In the Eye

The Stringam ranch house had one delicious feature. 

That kids love.

And parents hate.

The kitchen ran right into the hallway, which ran into the living room, which ran back into the kitchen.

Or, alternately, if one wanted to change things up a little - from the kitchen into the living room into the hallway, back into the kitchen.

A perfect setup for running laps.

Which we did.

Usually at mealtimes.

Because it kept us near the kitchen but not completely under Mom's feet.

Unfortunately, in an effort to keep us safe, Mom would inevitably holler, “You kids stop that before someone loses an eye!”

We would stop.

Oh, not because we were afraid of losing something important.

But because Mom usually had a large spoon or knife in one hand when she said it.

Okay, yes, we were afraid of losing something important.

Moving on . . .

It was suppertime.

Mom was cooking.

My brother and I were running.

Mom said, “You kids stop running! Someone's going . . .!”

That was as far as she got.

I skidded out on the corner just going into the turn between the living room and the hallway.

There was a chair there.

Large.

Heavy.

It, and my eye, had what could only be called a 'close encounter'.

It won.

Remember what Mom said about 'losing an eye'?

Well, she was close . . .

There was the sound of contact.

Then the pause.

Then the shriek.

Mom came running.

I was writhing around on the floor, screaming. Both hands clamped over my right eye.

I'm sure Mom's heart probably stopped.

She pulled my hands away probably expecting to see the fulfillment of her prognostication (Oooh, good word!).

Fortunately for me, it hadn't happened.

The fulfillment, I mean.

My eyebrow had taken the brunt of the blow - puffing up and out quickly.

And remarkably.

I looked like a prize fighter.

Mom dragged me, still screaming, into the kitchen.

Where she produced her largest and deadliest-looking knife.

I stared at her, then clamped my hands back over my injured and decidedly puffy eye and screamed, “No, Mom! Don't cut it off!”

You see, when she picked up the knife, she had been looking for 'cool'. Something to lay against my wound to take down the swelling.

I was looking at an instrument of a far more radical method of 'swelling removal'.

Fortunately, her more humane treatment was what we went with.

“Diane! I'm not going to cut it off! The knife is cool. It'll help the swelling!”

Oh.

I finally dropped my hands and allowed her to continue.

She pressed the cool surface against my eyebrow.

Ahhh!

Moms know everything.

I'd like to say we stopped running.

Forever.

That we learned our lesson. That one close call convinced us that Mom knew whereof she spoke.

I'd be lying.

George and me. (Pre-running days)
Beneath us . . . the chair!

Stating the Obvious

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

A little background here . . .

Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

Back to my story . . .

Then three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

A Piece of Real Estate

It's done.
Following several thousand man-hours of sorting, packing, hauling, mistakes, searching, finding, more packing, more hauling, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, Daddy is safely installed in his new home.
It was not an easy decision to make.
He loved his condo.
And his independence.
But though he remains clear mentally, his once-robust physical self grows steadily weaker and more frail.
He's better off in a place where his meals are provided and help is always very nearby.
It's bittersweet.
We know he will be cared for.
But the memories of what used to be crowd close.
Bringing tears.
Life on the ranch was an adventure.

Every day a blur of what needed to be done and what happened while doing it.

From this...

... to this.

But there's a saying: Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened!

Life isn't over.

Here's to new adventures.

I love you, Daddy!

Juicing Cows

Okay. Call it what you want . . .

Cows.

You see them in the fields. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They are in the barns. Being milked. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They care for little calves. Nursing. Licking. Bellowing. Giving the occasional kick. Ignoring.

You know them as ‘meat’, ‘milk’, ‘cheese’, ‘cream’.

We know them as aggravating, funny, stupid, perverse, blind, ornery and endlessly hungry.

And the reason we get out of bed in the morning.

We’ve called them cows, dogies, critters, some terms unprintable here.

And our bread and butter.

Our family raised Polled Herefords.

A breed known for its gentle disposition.

And beef production.

We also kept one ‘milk’ cow. Usually Holstein.

A breed known for their milk production.

Near the Stringam spread was a herd of Jersey cows.

Also known for their high dairy output.

And gentle disposition.

Dad pointed them out as we drove past. “See. Diane! Those are Jersey cows! They give milk!”

Four-year-old Diane, nose pressed against the car window, “Oooo!”

I will admit that, occasionally, things got turned around in my little girl mind . . .

The next time we drove past that particular field, I pointed excitedly to the quiet animals out grazing. “Ooo! Daddy! Look! It’s those juicy cows!”

I was right.

Fight or Flee

Which are you?

I just read that, when faced with something dire, a person will fight.

Or a person will fly.

Sometimes, we don't know which one we are until the climactic moment.

Allow me to illustrate.

My bedroom was across and down the hall from the bathroom.

And I wasn't an 'early-to-bedder'.

These two facts will become relevant . . .

I had been reading.

Something I did every night.

For a very long time.

I finally decided it was time to get ready for bed.

Which included brushing and scrubbing.

And all things hygienic.

I should point out that all other members of my household had long been asleep.

Or so I thought.

I finished my evening ablutions. (Oooh! Good word!)

And, clutching my toiletries bag, headed for my bedroom.

Now the words 'across and down the hall' may sound like a long distance.

It wasn't.

But it was enough.

And it was dark.

I darted toward my door.

And was just reaching for the doorknob when a voice came out of the darkness.

“What are you doing!”

Okay, it was the voice of my father, so it shouldn't have given me the fright it did.

But the fact remains – I was frightened.

And then, the ultimate response.

Fight?

Or fly.

Let me describe:

Pitch dark hall.

Household asleep.

Girl with large imagination and small intellect dashing across the hall.

Quickly, so as to avoid things that might come out of the darkness and 'get her'.

Voice rumbles out of said darkness.

What does girl do?

Fight?

Fly?

No. 

Girl crumples to the floor.

I am not making this up.

My legs folded up and I fell to the floor.

When faced with a crisis, or so I thought, I curled up.

Like a little spider.

But with less legs.

So, which are you?

Fight?

Or fly?

When you decide, let me know.

I will be the shivering little puddle of goo.

Curled up on the floor.

Sigh.

Toddler Timing

Me. And six of thirteen.
I know what I'm talking about . . .

For any of you who have children, are around children, or have heard of children, you know that their timing is the one thing about them that remains totally impeccable. Always.

Theirs is the voice you hear chanting, “I gotta go potty!” immediately after you’ve pulled onto the freeway.

The disembodied face that appears at your bedside just as you’ve dozed off.

The crash and the “Oh-oh. Mom!”, when you’ve got both hands kneading sticky bread.

When split-second timing is needed, the children in the immediate area are on it.

I have two examples:

My Eldest Son was sitting watching TV, his youngest daughter, aged nine months, perched on his lap. The two of them, with the rest of the family had been happily engrossed in ‘Arthur Christmas’. The credits were rolling and the sound of Justin Bieber singing a Christmas song filled the home. There was a pause in the music and Mr. Bieber could be heard, talking in the background. “It’s that time of year again! Time to let all of your problems go!”

At which point, said daughter, with accurate and impressive sound effect, let those pesky little problems go. Directly into her diaper.

Remember when I said, ‘engrossed’? I used that word deliberately.

My second example involves the same son, before he was married. Or a father.

But still involves children.

And timing . . .

Eldest Son was sitting in Sunday School class, discussing, with the other members of the group, the life of Paul. This man, an apostle of Jesus Christ, suffered many indignities and horrors to his person during his life. On occasion, he was dragged before local, and at times, high authorities.

At one point in his life, his captors hauled him up before King Agrippa.

The teacher introduced this significant ruler’s name in stentorian (real word!) tones.

His pronouncement was immediately followed by the loud scream of an infant seated with its parent in the back.

See? Timing.

The class broke up. Some 30 seconds later, order restored, the teacher grinned. “And that was Paul’s exact reaction!”

I don’t know how they do it.

The timing thing, I mean.

It’s a talent they are obviously born with.

Some of them maintain it throughout their lives . . .

No matter what time it’s set for, I always, always walk into my daughter’s room ten minutes before her alarm is due to go off.

And I know as soon as I sink into a steaming hot bath, or start doing something sticky in the kitchen, that my other daughter is going to telephone.

Timing. You know what I’m talking about . . .

My Short Ranching Career. Part Two.

Blair. Getting animated.

I bought another big growthy (once again, that word) heifer.

She was tall. She was dark red. She had a white face.

But there, her resemblance to a normal Hereford ended.

She was not the typical quiet animal you usually associate with the breed.

Nope.

She was jumpy and would get agitated . . . easily.

I worked with her to quiet her down. Trained her to tie. To lead.

I would bring her into the barn, place a halter on her, tie her to the fence and groom her.

She enjoyed it.

Think of it as getting a good back scratch. But in this case using a comb.

She had lots of hair which meant that I could groom and cut it to make her look like the perfect heifer. This was important because purebred cattle breeders often had cattle shows where they would exhibit their animals and I wanted my heifer there.

I prepared her and got her ready for her first big exhibition.

Now we knew she was a little nervous so my veterinarian/dad told me to give her a tranquilizer to help her calm down.

When I arrived at the cattle show, I backed the trailer to the arena area, then opened the back of the trailer, untied my prize heifer and began to lead her out.

I had worked with her so much that I thought we were friends.

I soon discovered that we . . . weren’t.

When she saw the open door in the back of the trailer, she bolted.

And kicked me in the chest as she flew out.

I was caught completely by surprise.

She really connected as she kicked and my world started spinning.

Now in order to help you understand the force that a heifer or bull can kick with, picture having a 600 pound boxer punch you.

With everything he has.

My breath was gone.

I didn’t want to let go of the halter because some other poor unsuspecting person might get run over. I managed to hang on long enough to slow her down, but finally I had to let go. However, a friend and I finally cornered her and got her tied up at her assigned stall.

Then I called my very capable, very reliable, extremely intelligent veterinarian/dad and asked what I should do.

He said to give her a little more tranquilizer.

Considering that I did not want another repeat of the kicking episode, I complied.

The tranquilizer was just taking effect when I took her into the show ring for her group. She stepped lively and I was able to present her well to the judge.  He placed her in one of the top spots.

Then the tranquilizer really kicked in. So to speak.

My heifer planted her 4 feet squarely and stood there with her belly hanging, causing her back to bow.

She was very hard to move. At one point as I tried, she started to lean on me.

I felt like I was trying to maneuver a drunk around the show ring. 

By this point, the judge had almost all of the animals placed and came back to survey the group.  As he looked at my heifer, he sighed and moved her down 8 places.

8 places!

By this point, however, I didn’t care.

When the heifer category was over, I loaded her up and headed home.

I worked with this heifer for several more months and once again thought she was quiet and cooperative.

Again, ‘thought’ is the important word here.

Dad and I were given the assignment from the young Hereford breeder association to compile a booklet on how to prepare a heifer for a cattle show. This involved taking pictures of clipping and grooming an animal to make them look their best.

My heifer had lots of hair that we could use to demonstrate (only their hair dresser knows for sure).

As I groomed and cut, dad took pictures.

The clippers that I was using where very large and noisy. If you used them for long, your hands would feel numb. I was clipping hair along my heifer’s belly when suddenly I was lying on my back, looking at the ceiling of the barn.

The clippers were in my hand buzzing away.

I looked at dad. “Umm . . . how did I get here?”

Dad told me that my heifer had just kicked me. She had kicked so fast that I didn’t see it coming. 

She was very agitated and dad and I spent some time trying to get her settled down.

This was very difficult considering one of us had just been assaulted.

Finally, she was calm again, and dad and I could finish the pictures. Then I took her back to her pen.

As I walked down the hill to the ranch house I realized that my chest hurt. I lifted up my T-shirt. Let’s just say that she did her work well.

And I began to evaluate how important it was for us to continue our relationship.

My Short Ranching Career. Part One

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair!

Blair. And bull.

When I was 12, my activities consisted of going to school and working on the ranch.

I tried to find ways to avoid the later, but dad was very good at making sure that I . . . didn’t.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate dad for this.

This changed . . .

One day dad and I went to the barn to check on a yearling heifer that had been very sick.

I don’t remember what disease that she had, but I do remember that she was so ill that all she could do is lie on her side and breath unevenly. Staring and unresponsive.

As I observed her symptoms, I concluded that it was very unlikely that she was going to survive.

I helped my dad give her a gruel that consisted of oatmeal and liquids. We had to slide a hose into her mouth and down into her stomach. Then we poured the gruel into a funnel at the other end of the tube.

As dad looked at the heifer, I’m sure he determined that there was not much hope for her.

Dad had to make a trip out of town for a few days so he charged me with the responsibility of caring for our invalid.

As he gave me the instructions on how to care for her, he concluded by saying “if you can save her, you can have her”.

Suddenly my perspective changed. All my efforts from that moment were devoted to trying to help the heifer recover.

I made sure she had fresh straw for bedding.

I made sure that she was fed her gruel.

I know I said a few prayers.

Mother was very helpful to me. She helped make the gruel and give it to the heifer.

A few evenings later, after mother and I gave the heifer her dose, she seemed to be trying to roll from her side onto her stomach. We helped her and the heifer held up her head.

Mom said that we should try to get her to stand.

This was a difficult task considering that the she weighed about 600 pounds.

We both pushed and lifted and the heifer slowly rose. She staggered a little then stood solidly on her feet.

Mom and I both cheered.

From this point ‘my’ heifer made a swift recovery. She grew up to become one of the young cows in dad’s herd.

She always had a white patch of hair on her side because she had been on her side for so long.

A cow version of bed sores.

A couple of years later she had her first calf. A growthy (Okay, that might not be a word but it is descriptive.) healthy bull calf.

That bull calf grew up.

And one day a cattle rancher visiting dad’s place looking for a bull spotted mine and he and dad agreed on a price.

Nursing that heifer. Feeding her. Caring for her.

Spending time with her.

Loving her.

Totally worth it.

In more ways than one!

Two Less Gophers

He only looks cute.
See that hole? Not good.

Warning: Many, many gophers were mortally wounded seriously harmed  in the telling of this story.

I want to preface this story with the fact that gophers, on a ranch, are bad news. They dig holes that unsuspecting horses and livestock stumble into, breaking legs and other appendages. They eat bushels of valuable grain. And they make dozens more little gophers. Who grow up to cause even more trouble. Thus costing ranchers hundreds, even thousands, of dollars. Gophers may look cute, with their little dark eyes. Their fur and their ‘chirp’. And their I.Q. which, if it went up a point or two, would reach the level of ‘imbecile’. But they are very bad news. Think of them as the little rats of the ranching world.

On to my story . . .

On a ranch, the use of firearms is a necessary skill. Coyotes, wolves, cougars and other predators can, and do, threaten the herd.

Marksmanship is also a necessity. If you’re going to use a gun, better hit only what you are aiming at. There can be no crazed waving of a gun. No popping off shots indiscriminately.

Let’s put it this way. ‘Bullets leave an indelible mark.’

So we kids on the ranch were taught the proper use of guns. And, during the summer, had daily target practice.

Our targets? The thousands of gophers that infested the prairie hills. We were actually performing two feats in one. Perfecting our aim and ridding the ranch of its number one pests.

It was my turn to be trained in the all-important use of the ‘22’.

Husby loaded me and my trusty little gun into the cab of the pickup and headed out to the nearest pasture. A piece of land heavily pock-marked with the mounds dug by our little, furry vermin. For several minutes, things went well. Gophers would pop out of their burrows. I would aim and fire.

My record, though not stellar, was approaching good.

He moved the truck slowly across the uneven ground. A gopher popped up. And another directly behind it.

I aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

Both went down.

I blinked. Two?

We drove closer and I got out. Yep. Two. The second had been blindsided because of the first. As a rancher’s daughter, it was one of my finest moments.

Okay. It doesn’t match the contributions made, daily, by the people fighting disease in every corner of the globe. Or those who constantly put their lives on the line in our defense.

Still, it’s a record that hasn’t been topped by anyone from our ranch.

For a country girl, a real contribution.

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

This week's words?

marksman, stellar, blindsided, indelible, crazed and imbecile.

I'm sure she didn't foresee my using them to describe one of the less-desirable facts of life on a ranch.

Sorry, Delores! :)

Hurry over and see what her other followers have created!

Funny Friday

July (sort of) Friday Funny

Today’s post is July’s Funny Friday, a regular feature published on the last Friday of every month. Yes, we know it’s August but July ran out of Fridays. Totally not our fault.

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 was submitted by 

Someone Else’s Genius

 1. They’ll never get through our starting line.

 2. He only looks tall.

 3. Don’t worry, big guy. We’re here to protect you . . .

 4. Maybe if they gave each of us a ball . . .

 5. You go. We’ll follow. Maybe.

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

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Baking In A Tornado

Black Sheep Mom

A Harvest of Memories

Mom always maintained a large garden.
Hmmm . . . let me reword.
Mom always maintained a humongous, gargantuan, colossal, huge, enormous, vast, giant, mammoth (that's all the big words I can think of right now) garden.
Better.
Okay, well, that's how it appeared to us kids.
I will admit, here, that my help during the weeding and hoeing was minimal.
Mostly my nimble fingers came into play during the shelling and snapping.
And the rest of me got very involved with the eating.
Ahem . . .
Mom and the older kids would come in from the garden with bushel baskets of freshly-picked peas and/or beans.
Us kids would find comfortable spots on the lawn in the shade of the huge pines. Each would have a bowl which we would replenish now and again from the central stock. Chris would turn on her radio.
And we would shell/snap. And talk.
Sometimes the talk would get quite serious. For example, it was while my older sister and I were shelling peas that she explained the facts of life to me.
True story.
At other times, we would get very animated and silly, quoting heavily from Mad Magazine or one of our favourite movies.
The hot sun.
The cool shade.
The soft grass.
The top 40 on the radio.
The smell of pine and sage and green, growing things.
Occasional snitches of deliciousness from my bowl.
My brothers and sisters around me.
It is one of my most treasured memories . . .
Today is the first harvest from this year's garden.
We picked peas, beans, beets and rhubarb.
And the next generation got involved in the processing.
Here's to many more years of gardening.
And a whole new passel of memories.

Snapping.

Shelling.
Heaven.

Passing the Torch

Foreground: Ranch.
Background: Machinery Hill

On the Stringam Ranch, there was a hill.

A large hill.

It had old machinery parked on top.

We called it the 'Old Machinery Hill'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

There, could be found the outdated, outmoded and discarded mechanical devices of ranch life.

Mowers, haybines, cultivators, tractors, cars and trucks.

All past their 'best-before' date.

All neatly parked in rows.

My brothers spent many blissful hours on that hill, deconstructing the various machines (and machine engines) to be found.

Excitedly, they would point out to me the valves and sprockets pulled from this amazing machine and 'Wow! Aren't they fantastic?!' Then proceed to explain just how these intricate little marvels fit into the whole 'making-this-machine-bale-hay' scenario.

To which I would nod and smile. Then run off to see what the horses were doing.

But that was just the beginning of my brothers' mechanical adventures.

Throughout their lives, I can picture them with various machine parts spread out neatly as they re-constructed and fine-tuned.

Something that still goes on today.

I should probably mention that the 'mechanical bug' hit me as well.

Later.

I took apart, fixed and re-assembled in my world, too.

Mom's piano-organ. Her toaster. Iron.

The only thing that defeated me were the clippers.

Oh, and the washing machine and I have a history, too.

But we won't mention those.

Please, let us not mention those.

Moving ahead . . .

Our four-year-old grandson was playing quietly in their basement.

A little too quietly.

Usually this heralded trouble.

His mother went to check.

She found him with one of his sister's musical toys disassembled in front of him.

Part of it had stopped working.

The need for new batteries had been ruled out because the other parts were still working.

He had rummaged through his father's tools and found the screwdriver he needed.

Then proceeded to take the toy apart.

This was when his mother came in.

He looked up at her.

“It wasn't working,” he said calmly. “So I'm fixing it.”

Now remember, this boy had just turned four in April.

The two of them saw that a wire had become disconnected.

They reconnected.

No response.

“It has a micro-chip,” he said suddenly, pointing. “See? It's fit in right there. Maybe it just needs a new micro-chip.”

His mother stared at him. “You're probably right,” she said, finally.

When she told us the story, I was reminded suddenly of my brothers.

With their tools.

And their sprockets and wheels.

The torch is truly passed.

The newest generation . . .
Photo Credit

When You've Got it...

I seem to have a way with turkeys.

If you missed yesterday’s post, see it here.

Go ahead. We’ll wait.

You're back? Read on . . .

He was handsome.

He was fit.

He was attractive.

He had the moves.

And he had eyes only for me.

Oh, and he was covered in feathers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the town of Coaldale, Alberta is the Alberta Birds of Prey Centre. A centre dedicated to the rehabilitation of injured raptors. The stories of the hundreds of birds already helped back to the wild is inspiring. Visiting the place is an experience.

There are demonstrations and education stations throughout the site. Majestic birds with various injuries are glimpsed during their rehabilitation exercises. One, a golden eagle named Spirit, blinded by a shot from a careless hunter, is particularly exciting.

Especially up close.

Visitors can walk along the pathways and watch the antics of owls, hawks and eagles.

And one Turkey Vulture.

Snoopy.

Snoopy, unable to fly or survive in the wild due to various injuries, has been a happy attraction of the centre for several years.

When my family arrived, he was contentedly staked out with a long tether, enjoying the sun.

As I approached, he fanned out his tail, ruffled his feathers, clicked his beak and spread his not-unimpressive wings. Then he hopped toward me and . . . strutted. Hey, hey, hey lady! Like what you see? Huh? Do you? Huh?

Reaching the end of his tether, he continued to swivel back and forth, allowing every feather its opportunity to (quite literally) shine.

I called Husby over. “Look at this guy!”

Husby moved closer.

And that’s when the show ended. Every feather was slicked flat. Wings folded and tail snapped shut.

Snoopy just sat there. The very picture of indignant male. Oh, I see! You’ve already made your choice. Well, sucks to be you, lady!

Husby smiled and moved on.

“No!” I said. “He was different! He was all . . . ruffled!”

But Husby had already moved ahead to one of the hawk exhibits.

I looked back at Snoopy.

And received a shock.

Once more, his feathers stood on end. His wings and tail were spread. He was again looking at me. He shook his wings invitingly. How about now, lady? That guy is gone. All of this could be yours! Last chance . . .

One of the attendants moved past. “Oh, I see you’ve discovered Snoopy,” she said. “He likes the ladies!”

Snoopy the lady killer.

An appropriate title for a bird from a raptor centre.

With a totally different meaning . . .

P.S. My big question is: How could he tell?

Talk Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bull Stones

I have spent the past week with my Dad.

At 89 years of age, this former rancher and veterinarian has decided to move to the nearby Senior’s Lodge.

He and I and his good friend, Shirley, have spent the time packing.

Boxing away the memories of a lifetime.

The bronze horse that was a gift from his wife on their wedding day. The painting purchased for that same wife a few years later.

Instruments of torture Veterinarian tools and equipment. His leather surgical kit. A box of assorted needles from the days before disposable syringes. His ‘vet’ bag.

Games and dishes and jewelry and bedding and pots and pans and knick-knacks and pictures and clothing and coins and stamps and furniture.

A lifetime.

Some of them were of interest only to Dad . . . 

Shirley and I were collecting the assorted treasures off the top of Dad’s dresser.

There was a valet tray with an assortment of cuff links, tie clasps, buttons and Hereford-themed pins.

Grooming supplies.

And a tiny container, glass-topped, full of little . . . beads.

Shirley shook it. “What is this?”

She handed it to me. I peered at it closely. Multi-coloured little rocks. “Looks like little bits of gravel. From a holiday somewhere?” I handed it to Dad.

He looked at it and smiled. “Oh. These are stones I removed from bulls’ penises during surgery.”

“Oh.” Shirley and I said together.

I’m quite sure my expression mirrored her own.

How do you say ‘ewwww’?

Oh, right. EWWWWWW!

Dad sat back, looking at the little container, still with that smile. Obviously remembering, fondly, his days as a veterinarian.

Yeah. Some memories are a little too . . . memorable . . . for the rest of us.

Care to go through some boxes with me?

Some of the numerous awards his cattle have won over the years.

The keyboard that figured so prominently a day or two ago . . .

Buses to Adventure

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher. Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror. Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize from what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem . . .

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals.

Sheesh. You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows and off benches.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too, but there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired – play.

Moving ahead many, many years.

Yesterday, some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.