First Valentine

My First Valentine is nearly 90 years old.

I have been visiting him and making sure he is eating and all of the important stuff . . .

Look at that sweet face . . .

I was out yesterday, at Dad’s local grocery, buying food.

I so love buying food!

I walked past a display of Valentine goodies.

And stopped.

There were several heart-shaped boxes.

 Beautifully, elegantly - decorated boxes.

Cute, colourful boxes.

Boxes with favourite cartoon characters printed on the lids.

Dozens of kinds to choose from.

Somewhere in the middle was a stack of boxes.

Simple.

Red.

They reminded me of something.

A gift from my Dad on a Valentine’s Day many, many years ago.

Dad always gave my Mom a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Always.

It was the one special day of the year he was confident in his gift-giving abilities.

The year I turned six was even more special for me.

It was the year that Dad first included me in the gift giving.

At breakfast that morning, he handed my mom a beautifully decorated large box of chocolates.

To much oohing and ahhing from us kids.

Then he smiled at me and handed me a box.

A small, heart-shaped box of chocolates all my own.

I stared at him.

Then at the box.

For me?

All for me?

He nodded. “For my littlest Valentine,” he said.

I jumped up and gave him a hug. Then snatched the box and fled.

The chocolates inside were gone faster than you can blink.

But the box remained.

 Because I like boxes.

For years, it held my smallest treasures.

Then, when I moved out, it remained with all the little keepsakes of my childhood . . .

I didn't mention the Valentine's display to my Dad. I thought that when the time came, I would just go and buy one of those boxes for him.

Last night, as we were sitting visiting, he asked me to get him his little sewing kit.

I went to fetch it.

And discovered that his sewing kit was my little chocolate box.

I held it in my hands and stared at it.

I was suddenly six years old again.

Receiving my first Valentine’s gift from my first Valentine.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

I'm here to help my Dad.

But really, he is helping me.

A little the worse for the wear,
but it is over 50 years old! Like me . . .

The Family Car Trip

Ready to go.
Pictured L to R: Anita, Blair, Dad, George, Jerry,
Missing: Mom, Chris, Diane and the potty.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Not a usual thing for a small, semi-hard-topped, two lane, secondary road twisting through the foothills of Southern Alberta.

The Stringams join the end of a line of cars.

Dad peers ahead through the windshield. "Huh. Weird." 

"What on earth could be causing this?" Mom spits on a Kleenex and starts to scrub the face of her youngest son. "Careful with that chocolate bar, son, you're getting it on your father."

"Can't see, yet. But the line will be straightening out soon and . . . ah!"

The line has done so and disclosed the culprit.

A house.

White clapboard.

Two storey.

Not something you see in the middle of the road every day.

Usually that's reserved for bungalows . . .

The house creeps along. The Stringams creep along behind it, more cars joining them every minute or so like the growing tail of some large, unwieldy monster.

"Mom! I have to go potty!" Little brother, Blair, is standing on the front seat and has started doing the dance.

"I wonder if he knows we're here." Mom pulls the potty out from under her seat. "You'll just have to go while we're moving, dear. We don't want to lose our place in line."

Right. Because the Stringams will be left behind as the rest of the line of traffic moves off at 10 MPH?

"Mom! I hate going when the car is moving!"

"Well, try not to miss." She turns to Dad. "How long till the turn?" 

"At this rate? About three days."

The family is heading to the relatives for dinner. Mom and Dad are beginning to hope that their food tastes 'just as good the second day'.

Mom opens her car door and dumps out the potty, then wipes it out with the spit Kleenex, stuffs it back under her seat and drops the used tissue into her handy-dandy paper bag trash receptacle.

She glances around at her brood. Four are scattered across the wide back seat.

Important note: Seatbelts and safety measures haven't been invented yet.

Jerry and George are arguing over a car magazine. Chris and Diane are reading. Diane is getting rather green around the gills.

Mom frowns. Might be a good time to distract Diane. She glances out the window, hoping to spot some horses. The only thing known to pull Diane from a book.

Blair is now happily parked in the front seat between Mom and Dad, looking at the pictures in one of his brother's comic books.

Anita is perched on Mom's knees, nose against the window and half-filled bottle of cream soda in her lap.

"Mom! I wanna drink!" George has given up trying to wrench the magazine from his older brother and is now sitting with his arms crossed on the back of the front seat.

"Okay. I just get one here . . ." Mom mimes taking a glass and turning on a tap. "There you go!"

"Mom! A real drink! Of Pop!"

Dad glances back at his second son. "There'll be plenty of pop in the well when we get there!" 

"You can have some of mine!" Anita offers her bottle.

George looks at the pale-pink liquid that started out a brilliant red and makes a face. "That's okay. I can wait."

"Mom? I'm car sick!" Diane has emerged from her book on her own.

Not a good sign.

Again the potty comes into play. Diane now sits with it on her lap.

"How much further?" Chris has come up for air.

"A year or two," Dad again leans forward and peers through the front windshield.

"I'll tell a story!" Mom volunteers. She proceeds to drag out her Reader's Digest and regale the family with a humorous gem about being raised in the ghettos of New York.

The story winds down and she closes the magazine.

George sighs. "I'm bored."

Mom blinks. That was fast. Then her face lights up. "Let's play a game! How about 20 questions?"

Jerry drops his magazine to the floor. "Okay! I've got it!"

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Is it dead?"

"Maybe."

"Hey! You can't have maybes! Only 'yes' or 'no'!"

The game is played to its usual conclusion.

Elvis.

And another round starts.

Blair and Anita have fallen asleep.

Mom rescues the offensive cream-soda bottle just before it tips over. She again opens her car door and discretely empties it out onto the road.

Diane imagines, for a moment what it must be like to follow the Stringam's car at 10 MPH. Heads bobbing about. Car door opening periodically to expel various fluids.

"Oh, look!" Dad grins and points. "The house is pulling over!"

Mom laughs. "Now that's not something you hear often!"

Mom always manages to keep her sense of humour. It's a gift.

Slowly, the line of cars begins to pull out around the house like a stream finding its way around a large, recently-dropped stone.

Dad pulls up beside the house driver and gestures to Mom, who rolls down her window. "Why don't you get a travel trailer, like everyone else?" he shouts with a grin. 

"I'm so sorry!" the driver shouts back. "Were you following me long?"

About four years, three months, twenty-one days, and thirteen hours, Dad thinks. "Oh, no. Not long!" 

They wave to each other and the Stringam car moves off.

Just another family car trip.

Forklift Fiasco

Just when you thought you knew what went on behind the scenes...

My daughter works in Theatre.

It is an adventurous, kaleidoscopic, challenging, exciting, sometimes disturbing way to make a living.

It also requires one to think quickly on one’s feet and handle any (and all) challenges that may be thrust in one’s way.

Because the show must go on.

Throughout her career, she has built sets, created props, installed/focussed/programmed lights, produced/managed entire shows and everything in between.

This story is about one of those ‘in-betweens’.

And the whole ‘show-must-go-on’ scenario.

The Fringe Festival was gearing up. (The Edmonton International Fringe Festival is an annual arts festival held every August in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Produced by the Fringe Theatre Adventures (FTA), it is the oldest and largest fringe theatre festival in North America. The Edmonton Fringe is a founding member of the Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals. Just FYI.)

Signage needed to be installed.

Attached to the existing street lights.

Someone with a height anomaly (as in ridiculously tall) needed to be found.

Or maybe they would just find a person who could run the forklift presently residing in the Fringe impound.

The call went out, in usual Theatre jargon. “I need someone to take their lives in their hands.”

And was quickly answered by my daughter. “I’ll do it!” A forklift was a machine. A benign, helpful, non-deleterious machine. I mean – what’s the worst that could happen?

Dutifully, she slipped into the driver’s seat and twiddled the unfamiliar controls.

Her braver-than-smart co-worker stepped into the appropriately-named man-cage and buckled up.

They were ready.

They approached the first light pole.

Daughter carefully, though rather jerkily, raised the cage plus co-worker.

Sign was duly attached.

Sighs of relief were heard.

Co-worker was lowered.

They approached the second pole.

This went on for some time.

Daughter was beginning to feel quite skilled. Even ambidextrous.

Then they reached one of the 104 Street light poles.

There was nothing to suggest that this was any different than the scores of others they had already approached and conquered.

But what they failed to see was the 104 Street sign dangling from the bracket on said light pole.

Co-worker saw it first. And tried to halt the inevitable: “You’re too close to the sign! Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!”

Crunch.

Oops.

The 104 Street sign, to this day, sports an impressive dent. Every time we see it (And it happens often because we are, after all, theatre people.) we point it out to whoever may be with us.

Our daughter’s handiwork.

We’re so proud.

P.S. Sometime, remind me to tell you about the Zebra.

Each Wednesday, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a challenge - and six words - to her followers. It's fun. Hurry over and see what the others have come up with. Or better yet, join us! 

This week's words?

deleterious, ambidextrous, anomaly, forklift, impound and zebra.

(Not-So) Aptly Named

Today is my eldest son's 38th birthday.
38th.
Wow. I've just realized how old that makes me.
Sigh.
The following is a story from many years ago.
When he was little.
And cute.

Okay, I still think he's cute . . .

Little Mark. And a friend.

Big Mark

Dr. Mark Reed Stringam.

My Dad.

Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Adviser. Confidante. Friend.

Veterinarian.

Rancher extraordinaire. Breeder of purebred polled Herefords, single-handedly working to improve the beef industry in Alberta.

And succeeding.

With so great a man as his example, our eldest son could only profit from sharing his name.

And so we decided to name him Mark.

Enough background.

My parents had taken my husband, myself, and our two small sons to dinner to celebrate my birthday. It had been a lovely time. Wonderful roast beef for which the restaurant was famous. Wonderfully sparkling, satisfying conversation. Two well-behaved little boys. (Hey! This is my story. I can remember it the way I want!)

We were replete. On every level.

It was time to go.

I packed the baby into his carrier and my dad picked up Mark, his fourth grandson (the first named for him) and we headed towards the door.
In the entry, we paused for a few moments, waiting for my Mom.
Mark Jr., safely ensconced in his grandfather's arms, began to look around. He discovered a pin in the lapel of his grandfather's suit jacket.
A spiffy gold pin in the shape of a polled Hereford.
Oooh. Shiny.
The small hand reached out, caressing the fascinating bit of gold.
Pretty.
"Do you like that, Mark?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you know what it is?" A note of pride crept into the grandfatherly voice.
Small head nodding.
"What is it?"
Our son, the namesake of the great Hereford breeder who was holding him, the small child who had been around cattle since he was born, could not help but get this right.
We waited breathlessly for the answer.
Mark screwed up his face thoughtfully. Then smiled. "Pig!" he said.
Oh, how have the mighty fallen . . .

Paradise Lost

I'm a maker-of-beds; a bed-maker, me.

I do it to make things as neat as can be.

My Husby’s a nest-er; glad burrower, he.

Rolled in the bedclothes, cocooned in debris.

I'm ready as soon as my feet hit the floor,

To straighten and tighten and tuck and restore.

While Husby, yes he of the im-press-ive snore

[Through his actions], explains just what bedding is for.

We don’t argue or fight – we’re above all of that,

We don’t even have what you might call ‘a spat’.

But with such different wishes, his – messy; mine – flat,

You’re wondering how we've avoided combat . . .

Well . . .

There’s something that you need to know about me,

I'm sneaky. Hereafter, I'm sure you’ll agree.

Through the night, he may bundle as tight as can be,

But, sooner or later, he’ll have to go [pee].

Forgive my crass blurting of natural acts,

But this is what happens. Yes. These are the facts.

As he nips to the ‘john’ to regroup and relax,

His spouse leaps from bed, morning ritual enacts.

Emerging, he sees, once again, he’s been bossed.

That his needed relief didn't come without cost.

He looks at the blankets, once comfy and tossed,

Heaves a soft, simple sigh for his Paradise Lost.

Tree Speak

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

I had to bundle up for my walk this morning.

It was -28C (-19F) with a nasty, evil north-westerly wind blowing. Temperature allowing for wind chill = -40C (-40F)

I walked fast.

The most difficult part of my walk is past the south end of a wide park.

In the summer, it is truly beautiful.

In the winter, with a north-westerly (see above) wind blowing, it is an open space where the elements can really get up a head of steam. So to speak.

As with many things in life, though, once one gets through the worst, the best appears. 

Just past the park is a stand of hundred year-old pines.

Instantly, the force of the wind is lessened to insignificance.

There is only a soft 'hiss' as it threads its way through the green boughs. 

I stopped, as I do every morning, to listen.

Instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood . . .

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Standing there this morning, surrounded by the massive evergreens, I closed my eyes and I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees as whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.

That Smile

Dad has been story-telling.

Surely the best of times . . .

College Boy.

Christmas, 1946. Our newly-minted college boy was back from school in Guelph, Ontario for his first Christmas break.

His home town of Lethbridge, Alberta, was in a justifiably holiday mood.

Parties.

Get-togethers.

Dances.

A gathering had been organized at the new church hall.

College boy decided it would be fun to go.

Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he began to wonder if going had been a mistake. None of the people he knew were there.

Oh, there were plenty of girls.

Beautiful girls. Most of them, the younger sisters of his friends who had, surprisingly, sprouted during his absence.

He didn’t recognize any of them.

Standing there, uncertainly, he was approached by the mother of one of said friends. “Mark!” she said. “Go and dance with my daughter!”

“All right,” he said, smiling. “Happy to!”

She moved off and Dad turned back to the large group in front of him.

Now I should point out here, that this girl was well-known to my dad. He just hadn’t seen her for a while and in his absence, she had grown up.

The nerve of her.

He studied the faces of the girls on the dance floor and milling the hall.

They smiled at him encouragingly, but recognition was no closer.

Hmm.

Finally, not wanting to embarrass himself by approaching the girl’s mother, he wandered over to a group of boys and asked them. The girl was immediately pointed out.

Dad dutifully walked over to her and asked her to dance.

Whew! Mission accomplished.

She was a pretty girl.

Fun.

Vivacious.

Dad enjoyed dancing with her.

Feeling just a bit proud of his success, he moved with her around the floor. Then he spotted the girl’s mother in the crowd.

With a large, satisfied smile on her face as she watched the two of them.

A ‘hundred-watt’ smile.

Now, as a mother myself, I can understand that smile. Her daughter was dancing with a nice, handsome young man from a solid family, who was studying to be a doctor.

A rosy future looked tantalizingly close.

And distinctly possible.

I've used it myself. Most of the time, I'm sad to admit, it’s a relationship killer.

Sigh.

This particular relationship wasn't meant to be.

Though they enjoyed the evening, the two of them never really hit it off.

Soon Dad was back at school and once more hard at work.

The young girl went back to her life.

Dad doesn't remember much about her.

She was pretty. Fun. Sweet.

And her mother had a really scary smile.

See what I mean?

The Nutella Protocol

Happy world Nutella day!
I love Nutella.
For many reasons.
This is the main one . . .

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

Two years ago . . .

My Husby has been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

To say the least . . .

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into emergency.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess.

And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

It kept his motor running.

Gentlemen, raise your spoons!

Taken the day before he went into hospital.

Birdbrained Birdbaths

What we wanted.

What we got.

Debbie and I had spent the morning dreaming about the big ‘B’.

Boys.

All of whom were fascinating and none of whom were interested.

Sigh.

We were drooling over yet another male lead in a long line-up of romantic movies.

This one was a Western. My personal favourite.

Mmmmm . . .

Suddenly, Debbie jumped up and shut off the TV right in the middle of blood and blue shadows under the midnight sun.

Who does that?!

“I want to do something,” she announced.

I glowered at her and briefly considered pointing out that we were doing something. Her whole demeanour suggested . . . action. Which probably meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to get off the couch.

Ugh.

“I want to build a birdbath.”

I stared. Had I heard her correctly?

“I’m serious!” Her voice started to gain in pitch and enthusiasm. “I saw one in a magazine article. It was made of cement and had an all ‘dignified and harmonious-with-nature’ theme. It started with a little pool up top, then looping around with a waterfall plunging down to iridescent bubbles at the bottom!” In her eagerness, she began to pace.

I hated it when she did that.

“We could make a little thatched roof to limit weather-ly interference.” She spun around to face me. “So what do you think?!”

I should point out here that her asking me that was merely a magnanimous gesture. We were doing it. She just wanted me to feel included.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. Let’s get this over with . . .

Pulling her little brother’s wagon, the two of us walked downtown to the hardware store. Then followed a frenzied rush to grab anything she thought would help. And the expenditure of two months of allowance.

As we toted her baggage home, she talked endlessly about the indelible impression her creation would make. About how the town gentry would stroll past, abandoning their normally impartial opinions in their excitement over this brush with the . . . wet and bird-like.

Yeah, she dreamt big that Debbie.

What followed could only be considered inhumane – which is really ironic, considering we were creating something to benefit nature.

Because I was a farm girl – with muscles - I hauled cement. Mixed Cement. Formed cement in a great hole which I had also helped dig.

Then I collapsed.

Debbie looked at the mass of grey glop in the bottom of our hole and then at her exhausted friend.

“It’s perfect!” she said.

I, too, looked into the hole. At the plop of cement in the bottom. Seriously?

Debbie got the garden hose and filled the little indent in the top of her creation. “See? Perfect!”

I blinked. Then turned to look at the paraphernalia strewn about. “What about . . .?” I got no further.

“Perfect!” Debbie nodded decisively, then gathered everything else up and packed it away.

After that, when the weather cooperated, Debbie happily filled her birdbath. Her beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing work of art.

Well, to her . . .

Debbie’s family moved away from Milk River decades ago.

But I think her birdbath sits there to this day.

A monument to what can be accomplished by the lazy and unmotivated. Or of an afternoon spent with a friend.

Take your pick.

Every week, Delores of Under the Porch Light offers a six-word challenge. Okay, yes, I know I've exceeded that, but I'm playing catch-up.

This (and last) week's words? Cement, harmonious, dignified, frenzied, baggage, looping, interference, plunging, magnanimous,

gentry, brush, indelible, impartial, thatched, glower, birdbath, inhumane, iridescent, Blood and blue shadows under the Midnight sun.

Whew!

Go ahead and see what her other friends have done!

Cattle SHOW

Dad (Right) and one of his classmates, Grant.
Oh, and their dates for the Little Royal.
You probably can't see it, but they are standing just outside of . . . well, read on . . . 

Dad was a veterinarian.

He received his education at the University of Guelph in Ontario, Canada.

It was an . . . interesting three years.

For everyone involved . . .

In the spring of each year, everyone in the area geared up for the much-anticipated Little Royal Agricultural Show. There were numerous displays put on by all three colleges in the area: The Vets (My Dad’s group) from Guelph Veterinary College, the Aggies from the Ontario Agriculture College, and the Mac Hall girls from the MacDonald Institute for Women.

There was also a show of livestock right on the campus.

Being a Hereford enthusiast, Dad chose to show a Hereford cow. Two of his classmates chose similarly and the three of them spent most of their evenings working with their animals, gentling and training them.

A week before the show, they decided that their animals had worked hard enough to have earned a little R and R (Rousing and riotous fun).

Because . . . Dad. I'm sure I don't need any further explanation . . .

The quiet, gentle animals were led out into the compound.

All was well.

The boys led them around the campus.

Still good.

Finally, they led the cows up the stairs and into the humans’ residence. Happily, the animals trotted along behind.

The three men and their ‘exhibits’ circled the hall to loud acclaim, (Okay, there was a lot of shouting and laughter, I’m going to call it ‘acclaim’.) and started back toward the door.

Which suddenly became blocked.

By the Dean of Men.

Oops.

For a moment, the three boys and their Dean simply stared at each other. Then, without a word, the Dean backed away and let them out onto the porch.

After a quick couple of pictures there (What event doesn't need to be recorded – or proved?), the cows were meekly led back to their barn and re-in-stalled. So to speak.

For a week, Dad walked about gingerly, expecting at any moment to be called onto the Dean’s carpet.

Nothing happened.

I guess because the cows didn't leave anything on the dorm carpet, the Dean was happy to overlook the whole episode.

Then, too, he probably knew my dad . . .

Grampa Waits For Me

Some of the grandkids were over for the weekend.

This is what Connie Francis would be singing in this situation . . .

(To the tune of "Where the Boys Are')

Where the toys are, grandpa waits for me!
A smilin' face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly.
Where the toys are, Grandpa’s love will be!
He's sittin’ in his re-clin-er and I know he's waitin' there for me.

In the world of billions of people I think he looks just fine.
Then I'll eat his treats and play his games and tell the world he's mine.

Till we get there I wait impatiently.
Where the toys are, where the toys are,
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me.

Till we get there, I wait impatiently.
Where the toys are, where the toys are,
Where the toys are, Grandpa waits for me!

Conquering Dad Mountain

My Daddy and me

My Dad and I had a trick.

Something that only Daddy and I could do.

It was my favourite thing in the world.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Dad was strong.

And tall.

He could take my hands and hold me steady while I walked up his body.

I know this sounds like something out of Cirque Du Soleil, but it’s true.

I would lift my feet and plant them on his legs, then walk up till I reached his chest.

Then - and this is the exciting part - I would flip over and start again.

It was immensely fun.

For a four-year-old, hugely entertaining.

And didn’t happen nearly enough.

Dad would come in the door and be greeted by, “Daddy! Daddy! Pick me up!”

Obligingly, he would take my hands and let me use him as an acrobatic frame for my . . . acrobatics.

Again and again.

Then smile and set me down and go on with his duties.

I would happily return to mine.

This went on for years.

Years.

Then one day, I think I must have been about nine, Dad uttered the fateful words, “Sorry, honey, you’re just too heavy for me!”

I stared at him, aghast.

How could this be?

He was still taller than me.

Stronger than me.

Broader than . . . you get the picture.

How could I possibly be too heavy for him?

But, sadly, it was true.

And, just like that, my 'Daddy’s-Frame' climbing days were over.

Sigh.

Last night, I was watching one of our youngest granddaughters climb up her daddy.

Giggling happily as she did so.

And suddenly, I was remembering.

Being four-years-old again.

Holding my Daddy’s hands.

Using his help and his frame to do my acrobatics.

Daddy is nearly ninety. Frail and shrunken.

Climbing for each of us is in the past.

But we have the memory.

Bread For Chocolate

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.
Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.
The subject of bread came up.
And the best places to get the least-expensive.
“We never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter told me. “That’s far too expensive!”
“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”
I stared at him.
Okay. I admit it. It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.
We’re a homemade kind of family.
So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.
Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.
Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.
Moving on . . .
As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.
(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)
We were in the Red and White grocery store in Milk River.
Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.
I was perusing the candy display.
Also important.
Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.
“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”
I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.
Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?
 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.
There were, maybe, six aisles.
With the bakery being two aisles away.
I could do it if I scurried.
“Okay!” I shouted.
Then scurried.
There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.
‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.
I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.
“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.
Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”
Sigh.
I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.
Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.
Whew.
Mom started toward the front of the store.
It was now or never.
“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”
Chocolate bars were ten cents.
Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .
“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”
. . . stupid bread.

Old Age is LOOMing

I come from a long line of ‘workers’.

The enthusiastically employed, I’ll call them.

People who believed in hard work and industry. That idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

My grandma Stringam is one of the first and foremost in that long line.

The things she managed to accomplish in her lifetime are varied . . . and astounding.

Raising eleven children would probably be considered a good life’s work. But she didn’t stop there. She served her family and entire community as nurse, midwife, secretary, teacher, general aide, social leader and counsellor.

Her husband passed away in 1959 at the age of 83 after a battle with cancer.

Grandma was 74 at the time and had worked many long years.

Most of us (ie. me) would have relaxed and coasted gently into our sunset years.

But Grandma decided that what she needed was a new interest.

She had dabbled in crafts most of her life. When time allowed.

Now she became serious about mastering them.

Especially weaving.

She purchased a large, floor loom.

And spent many of her waking hours (and a few of her sleeping ones, I’m sure) seated at that loom.

Creating amazing works of art.

Which she then fashioned into other works of art.

Every one of her numerous grandchildren received something from the talented hands of their grandmother.

I received several. Each carefully crafted and beautiful.

At the age of 75, Grandma, who was also serving as the Work Director for her church, was asked to travel to Salt Lake City to do a demonstration on weaving. She packed up her loom, 68 articles to display, her daughter and a long-time friend. And did it.

The demonstration.

At 75.

Grandma is one of my heroes.

Her example gives me the courage to try new things.

This week, I took up playing the cello.

It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.

And just never . . . did.

It really doesn’t sound like much yet. A lot of tortured strings and almost notes.

And my daughter says my ‘cello-playing’ face is quite . . . amusing.

But I’ll persevere.

Who knows. Maybe I’ll be asked to demonstrate somewhere when I’m 75.

I’ve got 15 years.

Better get to work . . .

Coffin Crimes

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.

Husby has a scar on his chin.

A long scar from a large wound.

A wound that took several stitches to close.

And I gave it to him.

Well, me and a coffin.

You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.

Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.

An almost endless round of ‘ing’.

For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.

Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.

After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.

Ugh.

At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.

Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.

Back to my story . . .

Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.

Hefted the coffin.

And started in.

And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.

Literally.

Husby, on the front end, tripped.

Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.

Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.

And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.

A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.

The bedroom of several more.

And at least ten living rooms.

A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.

When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.

And blood was dripping through his fingers.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.

“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.

Ewwww.

A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.

And a sexy scar.

Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.

Sigh.

P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

Another Horse

The Depression gave us many sad stories.

But there are also stories of service and sacrifice that are truly inspiring . . .

My Grampa Stringam was a rancher.

He also served as an MLA in the provincial legislature.

It kept him busy.

And gave him a much broader scope in which to help those in need.

One morning, he announced to Grandma that he was heading over to the neighbours.

When Grandma asked why, he told her that the neighbour had a horse to sell.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know we needed another horse.”

Her response? A cryptic, “We don’t.”

Grampa disappeared, returning some time later. Without the horse.

When Grandma asked him if his business had been concluded satisfactorily, he nodded and smiled.

Fixing him with her best frown, she asked him what was going on.

His smiled widened. “I bought the neighbour’s horse.”

“But why? When you admitted that we didn’t need another.”

“Well, his wife needs medical help and he needs the money to pay for it.”

Enough said.

There is a codicil . . .

Grampa paid the man for the horse.

A fair sum for the times.

The man’s wife got the medical help she needed.

And all was well.

But there is one other point to this story.

An important one.

Grampa never did go and get the horse he had paid for.

Grandma was right.

He didn’t need another horse.