Do As I Do

Grandma was babysitting.

Cousins, the two-year-old (H) and the three-year-old (B) had been playing in the front room.

Occasional outbursts over the train.

The doll.

The stroller.

The spot on the couch.

Whose turn it was to breathe the surrounding air . . .

Had been painstakingly and endlessly sorted out.

Silence had descended.

There’s nothing quite as suspicious as two toddlers who have gone quiet.

Grandma hurried to investigate, skidding to a stop in the entry to the living room.

The two little girls were still playing. But had changed things up a bit . . .

B held a tiny water paint set in one hand. In the other, the dry miniscule brush. “Look at me, please,” she said.

H was seated, facing her older cousin.

B was ‘painting’ H’s face. “Look at me, please,” she said again. She applied a couple of strokes. “Look at me, please.” A couple more.

Grandma smiled and stood quietly watching.

Have I mentioned that B’s mom is a face-painter? Well, she is.

A good one.

It doesn’t matter what we try to teach them, kids do what they see us do.

 Actions definitely speak louder than words.

Although in this case, the words are nice, too . . .

The novice

The professional

The result

Just a Bit of Bull

Husby and I've been on a camping trip with ten young women.

It's been wonderful

And tiring.

Today, a guest post by little brother, Blair.

You get the idea . . .

Spring.

Calving season on the ranch.

Every spring the cows in the herd would drop their bundles of red and white on the prairie grass or snow or mud depending on the weather.

And every year there was usually one or two cows that were a little late.

One spring dad brought these cows in to a small field near the ranch house.

It was late enough in the season that the herd bull was running with the expectant cows so that they might calve a little earlier next year.

Umm . . . don’t ask me to explain . . . 

When a new born calf entered the world at dad’s ranch we had two tasks.

1. Tag the calf with a number that tied him to his mama.
2. Give the calf an oral vaccine that protected it against . . . whatever. (It has been a long time so I don’t remember what the vaccine was for. The good news was that the vaccine was oral.  Which usually made the calf a little more cooperative.)

Ok, back to the late cows and bull.

The herd bulls that dad ran on the ranch were purebred Polled Hereford. Usually very docile.

Sometimes you would wonder if they were awake.

The bull that dad had with the late cows was no exception to the comatose or docile or gentle rule. On many occasions I had climbed up and sat on his back, then scratched said back very hard.

The bull loved this.

He would snuff his nose with enjoyment.

Because that’s what bulls do when you scratch their backs really hard.

Just FYI.

One day I had to go tag and vaccinate the newest baby on the ranch.

It happened that this calf was a drama queen.

At first, it was not going to just let me catch it.

The field that the calf was in had a little open pen. I chased it into the pen and then grabbed it before it realized it was cornered. But when I grabbed it, it bawled like I was trying to cut some essential member of its body off.

I didn’t pay much attention because calves sometimes behave this way. They often quiet down as they get older.

So I was in this tiny pen just off the side of the small pasture where the bull and cows were grazing.

There was a high fence around the pen, providing sometimes shelter for the cows, but obscuring the view into the pasture.  I had caught the calf and pinned it on its side to vaccinate and tag.

The calf was saying, “Mom, this guy is being a big meany!” In calf language. 

At this point, the bull, which weighs just over 2000 pounds (and who I thought was my friend) came running around the corner.

He stopped about a foot away from me and bellered.

Very loudly.

And blew his nose on me. Because that is what happens when a bull is bellering madly.

When you have a 2000 pound bull inches away I’m sure it makes them sound even louder.

At this point I was not worried about nasal discharge.

As I was looking at this bull up very close, I had the thought running through my mind.  “I don’t care if the bull and I are friends, he has blown a mental fuse and he is about to do the big heavy dance on my body and I am a dead person. Or will be soon”.

Then a funny thing happened.

The bull paused for a moment and looked at me very intensely. Then he quickly walked away and made no more sounds.

What’s Bull for “YOU’RE HURTING ONE OF MY BABIES AND I’M GOING TO . . . Oh. It’s you!”

I swear that he had an embarrassed expression on his face.

Ummm . . .

My Husby and I were leaving for ‘town’.

Living where we were at the time, on a farm between Fort Macleod and Lethbridge, said trip, or others like it, were a highlight.

We buckled our baby in.

I climbed into my seat.

Grant started the vehicle and began backing up.

Suddenly, he stopped.

And shut off the truck.

I looked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Just realized that I forgot to water the pigs! I’ll be right back.”

He jumped out of the car and ran to the pig pen.

Now, I should mention, here, that the pig pen was just out of sight of where my baby and I sat in the truck.

We waited.

And waited.

Finally, impatient, I climbed from the truck and walked over.

But as I came around the corner of the building, I saw my husband, back to me and facing away from the pig pen.

I won’t say exactly what he was doing, but it definitely had something to do with water.

I stood there for a moment.

Finally, “Just what are you watering those pigs with?”

He jumped. “Ummm . . .”

But a new term had just been created.

From then on, in the Tolley family, if someone had to . . . relieve themselves, instead of the generic, ‘have to see a man about a horse’, or the more boring, ‘where’s the restroom?’, we used the newly created, ‘gotta water the pigs’.

It worked.

And yes. Our family is weird.

Past Mistakes

Okay, I'm not sure,
but I think this is what it looked like . . .

Dad had a new toy.

A small musical instrument called a ‘musette’.

The fact that he was in his first year of university didn’t stop him from playing it.

He and a group of friends were riding the streetcar home from Sunday Services.

They were a happy bunch.

Talking.

Laughing.

Dad was tinkering about on his new toy.

Much to the discomfort of the other passengers.

I should mention, here, that Dad has a beautiful singing voice.

I’ve never heard him play the musette.

Possibly because of what follows.

Moving on . . .

The streetcar conductor called back to the group of boys, “You! On the harmonica! Please stop playing!”

Dad stopped.

For a moment.

Then, thinking that the conductor could no longer hear him over the noise of the rest of the passengers, he started again.

“You! Stop playing or I’ll have to kick you off the bus!”

Dad sighed and dropped the musette into his lap.

He looked down at it.

Just one more . . .

“Okay. That’s it!
The bus slid to a sudden stop.

“You! With the harmonica! Off!”

Dad got to his feet.

“And the rest of you with him! Off!”

His friends looked at each other.

Then, disgusted, they too got to their feet and followed the author of their misfortunes off the bus.

And began the long walk back to the University.

Moving ahead seventy years . . .

My Husby and I had moved our family to Edmonton.

Six hours north of where I was raised.

I met an elderly couple at church.

We started to visit.

They discovered that my maiden name was Stringam.

“Well, who do you belong to?” the man asked.

“Mark is my dad,” I said proudly.

“Mark,” he said. Then, “Mark! He got me kicked off the streetcar!”

The good things we do are quickly forgotten.

The mistakes?

They go on forever.

Small Town Prejudice

It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.

Not a pleasant experience.

And I'll never forget it . . .

When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.

Parents, children.

The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.

I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Sally - on the first day of school in September.

She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.

With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.

And freckles.

We started visiting.

And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.

We started to 'hang out'.

I invited Sally to my house.

And she reciprocated.

I remember my first visit to her home.

Her parents were very glad to see me.

Almost tearful in their welcome.

It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.

But I shrugged it off.

Because they were kind.

And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.

Almost like being in my own.

They asked me about myself and our family.

Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.

Served Sally and I a piece of cake.

I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.

Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.

Though the cake was delicious.

Moving on . . .

As I was preparing to leave, Sally's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.

I smiled.

I liked her daughter.

I liked the whole family.

After that, Sally and I were together a lot.

Hanging out at school.

Hanging out at each other's homes.

One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.

Visiting.

A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.

For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.

Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.

“No. I'm staying here with Sally,” I told them.

“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”

I stared at him.

The town hated my friend?

I had never heard of such a thing.

My friends left.

But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.

The town hated my friend and her family.

Hated.

Weird.

I looked at Sally.

I looked at her kind, caring family.

Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.

Their almost tearful excitement over Sally having a friend.

Their interest in me.

I talked to my parents about it.

They looked at each other.

“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”

“But I was told the whole town hated them.”

“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”

I shrugged it off.

And kept on being Sally's friend.

I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.

Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.

I kept Sally with me when other kids at school teased her.

I didn't understand any of it.

These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.

Caring.

Considerate.

How could everyone not see that?

One day, Sally wasn't at school.

I walked over to her house.

It was empty.

She and her family had moved.

Gone back to where they came from.

For weeks, I was sad.

She had been my friend.

I had loved playing with her.

And now she was gone.

A new family moved into Sally's house.

A new leader for her church.

Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.

They stayed.

But I never forgot Sally.

My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.

Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

Being a DIY-er

Let's run through this again . . .

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.

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.

Kleenex, anyone?

Licking the Bowl

The source of all that was delicious.

Mom was in the kitchen.

Baking.

My favourite thing.

I was in my usual spot. On the cupboard beside her Sunbeam mixer.

That maker of all things delicious.

She added something to the mixture already in the bowl and turned on the beaters.

Mmmmm. Could anything look better?

I leaned closer.

“Mom? Can I have a taste?”

“Honey, it’s just sugar and butter and eggs.”

“But it looks so good!”

“Okay.”

She stuck the tip of the spatula into the batter and held it up for me.

I leaned in and licked.

It was delicious!

Mom just shook her head, rinsed the spatula and continued adding ingredients.

“Mom? Can I have another taste?”

“In a moment, dear. It’s almost ready.”

I sighed and fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, she added one last ingredient.

Vanilla.

I should mention here that vanilla smells much better than it tastes.

Just FYI.

Then she got a spoon and gave me a dollop of batter.

Mmmmm. Even better than the last taste.

“What is it?” I asked as I licked the spoon.

“White cake.”

“I like white cake.”

“I know.”

Mom scraped the batter into a cake pan and shoved the pan into the oven.

I looked around.

Usually, by this time, the sound of the mixer had attracted all the youngsters in the vicinity.

And some of the adults as well.

But there was no one.

The world was mine!

“Mom? Can I lick the bowl?”

Licking the bowl.

That ultimate in rewards.

That oft hoped-for and seldom granted treat of treats.

I should point out that it didn’t actually involve ‘licking’ the bowl.

Mostly it consisted of running a spatula around the inner surfaces, catching every minute spec of deliciousness.

Okay and there was some licking involved.

Mom set me on the floor and handed me the bowl and spatula.

I sat where I landed and started in.

Could life possibly offer anything better?

Moving ahead . . .

I was making banana bread this morning.

My fourth granddaughter was seated on the cupboard beside me, mouth sticky from ‘tastes’.

I spooned the batter into pans and put them into the oven.

“Grandma? Can I lick the bowl?”

The circle is complete.

For Farm Use Only

For farm use only . . .

For kids who had been raised on the farm, moving to the big town was a big step.

They handled it well.

The street we were on was a 'local traffic only' type.

Alive with kids and bikes and . . . playing.

Perfect for anyone excited at the prospect of making new friends.

Which my kids were.

In no time, they had troops of buddies traipsing through the house.

Playing in the yard.

Running in the street.

Okay, that last activity probably sounds . . . dangerous.

But there were nearly 50 kids living in the houses on our street.

Anyone coming into the street lived there.

And drove carefully.

Moving on . . .

For the first while, our family was simply happy to have landed in such a wonderful place.

Friendly neighbours.

Private park.

Tons of playmates.

A dream come true.

But, like many dreams, this one came with a cold dose of reality.

Let me explain.

Our house was built on the side of a hill.

With a potential walk-out basement.

Which didn't.

Walk-out, I mean.

Sigh.

But the balcony looking out from the back had a lovely view of the neighbours below and on either side of us.

And on to the fields outside of town.

Perfect.

The kids spent a lot of time out there on the balcony.

Talking and playing.

Hollering across at the neighbours' kids.

Generally having a good time.

But our children were essentially farm kids.

They were virtually innocent when it came to the sophisticated 'town' children.

One day, a young man came home with our oldest son.

They had played Nintendo for a while, then moved out on the back deck to see the sights.

Which included our next-door neighbour's three children, happily playing in their back yard.

Now, here is where the story gets sticky.

My son had a BB gun.

A 'You'll put your eye out!' BB gun.

On the farm, it had been great fun.

Target shooting.

Trying to hit gophers.

Sometime, I'll tell you about the gophers.

Ahem.

But once we had moved to town, the gun had stayed in a rack on the wall.

There was nothing to safely shoot at in town.

I emphasize the word, 'safely'.

But my son's new friend was intrigued by this toy.

He asked if he could hold it.

Sure.

Take it outside.

Sure.

Shoot at the fence boards.

Ummm . . . I guess that's all right.

But it didn't stop there.

The boy shot a couple of times at the fence.

Then decided that the little kids next door offered better targets.

My horror-struck son watched as the boy shot once over the fence.

Then he grabbed the gun and ran down to his room.

Soon, there was a knock at our front door.

I opened it to find our neighbour, red-faced with anger.

“Did you know that your kids were shooting a BB gun at my kids?”

I stared at him.

Surely not.

My kids knew better than that.

Didn't they?

I hollered for my son, who dragged himself up the stairs.

The picture of guilt.

I didn't even have to ask.

“It was my friend,” he said. “He shot at the kids over the fence.”

“Well, he hit one of them,” the outraged dad said.

I looked at my son, horrified. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't know what to do,” my son said. “I grabbed the gun and ran with it.”

“Where's your friend?”

“He left.”

“Probably a good thing,” the dad muttered. “What's his name?”

My son told him.

He looked squarely at my son. “You have some apologizing to do,” he said. Then he stalked off down the street, intent on retribution.

My son and I stared at each other for a moment.

Then he quietly handed me the gun.

And walked next door to apologize.

We learned a few lessons that day.

1. You can make friends with kids.
2. But all kids don't make good friends.
3. And farm toys seldom make the transition to town.

The BB gun never saw the light of day again, until we moved from that house and it ended up in the garage sale.

And my son found different friends.

Good friends.

Painful lessons, in more ways than one.

But well learned.

Wrong Face

Okay. YOU figure out who's who . . .

My Husby has four brothers.

All of which look/sound a lot alike.

Our oldest son, Mark was a daddy's boy.

He adored his father.

They spent most of Mark's waking hours together.

And many of the sleepy ones.

In the early years of our marriage, all of my Husby's family lived in close proximity to each other.

Getting together was easy.

And frequent.

Looking back, it was a fleeting, wonderful time.

One day, the entire family had been invited over for dinner.

They began to gather.

By ones, twos and threes.

My Husby, on the closing shift, was the last to arrive.

Our oldest son, almost two, was missing him.

He toddled through the group, looking for that one special, familiar face.

Finally, he spotted it.

Ran over and lifted his arms.

Then, supported by a strong grip, he snuggled down and nestled there, happy and content.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

And his father came in.

“Where's my boy?” he asked.

Mark stared at him.

Then spun around and looked at the man holding him, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

He looked back at the new arrival.

Then, again at the man who held him.

Finally, he made a choice and dove towards his father.

His real father.

Then glared accusingly at the uncle who had been holding him.

There is a codicil:

My sisters and I look a lot alike.

At one of our family reunions, my youngest son patted the leg of the woman he though was me. “Mom? Mom?”

She turned and looked at him.

Definitely not Mom.

He gasped and hid his face in his hands.

Mistaken identity.

It happens in the best of families.

The Pox Among Us

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chicken pox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chicken pox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chicken pox were an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her as she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chicken pox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1. I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

2. The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

Real Canadian

Canada Day.
For those of us who think Canada is the greatest little corner of the earth, a time to reflect on our blessings.
And so, a re-post about my son, the soldier.

Heading overseas.

Our second son, in his first career, was a soldier.

Engineer.

Mine/explosives expert.

Not a career his mama chose for him, I should point out.

He was slated several times to go overseas.

But only did so once.

I probably should explain . . .

There is a good deal of heavy training that goes into a call overseas.

Both physical and mental.

My son’s squad had received their notice.

They were slated to go to Nijmegen, Holland

And were preparing.

Picture men and women running. Climbing.

And lifting heavy objects.

Sitting at desks and puzzling over complicated logic problems.

Okay, that’s how I pictured it.

In reality, their short tour to Nijmegen was one of goodwill.

So their training consisted of marching.

And marching.

The day of departure grew closer.

They were representing Canada.

They needed to be properly outfitted.

They were issued new uniforms.

Including new boots.

Which they were instructed to wear.

While marching.

Now I don’t have to point out to you what the combination of new boots and 8 hours of marching can do.

Our son developed blisters.

Blisters on his blisters.

Which immediately became badly infected.

You’ve heard about a soldier only being as good as his feet?

It’s true.

He was put on the ‘injured’ list and sent back to base.

Somewhat disappointed and rather embarrassed.

But another tour was announced.

A real tour.

To Bosnia.

Real training this time.

Including the aforementioned (good word) running, climbing and lifting of things heavy.

Two days before they were ship out, my son was clearing some brush near the base.

Using a machete.

Which he had just sharpened.

His hand slipped. Slightly.

And he nicked his opposite thumb.

Barely.

A quarter of an inch.

But it was a surgically precise quarter of an inch.

He managed to sever the tendon in his left thumb.

The surgeon assigned to fish out the two tendon ends and put them back together said she’d never seen anything like it.

Is she hadn’t been an eye-witness, she never would have believed that anyone could manage such a delicate and accurate operation with a scalpel.

Let alone with a huge machete.

‘Injured’ list again.

Sigh.

Needless to say, by this time, he was getting quite discouraged.

But I must admit that his parents were secretly happy.

Don’t tell him . . .

His third call came to serve overseas.

He again responded.

Trained.

And this time - finally - succeeded.

For the better part of a year, he served as head of the mine cell on the base.

He did well.

And was commended.

Then came home to us.

I remember that first evening, after he stepped out of our van.

He immediately walked over and stood in the middle of the lawn.

We stared at him.

What had our son been learning overseas?

“I haven’t stood on grass for 10 months,” he said. “You don’t dare. Over there.”

Huh. Something we had never really thought about before.

We had assumed all of his sacrifices were made in the going.

We hadn’t realized the extent of what he was giving up while he was there.

The Un-Party Party Line

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word! thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

And gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things informative. Mis-informative. 

And entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

Thank Me Later

Okay. Yes. This is our preferred mode of travel.

I invented the paving machine.

And I did it with the power of my mind.

It was magic.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In 1964-1965, our family moved to the great metropolis of Lethbridge.

My father was running two ranching operations at the time and he thought it would be easier from a central location.

So, for one glorious year, us kids discovered the joys of city living.

Milk delivered right to the door in handy-dandy little bottles.

Ditto cream, cheese, etc.

Weird-tasting water. Let’s face it, who in their right mind would choose chlorine over sulphur?!

Riding the city bus.

Neighbours near enough to hear/see everything your family said/did.

And a whole new crop of friends.

It was a fun year.

Educational.

And over too soon.

Oddly enough, with all of this ‘new stuff’ what I struggled most with were the streets.

Yeah, I know. Strange.

The streets around our new house were gravel.

I was used to dirt.

Dirt that didn’t flip you and your bicycle sideways unexpectedly. Scraping flesh off of knees and legs and nether regions.

I learned to curse trying to stay upright in that gravel.

Okay, I will admit that said cursing consisted of ‘stupid gravel!’ and ‘Moooom!’, but that was getting out there. For me.

And then, the day I changed everything.

I was sitting on my bike on the sidewalk, having just pulled myself and my bike onto terra firma from the stupid, rotten (it had been a rough day) gravel street. I was glaring at said street.

Then, in my mind, I pictured a great machine that would simply drive across the treacherous coating of rocks and dirt and death and coat it in a hard, delightfully smooth, totally bike-welcoming surface.

One a little friendlier to life and limb.

Imagine my surprise when, the very next day, such a machine was spotted one street over from mine.

DOING EXACTLY WHAT I HAD PICTURED IN MY MIND!!!

All of the kids in the neighbourhood pulled their bikes as close as possible to the behemoth and just watched.

It was a miracle!

As soon as the machine and the accompanying out-rollers had moved on, we were riding our bikes on the fabulous new, delightfully smooth road.

I can still remember the heat rising up from the black surface.

The machine continued around the block until it had completely covered all of the streets with the same impermeable, biking-conducive material.

Paradise!

I know you’ve probably witnessed the same miracle yourself.

So, when you are driving on smooth, seamless roads.

You can thank me.

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.