he straddled the calf and prepared to vaccinate.
And that's when Mama noticed him.
Suddenly, a thousand pounds of red and white indignation were breathing down his neck.
And I do mean down his neck.
I know this will sound funny, but when a cow is threatening, the best place to be in the wide-open prairie is 'under' one's well-trained horse.
Really.
You crawl under your horse and no cow will come near.
Hastily, Dad pulled himself and his captive under his horse and continued with his work.
The cow snorted and fidgeted, circling around, trying to find the flaw in this scenario.
The horse kept one eye on her. All the while turning to keep his hind quarters directed towards the irate bundle of hair and aggression.
This worked for a few moments.
But finally, even the presence of a larger, stronger, and infinitely smarter creature didn't deter.
She charged.
Remember where I mentioned that the horse kept his hind quarters towards the cow?
That's because that is a horse's 'dangerous' end.
Always loaded.
And ready to fire.
He let fly.
With both barrels.
He caught the cow in the head.
In mid-charge.
Now a cow's head is composed mostly of bone.
They can be hurt.
But it takes a lot.
This kick merely stopped the cow for a moment.
She shook her head, confused.
Then looked around.
What had she been doing?
About that time, Dad finished with the calf and let it go.
It trotted over to its mother and the two of them hurried towards the nearest far-away place.
Dad stood up and gave his horse a pat.
“Good boy.”
Then mounted up and continued his ride.
Another rather mundane day in the life of a good cow-pony.
What would we do without them?

Babe (Enes) Ruth

Mom (third from the left). And five out of eight brothers.

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

Enes, my Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-believe.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats. Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie. And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting. Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up and the game began.

Mom was picked early. She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat. The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

Faulty Raisining

It only LOOKS delicious . . .

I love raisins.

Especially in trail mix.

Or coated in chocolate.

I should probably point out, here, that coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.

If you coated a hubcap in chocolate, I'd eat it.

Moving on . . .

I did not always love raisins. (Even now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be raisin-less.)

It wasn't until after I was married that I learned to appreciate them.

There is a reason for that . . .

My brother, George, is two years older than I. Throughout our growing-up years, his prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.

He practised his craft at every opportunity.

Mercilessly.

And became very good at it.

One day, our mom made cookies. Something she did a lot.

On this particular occasion, she had produced mounds of raisin cookies.

They were spread out temptingly across the table.

The aroma drew my brother and I from the depths of the house.

“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin cookies today.”

“You did?” I asked innocently.

“Yep. I did,” he said.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You can tell by the smell?”

“Partially. But that's not the real reason.”

“Well, I give up. How did you know?”

He leaned towards me, a big grin on his face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”

And from that moment on, in fact for the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.

Smart cookie.

P.S. He also tried to convince me that my rice was moving.

But that is another story . . .

Me. And him. He only LOOKS cute . . .

Teatime

Not for the shy or faint of heart . . .

Recently, there had been a lot of press about women nursing their babies.

Usually because it has been carried to extreme lengths.

I nursed my babies.

And loved doing it.

But this isn't a commentary about that.

Though it is about 'extremes'.

Maybe I should explain . . .

A veterinarian friend of my father's had stopped in for a chat.

An immigrant from the UK, he was very fond of his tea.

My father offered him a cup.

Uncharacteristically, he declined. With a slight shudder.

Dad stared at his friend. What could possibly have put Dr. Ilovemytea off his favourite beverage?

The friend realized that he had aroused Dad's curiosity and an explanation was in order. He told Dad that he had just come from a vet call to a farm at the furthest border of his practice. 'Out in the sticks', you might say. His veterinarian business had been concluded.

And successful.

Hoping to prolong what was, to her, the highlight of a normally solitary day, the woman of the household had invited Dad's friend into her front room for a visit. She had recently given birth to a fine son and was anxious to share her story with someone.

All was well.

She and baby were thriving. Baby was nursing well and growing rapidly.

The woman offered the doctor a quick cup of tea before he began the long trek back to town.

Happily, he accepted.

The tea was brewed.

The woman brought it in and set it in front of her guest. “Would you like milk?” she asked.

Dad's friend said that, indeed, yes, he would love milk.

Whereupon (good word) the woman flipped out a breast and squirted some milk into the doctor's tea.

He blinked. Well . . . at least it was fresh.

As the story unfolded, Dad burst into laughter.

“So, did you drink it?” he asked his friend.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“How was it?”

“Well, it tasted just fine,” he said. “Put me off a bit. But tasted fine.”

“Well,” Dad said, “You're braver than I am!”

Tea, anyone?

Waving

Ready to head to town!

The Stringam Ranch was twenty miles from the Town of Milk River.

For the first ten miles out of town, you were passing through other ranch properties.

So your chances of meeting another motorist were pretty good.

After that, there was just one destination.

The Stringam Ranch.

Any traffic that came out that far needed emergency veterinarian assistance.

Or knew the family. And the spread that appeared around mealtimes.

This is a long-winded way of telling you that, on any given trip into town, Dad knew every single driver that we passed.

A cloud of dust would appear on the horizon, growing larger. Finally a small dark spot could be detected, right at the base of said cloud.

The speck grew larger.

And larger.

Finally became recognizable as a vehicle.

Dad would slow down and pull over to the right side of the road.

Because lines hadn’t been introduced into our part of the country.

And who could paint a line on dirt anyway?

Moving on . . .

The other driver would also slow and pull to his right.

The two would give each other a friendly wave.

And continue on.

Whereupon (good word) I would bob up out of wherever.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“That was Mr. Angel.”

“Oh.”

I would disappear again.

Another vehicle.

Another wave.

Me bobbing up.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman.”

“Oh.”

As we grew closer to town, the vehicles were more numerous.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh.”

I should mention that there was one vehicle that I recognized. Even as a four-year-old.

It was an old car, driven very, very slowly.

I don’t remember what year or model though my brother, George, will.

It was driven by a hat.

I am not kidding.

A hat.

A nice men’s hat.

I would stare in astonishment as this particular, peculiar vehicle drove past.

Yep.

Just a hat.

It was the one time during our entire trip that I wouldn’t bother my dad.

Because I knew who that hat was.

It was Grampa Balog.

After it passed, I would slump down on the seat.

Why couldn’t I have a hat for a Grampa?

A hat that could drive cars.

Some kids have all the luck.

Moving ahead many years . . .

Yesterday, I was driving with one of my grandkids.

One of the hundred-or-so cars that we passed was driven by someone I knew.

I waved.

“Gramma! Who was that?”

And I was instantly transported back fifty-plus years.

I was four years old again.

And my Dad knew everyone on the road.

The Monster in the Hay Loft

Monster Hunter

A guest post by Baby Brother, Blair. Who's really not such a baby any more.

While growing up on the ranch, we had many daily chores. 

One of those chores involved getting up early in the morning, feeding the bulls and heifers.

And caring for the milk cow. 

We kept such a cow for nursing any orphan calves and for fresh milk. 

It just so happened that this particular spring we didn’t have any orphan calves so she had to be hand-milked.

The milking barn had about 4 stalls.  But thank goodness, only one cow. 

There was a gutter that ran down behind the stalls and was used for catching . . . cow-by-products. I learned one day that I should always keep the gutter clean because the cow and I had a disagreement which I lost. I ended up in said gutter and was . . . not happy. 

And every once in a while I would pawn the milking off on my older sister, but I found out that she could beat me up so milking the cow stayed my responsibility.

Back to my story . . .

One beautiful spring morning I got up earlier than normal and went out to do my chores.  I have no idea how I managed it. It was hard for me to get up in the mornings when I was a teenager. My body seemed to want to sleep for 20 hours a day.

However, this particular morning I got up and went out to milk the cow.

Mornings in the spring in Southern Alberta were usually cold, but the air was fresh and clear.

I chased the cow into the barn, locked her in the stall, set down the bucket, sat on the stool and proceeded to milk.

It was nice sitting close to the cow. She was warm and, like I said, it was a cold spring morning.

Our dog had followed the cow and I into the barn and was sniffing around the barn at things that dogs are interested in.

I hadn’t been milking long when I heard a faint moan. I stopped what I was doing and listened.

But I heard nothing more so I started milking again.

Then I heard a slightly louder moan. 

I stopped and listened.

I heard the moan again.

It was coming from the hay loft.

It kind of sounded like a cross between a moan and the sounds that the monsters make in the horror movies that I had seen.

I thought: Surely that can’t be a monster!  It is early in the morning and monsters only come out and chase poor defenseless people at night. And usually this chasing happens in a dark hallway or alley. I was in a barn. I couldn’t think of a single scary movie where monsters or bad guys hurt poor defenseless people in the early morning in the milking parlor in a barn.

I decided that the noise was just my imagination.

Or the wind.

Even though the wind wasn’t blowing.

I continued milking the cow. 

Suddenly, there was a loud moan that definitely came from the loft.

The dog seemed to notice.

I quit milking and watched the dog.

Then there was a chillingly loud moan. It sounded like someone was being tortured.

Badly.

The dog paused and looked intensely in the direction of the loft. If the dog was hearing something then there must be a monster up there.

I leaped up and headed for the barn door before whatever it was could jump down from the loft and get me.

As I left the barn and headed for the corral gate, I realized I had just left the cow for the monster.  I thought, I’ll get reinforcements and come back to rescue the cow.

Now that I think about it, the cow seemed calm and not at all concerned about the noise.

I wasn’t calm.

I may have been whimpering or screaming.

Who can remember when you have a monster that is going to do bad things to your person?

I got my brother George and, armed with a pitch fork and a 2x4, we headed back to the barn to investigate. 

But when we got up into the loft there was nothing there. There was a place that looked like someone/monster had been sleeping. But there was no sign of anything else.

But just in case you think that I was imagining things, I have proof. The depression in the straw where the monster had been sleeping and the dog’s reaction to the noise.

That is my story and I’m sticking to it.

The Art of Blurting

Word master. 

I know you’ve done it.

I know I have.

Blurted out something that sounded a whole lot different in your head.

It’s true.

Your brain coughs up a thought.

And hits ‘send’.

Then, somehow, during transition, it gets . . . mixed up.

Maybe exposure to the air changes it.

And it ends up sounding like . . . nothing you intended.

My mom was a master at this.

Example one:

Picture Christmas Eve.

Every available surface in the kitchen groaning beneath seven layers of freshly-baked Christmas delicious-ness.

No supper in sight.

A starving son-in-law, passing the piles of goodies.

Hunger overcomes discretion.

He pops a butter tart into his mouth.

Mom, emerging from the point of action in front of the oven, red-faced and carrying yet another pan of treats, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

Example two:

Mom brings home the good peanut better.

Not the cheap stuff which comes in a tin, allowing all of the oil to rise to the top so that the upper layers are too creamy and the bottom layers need to be chiseled from the container with a hammer then passed through the meat grinder to make them of a consistency to spread.

Which tin, I should mention, is still on the shelf gathering dust.

Sooo . . . the good peanut butter.

Which is immediately set upon by the ‘finickily-starved’ (I just made that up) peanut butter fiends that inhabit the house.

“I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

Mom taught her daughters well.

I, too have had my share of ‘things-said-that-didn’t-come-out-just-right’.

We were discussing a young man of our acquaintance who had been born with weak joints in his hips.

My mother-in-law was cautioning my kids not to jump off the retaining wall in her back garden, citing this young man as an example of ‘damage that could follow’.

I knew that his condition was genetic.

Or congenital.

Which mean the same thing.

What came out was, “Oh, but I thought his condition was genital!”

Wait. Everybody un-hear that!

Just let me suck those words back into my mouth!

Admit it.

It’s happened to you . . .

Lunchtime!

When one lives in the country, and rides the bus to school, one learns to take lunch.
I did.
Live in the country, take the bus and pack a lunch, I mean.
Lunch time was the high point of my school day.
The bell would ring.
The scramble for our various lunch boxes would be completed.
The inevitable question, "Whatd'ja get?" would be asked.
And serious eating would begin.
My Mom took extra pains to make our lunches varied and delicious.
With mixed results.
There was always the sandwich.
Which was the mainstay of ninety pecent of our lunches.
Thick slices of homemade bread containing one of the following:
Tinned tuna salad. Yum.
Chicken Salad. Yum.
Ground Beef and pickle. Yum.
Peanut butter and honey. Double yum, as long as peanut butter had been liberally smeared on both slices of bread before the honey was added, because otherwise, the honey seeped into the bread and made a sort of . . . crust.
Not yum.
Peanut butter and jam. Easily exchanged for my neighbour's cold hamburger patty and mayo stuffed into a homemade bun. Yum.
Tinned salmon salad. Not in my lifetime. And not easily traded, either.
Sigh.
Hot dogs. The best. The very best.
I should mention, here, that microwaves existed only on Star Trek and pre-packaged meals, like Lunchables, hadn't even been thought of.
Mom's hot dogs were an amazing feat.
She would cook the hot dogs while we were eating breakfast, then put two of them into our thermoses with a small quantity of the hot water.
Then seal it up.
Add a couple of hot dog buns wrapped in waxed paper, and a packet or two of ketsup and mustard and lunchtime couldn't come fast enough.
She always included some extras as well.
There was the inevitable sadly-bruised banana.
Which had looked perfectly good when it was put in.
Or the un-eat-able apple.
I've decided that the idea of gifting a teacher with an apple came from a student who simply didn't want to eat theirs. And had been taught that wasting food was unacceptable.
But I digress . . .
Mom also included a treat.
Usually something homemade and yummy.
Like squares.
Or her famous butterhorns.

Mmmm . . .
Occasionally, she would change things up a little.
When my thermos wasn't filled with hot dog deliciousness, she would usually put in chocolate milk or hot chocolate.
Either of which just nicely rounded out a lovely lunch.
Once, she put in something different.
But didn't tell me.
I saw the sandwiches, so I knew that hot dogs were out of the question.
So I did what I always did. Grabbed my thermos and shook up what was supposed to be milk and chocolate in some form.
Then I unscrewed the lid.
Pop!
It hit the ceiling hard enough to bounce clear over to the door.
And brought students from every room down the hall to see who was opening champaign in the grade nine classroom.
I looked up from my fizzing-over thermos and grinned.
Sheepishly.
Umm . . . Mom had filled it with Seven-Up.
The first and only time.
Another attempt at variety.
A good one, but wasted on me.
Alas.
Later, when I started making my own lunches, they included fresh tomato sandwiches.
Made from tomatoes that I sliced at school so the bread wouldn't get soggy.
And packages of celephane-wrapped goodies.
The sandwiches were good.
Though they were made with store-bought bread.
But the treats never quite measured up.
To this day, when I hear someone mention lunch, I think of my Mom's homemade bread sandwiches, home-baked goodies, hot chocolate and my one experience with Seven-Up.
I miss those days.

Way Past Speeding

I'm quite sure this flashed past.
And I do mean flashed.

We teenagers in Milk River lived an hour from the bright lights of Lethbridge.

Let me start again.

Everybody in Milk River lived an hour from Lethbridge.

The teenagers . . . a little less.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was Friday night.

The only theatre in Milk River was showing something that none of my group was interested in seeing.

It happened occasionally.

Now that we were old enough to legally drive, we were becoming less and less enamoured with what our small town offered and more and more interested in what we could find in the big city.

Twice as many choices for movie-watching, for example.

The only problem on this particular evening was our timing.

We had decided, en masse, that the movie we were all assembled to see was far less interesting than one of the choices currently running in Lethbridge.

And we had decided this while we were standing on the sidewalk, waiting to get in.

Half an hour before either movie was set to start.

Could we make it?

Our driver of the evening gave a nonchalant shrug of shoulder and a flippant toss of head. “Of course!”

That was all we needed.

We, ten of us, piled – and I do mean piled – into his car. Four in front. Six in back.

Seatbelts hadn’t been invented yet.

And we were off.

We cleared the town limits, then our driver ‘buried the needle’.

And that’s when the reality of the situation hit me.

What we were doing went beyond speeding.

I’m quite sure we were flying.

At one point, I think we passed Mercury.

I should probably point out, here, that I don’t like travelling at high speeds. In fact, horse and cart is my usual form of transportation. And let’s face it, Old Bessy really wouldn’t make much of a showing on the Indianapolis circuit.

Back to my story . . .

I was so terrified that I spent the entire trip flat on my stomach on the shadowed back floor under everyone’s feet. It was the safest place I could think of.

Once I poked my head above the seat and stared in awe at the needle.

Which was flat against the little pike at the bottom of the speedometer.

How do you say ‘yikes’?

Oh, right.

Yikes.

We made it safely.

In twenty-four minutes.

The only casualty was my equilibrium.

I don’t even remember what the movie was.

Can anyone say ‘irony’? We took our lives in our hands for a movie that none of us can even remember. The very essence of being a teenager.

But if any of my kids try this . . .

Each Wednesday, Delores of Under the Porch Light fame issues a six-word challenge.

"Use these, my minions! Bwahahahaha!"

Okay, it's not quite like that. She much more refined than I am . . .

I have been playing catch-up.

Yesterday's post was last week's words.

Here are this week's.

mercury, essence, flippant, speeding, nonchalant and shadowed

We love you, Delores!

Pure Fiction

Clara studied her only daughter’s face.

Emma was lit up from the inside, delicate features a dynamic play of barely-contained emotion. It was like watching a still pool of pure, clear water breaking into soft ripples of movement. Unconstrained and uncontainable. Like the only thing keeping her together was her rose-tinted skin.

Her girl was in love.

Clara’s eyes turned to the young man seated at her daughter’s right. This stiff and stalwart-looking individual with his mortician’s hands and his thin, aesthetic face. Could her daughter – hers and Reggie’s – possibly have made this colossal a . . . mistake?

She turned toward the stage, where Reggie and his troupe were just finishing up their 9:00 set. What would her husband’s reaction be? Would he treat this proposed addition to their little family with courtesy? Or, more probably, would he rear back at the unintentioned insult and explode in artistically unsuppressed emotion. Then drag what could have been their future son-in-law out to the blacktop and toss him into the first available taxi bound for Timbuktu?

She sighed again as her daughter chattered endlessly, ceaselessly, enthusiastically on. Should she say something? Try to turn this particular ship before it hit the great reef looming before them? Should she interfere?

She tuned in to what Emma was saying. “. . . and I was so excited when I met Alphonse.” She linked hands with the sober young man beside her. “He loves jazz! Why he listens to it every day in the mortuary! He is exactly what Daddy told me to look for in a husband!”

Clara put out a hand and touched her daughter’s shoulder gently. “Oh, honey,” she said. She glanced down at the musicians on the stage. Heard the smooth, perfect notes of ‘Take Five’ pouring from Reggie’s Sax and sighed. Then she turned back to her daughter. “Honey, what your father told you to bring home was a Jazz MUSICIAN!”

Every week, Delores of Under the Porch Light doles out a challenge.

Six words. Use them. 

These are last week's words because I'm just that far behind.

insulted, blacktop, mortician, jazz, dynamic, interfere      

Drop by and see what the others of her faithful band of misfits have come up with . . .                                            

Banana Politics

I've been reading about the politics being played out in some organizations in the modern world.

Even churches have their internal power struggles and vying for position.

It reminds me of our church suppers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the sixties, we had Church Socials.

Big pot luck dinners.

For any and all occasions.

Christmas.

Easter.

New Years.

Fall.

Thursday.

They were fun.

Everyone would show up with their large families and a huge dish – or dishes - of something delicious to share.

The food would be arranged on a long series of tables. Everyone would load a plate. And the visiting would begin.

Good food.

Good friends.

It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon or evening.

Invariably, there would be someone’s Grandma’s recipe for home-fried chicken.

And many, many incarnations of potato/meat casseroles.

Salads by the creative and colourful dozens.

Home-made rolls just begging for a large dollop of freshly churned butter.

And desserts of enough variety and inevitable tastiness, to make decision-making difficult to impossible.

But there was one draw back.

As with all pot lucks, the first in line got the most choices.

Made quickly to avoid ‘pot luck crush’. 

What is ‘Pot Luck Crush’? Imagine a river, dammed by a small obstruction. Pressure builds. Finally, the obstruction is yelled at by some starving individual and threatened with oblivion.

Pot Luck Crush.

My cousin, Reed was usually the first in line.

He had made an art of choosing – and heaping - quickly.

His favourites were the salads.

I should mention here, that two of the most popular salad dishes were the green jello salad.

With shredded carrots.

And the yellow jello salad.

With sliced bananas.

The carrots in the carrot salad tended to be suspended throughout.

The bananas, however, inevitably rose to the top.

And that’s where Reed came in. He could deftly and expertly – and quickly - scrape the entire layer of bananas from the salad.

Then move happily on to the rest of the offered dishes.

His actions weren’t popular. Usually, from further back in the line, there would be a howl of protest.

Reed would just grin. The you-should-have-tried-harder-to-be-first-in-line grin.

The rest of the assembly would be stuck with banana-less salad.

Or what amounted to plain lemon jello.

But the sheer volume of other dishes soon silenced any further protest.

And before long, everyone was happily munching.

Until the next time.

When Reed would again slip deftly and expertly to the front of the line.

Yes. Even in the sixties, we had church politics.

The difference was that they were fought over bananas.

Hmm . . . 

Maybe not so different after all.

Virtual Blog Tour

I'll warn you, I'm battling a nasty flu bug. What follows may not make sense.

But that's never stopped me before . . .

Karen and Wendy of After the Kids Leave have nominated me as one of their favourite blogs!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

And have asked me to participate in a blog tour of . . . blogs.

This includes telling you a bit about myself and my writing and then directing you toward some blogs that I really, really enjoy.

This can only be fun . . .

1. What are you working on?

Besides my daily blog of memories and reminiscences, which I ADORE, I'm just putting the finishing edits on the third novel I've written since January. My first murder mystery. So far, one of my beta readers (actually, the only one who has reported back) loved it. To me, that translates as 100% approval. Right?

2. How does your work differ from others in its genre?

There aren't many in the blogosphere who grew up on a ranch. In the fifties. And lived to tell the tale. Enough said.

3. Why do you write/create what you do?

I loved my life growing up. And I have to tell these stories and get them out of my head. Or said head will explode. And that's just icky. From any angle.

4. How does your writing/creating process work?

I will hear something that triggers a memory. A story. A phrase. A song. A smell. And I have to write. I have to! Think of it as everything boiling up at once and spilling out onto the paper. Like the cream soup I was making for dinner last night. (Ooh . . . and now I have a topic for my next blog . . .) Happily, words in print are a little easier to clean up. 

And now some of my favourite bloggers - and you have to know that it was tough limiting this list:

Pearl of Pearl, Why You Little . . .

Pearl has the most refreshing look on life I have ever seen. Did you know that daily commutes/cubicle jobs can be hilarious. And fascinating? That cats have this whole secret life we humans can only guess at? (But as long as the car is returned with a full tank of gas, and the police and/or official visits are kept to a minimum, we don't ask too many questions about.) That pants . . . Never mind. I'll leave you to find your way there. You'll love the visit!

Rena McDaniel of Diary of an Alzheimer's Caregiver
For so many reasons, I love Rena! Her insight, patience, generosity and just simple good humour are inspiring as she deals with health issues of her own as well as caring for her mother through the difficult mine field that is Alzheimers. Let Rena inspire your day like she does mine!

Carol Cassara of Carol Cassara
Carol is the person I want to be. Intelligent, insightful, and just downright interesting. From book reviews to her explorations of life and life hereafter,  her journeys are always well-written and deeply thought-provoking. When I grow up, I want to be her!

Karen at Karen Baking in a Tornado
Who doesn't love a good story? And when it's accompanied by fantastic food . . . How do you spell PARADISE?! To quote Karen, herself, she is a self-proclaimed semi-sane Mom; a baking, blogging, beach, ballet, Boston and booze fan, who bakes to relieve stress, takes pictures as proof, and blogs to vent. Hop over to Karen's place and share her glimpses of teens/college-ites and LIFE. 

Visit them all. You'll be glad you did!

Memories of Me

I have just be introduced to the most amazing book!
Those who have been following my blog know that I live to share my stories.
Stories of childhood. Mine, my parents' my grandparents' and the newer generations as well.
I have written over 1000 of them. . . . so far.
Who knew there were that many to tell?!
I treasure those stories.
And the comments that faithful readers give! My favourites usually run along the lines of: "Wow! Did you ever bring back a memory for me!" or "Your story reminded me of . . ."
Precious memories.
Have you been wanting to record them?
Have stories of your childhood (or your Nana's or your Great-Aunt Rebecca's) been itching to get out?
But you don't know where to start?
Memories of Me: A Complete Guide to Telling and Sharing the Stories of Your Life is a new book by Laura Hedgecock that leads you along the path of remembering - and more importantly - recording those stories.
Her fun, insightful instructions and actual, physical workpages will motivate, guide and inspire even the neophytes among us.
These stories . . . your stories . . . are important. They need to be told. Once we go, who will be there to remember that time when we were four years old and had to be rescued by our Olympian mother from the top of the windmill?
Or the time the severed chicken head scared the daylights out of us, prompting a multi-generational fear of chickens?!
Your stories are priceless.
Start recording them.
Now.
Let Memories of Me: A Complete Guide to Telling and Sharing the Stories of Your Life guide you!
It's important!

Find this amazing book here:

Books and Things

The Marketplace

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Author Bio

LAURA HEDGECOCK is passionate about telling stories and connecting with others. She comes by that passion honestly; her grandmother, Hazel Crymes, wrote throughout her life. However, her grandmother wrote in secret; Laura believes in sharing.

When she’s not writing, Mrs. Hedgecock enjoys spending time with her husband and two teenage sons (and her Springer spaniel), playing soccer, nature photography, and finding her roots.

Read Laura’s full bio. 

About Memories of Me

Memories of Me: A Complete Guide to Telling and Sharing the Stories of Your Life taps into the passion of connecting with loved ones through memory narratives. It empowers hobbyists to create a legacy of family stories and memory episodes through prompts, in-depth brainstorming exercises, writing samples, and just enough writing tips for writers to take pride in their projects.  Releases May 13, 2014, Cedar Fort Publishing, Clear Sight  Imprint.  Read more...

Speaker Topics

Memories matter! Author Laura Hedgecock welcomes the opportunity to speak at your function. Her topics range from the value of preserving and sharing memories, how  personal and family narratives connect loved ones with their family and ancestry to workshops on how to get started.

In the Media

Explore media coverage of Laura Hedgecock and Memories of Me: A Complete Guide to Telling and Sharing the Stories of Your Life in the media, as well as published clips and press releases.

Sample Q & A Laura Hedgecock

Social Media Links

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLauraHedgecock

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Blog: http://TreasureChestofMemories.com/blog