Worlds of Cloth

Perfect!

Tenting was my favorite thing in the world.
I could happily sit for hours in my soft, quiet shelter. Immersed in my own little world. Miles away from the business and bustle of life.
Or at least inches away.
On the other side of my blanket.
And my chair.
Oh, and the all-important pillow.
Okay, so tent-making wasn't an art with me. In fact, you could probably say that it was . . . fairly inexpert, invariably consisting, as it did, of a blanket tossed over a chair and held in place by a pillow.
Frank Lloyd Wright, I wasn't.
But I still loved it. Hiding in a shelter erected solely by my own two little hands.
For a short while, I was the queen of my world.
Then, one day, I was introduced to a whole new world. My brother, George, deigned to join me.
Something, I might point out, that rarely happened . . .
And instructed me in the creation of a complex, blanket draped wonder.
George set up chairs and draped them with covers, connecting them to each other and holding each in place by different items, drawing heavily from the various 'objets d'art' that Mom had strewn about the room.
The blankets were pulled over to the couches, secured, and then drawn to the tables. There, they were again weighted into place.
Slowly, our little 'club house' grew until it covered the entire front room.
The two of us stood back and surveyed it proudly.
It had an entrance. And a back door. It had twisting tunnels and little rooms.
It was perfect.
I was quivering with excitement. I couldn't wait any longer. I dove in.
"Careful, Diane!" George said.
But he was too late.
My rash action pulled on one of the blankets.
In fact, the blanket that was being held in place by a large, ornate, plaster vase.
Both slid from the table.
The blanket survived.
The vase didn't.
George and I stared, aghast, at the mass of wreckage.
And then, like a figure of doom, Mom appeared in the doorway.
"What are you two . . . my vase!"
There was no hiding it.
There was our intricate web of blankets, furniture and bric-a-brac.
To one side, a limply hanging corner.
And, beside it, the broken vase.
Even a fool could have figured out what had happened. And Mom certainly wasn't a fool.
"Did you kids use my vase for your fort?"
How did one answer that? I mean, couldn't she see it?
George was braver than me. "It was Diane's idea."
I stared at him. "It was not!" I said, hotly.
"Was too."
"Was not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
Okay, so our arguments could never have been classified as intelligent.
"Too."
"Not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
"Okay, enough!" Mom had worked her way gingerly across the sea of blankets, plucking up breakables as she went.
Finally, she reached the vase.
She set down the other objects she was carrying and stared down at it.
Then she looked at us.
"Ummm. Sorry, Mom," I said. Not entirely original, but it was all I could think of.
Mom picked up the vase. Then the pieces.
She looked . . . sad.
Mom never really had to discipline me. I could do it all by myself. I burst into tears. "Sssooorrry!"
She turned and looked at us once more. "I don't ever want you two playing with my things again."
"Oookaaay!" More tears.
I should have been on the stage.
Mom carried the pieces of her vase out of the room without looking at us again.
And just like that, our fort was no long the wonder it had been. George and I 'folded' the blankets and put things back.
Mom kept the vase, carefully gluing the numerous pieces back together.
To our 'waste not, want not' Mom, it was totally in character.
But it haunted us for years, in fact, it sat atop a cupboard at my Dad's apartment.
Haunting,

I still like to tent.
But fortunately, my husby introduced me to such marvels as . . . tent poles. Pegs. Guy lines.
What it lacks in ingenuity, it certainly makes up for in convenience.
And unbreakable-ness.

Featherheads

Admit it. He's cute!

I have birds. 
Zebra finches, to be exact.They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.
I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on for eighteen years, now.
It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop loaned us a canary, two doves and a finch.
 A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.
During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.
One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A tiny, rusty, musical gate.)
I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'.), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.
The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.
And the little notes kept on.
Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?
My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.
I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.
The third cage.
And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.
My heart was captured.
He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.
She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy popped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)
They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.
My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator.
And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.
They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.
Constantly entertaining.
One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.
"Yes. Right there! That's the itchy spot. Oh get it! Get it!"
Or . . .
"Stop that racket!"
"But it's the same song you were singing five minutes ago!"
"I don't care! I don't like you singing it!"
Or better yet . . .
"What are you doing in my cage?!"
"I live here!"
"Well, who said that could happen!"
"What are you talking about? I was born here! To you!"
Or the ever popular . . .
"I don't like the way you look!"
"But I'm your son, I look like you!"
"Don't change the subject!"
In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.
I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go to become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.
It's the one thing I wish I could change.
Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.
I've tried taking them to task for this, using the same forceful, penetrating words as those I used in raising my children . . . you little monkeys! Clean up this mess!
They never listen.
Wait. Neither did my children! Sigh.

My private elevator.

Yowch.

Carefully, now . . .

By the early 1870's, smooth wire fences were fast being replaced by the new, and far more formidable and efficient barbed-wire.
Now, domestic (and no few wild) animals could be effectively contained.
Wars were fought by stock owners and free-range enthusiasts over this new invention and its perceived advantages and disadvantages.
And no few lives lost.
With the ending of the hostilities, barbed-wire became the accepted medium for fencing in the ranching and farming world.
Sometimes, I wish the outcome had been different . . .

The Stringam ranch was large.
Really large.
And, to keep its inmates (cattle) controlled, it was fenced with miles (and miles) of strands of barbed-wire.
Wire that had to be strung, stretched, looped, stapled, fastened, weighted and maintained.
And maintained. And maintained. And . . . you get the point . . .And all of this work had to be accomplished by weak, easily wounded human beings.
You can imagine the damage that two to four sharp points of wire, created to discourage even the most thick-skinned cow, could do so soft, very-not-tough skin.
I can count 13 scars on one finger alone.
Thank goodness for heavy, leather gloves and even heavier moosehide chaps.
Over the years, we thin-skinned humans had many differences of opinion with the barbed-wire which stretched across the ranch. Most trivial, requiring a Band-Aid or nothing at all.
But a few, fairly serious . . .

Once, my Dad and brother, George were stringing wire (A complicated procedure which required the paying out of four strings of wire from an apparatus on the back of the truck, closely supervised by said brother, George).
Dad hit a bump.
George was thrown into the tangle of wire, resulting in multiple deep gouges and cuts to his hands and arms.
Not good.
Or pleasant.
Band-Aids wouldn't do for that mishap.
He had to be sewn back together.
Like a quilt.
Only not as warm and cuddly.
But at least it was a mishap that could only be considered an accident.
My run-in with 'The Devil's Rope', could easily have been prevented.
If I'd been smarter.
Hmmm. Like most of my calamities . . .
I'd been out visiting the horses and was heading home.
There was a fence in the way.
Now a normal person would have employed the usual method for getting past a barbed-wire fence. Climb under or through. Climb up a post. Find a gate.
But not me. I was determined to simply climb over.
Now, I should mention here that climbing over a barbed-wire fence is entirely possible.
Just not very simple.
You have to do it carefully. Step on the bottom wire and bend the top wire down. Then lift your leg gingerly over the top wire and step to the ground. Then swing the other leg after the first.
Easy peasy.
As long as nothing gets caught. (Pant legs or crotches come to mind.) And as long as you can keep your balance.
I was only wearing a pair of shorts, so pant legs weren't even a consideration.
It never occurred to me that I should watch out for my actual leg.
The barbs entered my skin at mid thigh, and at the apex of my swing over the fence.
Ouch.
I lost my balance and fell over the fence.
Worse.
The barbs raked two grooves down the entire length of my leg.
Impressive.
The good news? I was over the fence.
The bad news? I now sported two 18 inch furrows from mid thigh to mid calf on the inside of my right leg.
Hmmm.
I got to my feet and looked around.
Good. Mom and Dad were away on a Hereford Tour. And no one had seen my folly.
I limped quickly to the house and made use of the first-aid kit that Mom always kept just inside the back door.
Smart woman, my Mom.
Then I stared at my injury. Visions of the rows and rows of stitches it had taken to sew my brother closed floated through my mind.
In Technicolor.
I definitely didn't want that.
But no Band-Aid could possibly cover this wound.
Finally, I twisted a clean cloth around my leg.
Then, belatedly, put on a pair of jeans.
Perfect.
A few days later, when my parents returned, Mom instantly noted my limp.
And made me show her my injury.
And then hauled me in to the doctor.
By that point, stitches couldn't have done any good. The doctor merely pasted my leg with goop. Applied some gi-normous bandages, and gave me a shot.
All better.
I still have the scars.
They remind me that, in a difference of opinion between me and barbed-wire, the wire is always going to win.
And always, always wear jeans.
Or armor.

Just Plane Dating

I could hear her voice as I came down the hall.

It was raised.

Have I mentioned I don’t like raised?

I don’t.

“What?! What?! What are you talking about?! How is this my fault?!” The rather grating voice was up at least two octaves.

Oh, man. Someone was getting it in the ear. Instinctively, my steps slowed.

“I’m going to come right through this phone and choke you till you’re dead!”

Better listen, pal. If it could be done, she’d be the person who could do it. Every alarm should be going off in your head. I shivered. I could just picture that burly arm emerging from the receiver.

“Why you little pipsqueak! I’ve got half a mind to ta- . . .” the voice broke in the middle.

Uh-oh. He cut her off. Buddy, never cut her off.

“Why you . . .!”

Silence. Buddy was talking again. We were obviously dealing with a rebel here. A rather brave rebel.

“But . . .!”

More silence.

“I’m telling you, it’s smashed! Smashed!”

It didn’t seem possible for that voice to rise higher, but it did.

“And we’ve waited weeks for that airplane model! Weeks! It’s the key display for our annual Royal Spring show! Made by prisoners while they were in a POW camp in Japan. Have you got no respect, man?!”

Oh, man. She’s playing the respect card . . . I’d reached the end of the hall. The wide reception area was before me. I could see Clara’s desk. She was turned slightly away, but I could see how red her wide face was. I rubbed a hand over my head and seriously considered a full retreat.
She turned slightly. I froze. What is it they say about carnivores’ visual acuity?

A model airplane was sitting in front of her on her desk. I frowned. It looked all right to me. Could this be the subject of her discussion?

She suddenly vaulted to her feet. “You listen to me, you . . . you . . .” Words seem to fail her. Her face was now more of a purplish colour.

I stared. I’d never seen this happen before.

“Well, it’s up to you to send someone to fix it!” A pause. “I don’t care if he just finished his rounds for the day. I need him to come back!” Another pause. “Listen, mister! I’ve got half a mind to bring this by your office and stick it in your one good eye!”

Uh-oh. She was threatening real violence now. Maybe I should . . . I stepped into the room.

Clara spun around and looked at me. Then jammed the phone down on its cradle. “Well, it’s about time! I’ve been screaming at your boss for 10 minutes!”

“Uh. Yeah. He sent me here as soon as he heard your voice. Was there something you need me to fix?”

She made a face.  “Are you kidding?” She moved around her desk. “Maybe we should stop meeting like this.”

For years, Delores of Under the Porch Light has issued her six-word challenge.
And challenging it is.
But Delores is retiring. 
Our dear friend Elephant's Child has assumed the duties for the near future.
Words for Wednesday hangs in the balance.
It's been some time since I was able to participate.
This week, I'm back!
This week's words:
Choke, Respect, Smash, Airplane, Royal, Spring

And/or

Good, Eye, Burly, Alarm, Stick, Rebel
Hop over to EC's and see what the others have concocted!

The Beginner

Another of Daddy’s favourite stories . . .

The rain poured down persistently,

For days he’d stared out wistfully.

A last, he stood with arms outspread,

“I’m bored,” he, to his mother, said.

She thought about it for a time,

(Impressed I say all this in rhyme?)

And then suggested to her son,

“If all your chores, indeed, are done,

The only thing I can suggest

For you, a hobby would be best.”

“A collection, maybe? Moths? Or stamps?

Now go – and to your room, encamp.”

The little boy gave it some thought,

Decided moths were what he sought.

Donned raingear, to the store betook,

To find himself a research book.

Then home amid the raindrops sped,

Threw coat, and landed on his bed.

He read for several hours there,

Then came to mom in clear despair.

“I’ve read that book from end to end,

But failure did the words portend.

For though I read so eagerly,

No single ‘moth’ word did I see!”

His mother frowned and asked to look,

Obediently, he fetched the book.

She turned it over, understood

Just why it did him little good.

‘Advice to the Beginning . . .’, true.

A wealth of facts from those who knew.

But the last word in the title there,

Had caused her fine, young son to err.

It stood out plain from all the others,

The last word there (you’ve guessed it) ‘Mothers’!

Advice to

Beginning Mothers

You can see where he went wrong.

Ranch TV

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair Stringam.

It's either the news ... or Bonanza.

A few (okay, many) years ago, my sons asked me how old I was.

I paused for a moment, thinking “Do I tell them my age and have them run around the neighbourhood saying my dad is ## years old?”

Then I remembered something that my dad did when, as a young boy, I asked him questions.

Deflect.

I told them, “I’m so old, we didn’t have calculators when I was your age”.

My boys looked puzzled.

I then said, “I’m so old, we didn’t have computers when I was your age.”

Now they really looked puzzled.

I thought, “Hey this strategy is working!”

Then I used my greatest line, “I’m so old, we didn’t have colour TV when I was your age and when we tried to watch TV this is all we could see.” I turned on the TV to a channel that had snow and the familiar, buzzing, electric, static sound. My boys stared at me, sighed, and went off and found something to play with.

I silently congratulated myself. Now my boys wouldn’t be stating that their dad was old as dirt. Or at least they wouldn’t have the hard facts to support that story.

Okay, yes, I had just given them other facts about calculators, computers and TVs, but a 6 and 4 year old will have a difficult time trying to express/explain that to their friends.

Genius.

I have reflected on that brief brush with possible neighbourhood embarrassment a few times since then.

Despite being accused of saying: “When I was your age I had to milk 50 cows and walk up hill to school in a blizzard when it was 40 below” (all fact, BTW), the things I said to my boys were true. 

Really.

Growing up on the ranch, we didn’t have a computer.

I got my first calculator when I was 14.

And the TV reception was bad despite the fact that the antenna was on the hill where all the old machinery (with the extra metal to help with reception) was parked. I remember wondering why there were snow storms in programs based in Hawaii and California. 

I will admit the snow came in handy when a scary program was on such as Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte or Dracula. I was still scared because of the music and talking, but all I could see were shadows.

Well, when I came out from under the coffee table to look.

To Dads

We are a story-telling family.

I know this won’t come as a surprise.

Every day, throughout our children’s growing-up years, much time was spent in reading (or simply telling) stories.

Many of the best were told while sitting around the table after the evening meal.

Sometimes, for hours.

But the most precious were those told by their father after everyone was scrubbed, brushed, pajama-clad and in bed.

That’s when the Hobbit, Uncle Wiggly, and Dr. Seuss came over for a visit.

For many years, every evening, several small Tolleys could be found with little clean bodies curled up under warm blankies, but minds and imaginations far, far away as their father took them on adventure after bookcover-bound adventure.

Surely the best of times.

One evening, because of pressing duties, their father was absent.

It’s didn’t happen often.

The story-telling passed, necessarily, to me.

Everyone was ready.

Everyone was set.

Mom came in with the book.

It went something like this . . .

“Mom?! Where’s Dad?”

“You know Dad has a meeting tonight.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Okay, kids, where did Dad leave off?”

“Ummm . . . Uncle Wiggly . . .” the voice trailed off.

“There! Where the bookmark is!”

“Oh. Right. Okay, let’s go.”

Reading commences . . .

After a couple of pages, a small, rather sleepy little voice, “You read good, Mom, but I like it when Dad reads.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He does the voices.”

Here’s to all the Dads in our lives.

Going out to work to support. Staying home to raise and nurture.

And read to.

Thank you.

P.S. A side note: One of the kids’ favourite books was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. They shook their heads over the main character’s inability to even consider the possibility of eating green eggs.

With ham.

One morning after a particularly strongly worded joint condemnation of said character, their Dad greeted them with a breakfast of green scrambled eggs. With colour-coordinated ham.

They wouldn’t eat them.

Story time continues . . .

Enough Rope

Dumb and Dumber . . . and the riding pad (BP- Before Pee).

Not using a saddle really did pose certain challenges.
Being unable to use a rope being the most notable.
Unfortunately, I had to learn that particular fact by experience.
I had been Dad’s official herdsman for . . . about two weeks. A job that had hitherto been the responsibility of one or more hired men.
Our operation had shrunk in size until we no longer needed hired men. We kids could do most of the work. And did.
24 hours a day. Seven days a . . . but that is another story.
I was checking the herd for prospective, or recent, mothers.
My horse stumbled, literally, over a small, newborn calf lying in the tall grass.
Abandoned.
At that early point in my new career, I didn’t know that the calf certainly wasn’t in any danger. Mama was nearby.
All I could see was a small, defenceless little creature that needed my help.
I picked it up. And somehow got it across the riding pad on my horse. And then managed to get up behind it.
No mean feat for someone without stirrups.
Or a brain.
I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures of the cowboy bringing home the small, half-frozen calf. The tiny creature lying helplessly across his saddle.
I had always pictured myself doing just that. It seemed . . . romantic somehow.
And was.
Until the calf peed.
All down my new riding pad.
You never saw that in the pictures.
I managed to make it to the corrals in the corner of the pasture and set the little cretin down in a corner. The I went off in search of Mama.
There.
The cow running around and bawling.
Now all I had to do was reunite them.
Simple.
Not.
She didn’t want to vacate the area where she had last seen her baby. He must be here. If she ran back and forth a few thousand more times, she was sure to stumble over him.
I tried chasing her.
Heading her.
She kept doubling back.
Then I had a brilliant idea. I would rope her. She certainly wouldn’t be able to argue with that. Genius!
I rode back to the corral and returned with my Dad’s brand new lariat.
Did I mention brand new?
Getting the loop over the head of the frantic cow was easy. Then I would just . . . dally . . . I looked down in consternation at the place where the saddle horn should be.
Where it . . . wasn’t.
The rope slid through my hands, along with the cow.
I managed to reunite cow and calf.
Finally.
By bringing the calf and putting him back where I had found him originally.
The cow wore Dad’s expensive new lariat for several months. I called her ‘Ring Around the Collar’.
I thought it was funny.
Dad didn’t.

Put a Hat on it

This is a story from my dear cousin, Anne Tingle.
Sweet memories of my Dad and his curly red hair.
And of his dad . . .

Diane -
I knew enough when I was a little girl to find this story funny. I was a little scared of Grandpa - he was quite stern, but I knew that what Mark had done was hilarious to everyone, except probably Grandpa. Certainly Mark thought it was a huge kick.
I loved your Dad very much.
Anne 

I was a little girl living on the Milk River Ranch with my parents when my Uncle Mark was a cool cocky college student working on the ranch for the summer.
Grandpa and Grandma Stringam spent a lot of time at the ranch: Grandpa teaching my dad how to run a complex ranch operation and Grandma teaching my mum how to be a ranch wife and how to cook for hay and harvest crews as well as a bunkhouse full of hungry cowboys.
One lunch time, after Mark had been sent into town for some baler parts, he trooped into the kitchen with the other ranch hands. They all knew the routine - wash hands and hang up your hat on the hooks in the entrance.
Mark swept off his hat to reveal a sassy, fresh mohawk hair cut.
There was complete silence as Grandpa slowly surveyed the desecrated cranium. Finally he spoke: “The house rule and common courtesy requires that men remove their hats at the table. Mark, in your case, we will make an exception. Go get your hat.”
Later that summer, after the mohawk grew out, it wasn’t quite as sensational when Mark got a reverse mohawk (with the middle strip shaved and sides left long).
However, Grandpa reinstated the hat rule at the table - every man bare-headed, except Mark.

Daddy is the monkey on the right.

Getting Gassed

My Victim

I had my driver's license.
I was queen of the world!
I have to admit, here, that most ranch and farm kids are driving from the time that they can reach the gas pedal in the tractor.
But not officially. Not on an actual ... (Cue dramatic music: Dun! Dun! Duuuun!) ... public road!
I was quivering with excitement.
And to make things even better, I had officially become my parents' 'errand boy'.
Life couldn't possibly offer anything more.
Okay, so I then proceeded to back my father's car into the tractor. (Another story.)
And run it into the garage. (Another, another story.)
And into the ditch. (Another . . . oh, never mind.)
But I was still on top of the world.
With all of the driving I was doing, inevitably, I would run through the gas. (At $.29 per gallon, one had to be a bit judicious . . .)
And Dad had a gasoline rule. Whoever was driving when the gas gauge reached 1/4, was responsible for filling the tank.
I should point out here that, on the ranch, we had our own bank of gasoline tanks, carefully monitored and filled periodically. There was one tank containing purple gas (for farm vehicles only), one for diesel (tractors and equipment) and one for regular (mine). Two of them were side-by-side on the same framework. The other a bit apart on its own stand.
Dad showed me how to 'fill 'er up'. First, you unlock the nozzle. Then you twist the valve. Then you put the nozzle into the tank and pull up on the lever.
Simplicity in itself.
As long as Dad was standing there.
He took me through the steps several times until he was satisfied that I could do it on my own. Then he left me.
I finished filling and locked everything up again. I was, once more, the master of my universe.
For several months, I enjoyed my new found freedom. No longer was the 20 miles into town such an insurmountable barrier.
But, during those first months, I never again had occasion to fill the tank. Whenever I got into the car, it had already been filled by the previous driver.
What a blissful existence. Driving around in a car that never, ever ran low on gas.
The best of all worlds.
Then, Mom asked me to drive into the city to do an errand.
The city.
70 miles away.
I was ecstatic. I hopped into the car and headed out.
The trip was uneventful, if one ignored the fact that I was DRIVING TO THE CITY! ON MY OWN!
Okay. It was an event.
But when I returned home, I noticed that the gas gauge was just kissing the 1/4 full line.
Oh-oh. Time for a fill up.
I pulled into the tanks.
Then stared up at them.
Which one had Dad used?
I couldn't remember.
Okay, so I know a lot of things. I just can't remember what they are . . .
Finally, after much wrinkle-browed concentration, I chose one and proceeded to run through the procedures in my head. Unlock. Twist. Insert. Fill.
I had it.
I did it.
But a little voice in my head, the one that tried, vainly, to keep me from my many terrible fates, told me to stop at 1/2 full.
For perhaps the first, and only, time in my life, I listened.
I capped the gas tank and locked up the nozzle. Then drove triumphantly into the driveway.
Where the car stopped.
Dead.
What was wrong?
I tried to start it.
It made the appropriate noises. Coughed a couple of times.
And died.
Again.
“George!”
Have I mentioned that my next older brother is a whizz with engines and anything mechanical?
He came running.
“What’s the matter?”
“I dunno. It just . . . stopped.”
“Let me have a look.”
All was well. George would figure it out . . .
“Ummm . . . did you just put gas in?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Ummm . . . I think you filled it with diesel.”
“Is that bad?”
He pulled his head out from under the hood and gave me . . . the look.
Now, anyone who has been to a mechanic and asked a stupid question knows exactly what I am talking about.
The sun went out of my day.
“What's the matter?” My voice had suddenly gotten very tiny.
He sighed patiently. “Diane, this car runs on regular gasoline.”
“And?”
“You put in diesel.”
“And that's bad?”
“You might as well have filled the tank with . . . oh, I don't know . . . mud? Pancake batter?”
“Oh.”
“I think you might have wrecked the engine.”
Big oh.
“Let's talk to Dad.”
How about . . . you talk to Dad. I'll just go and join the Foreign Legion.
“Come on.”
Sigh.
As it turned out, that nagging little voice of reason in my head had given me good advice when it told me to only fill the tank half full.
Dad simply had us push the car . . . did I use the word 'simply'? . . . and fill it the rest of the way with normal gas.
Oh, the car gas is in the tank off by itself! How did I miss that?
Then, he told us . . . and I'm quoting here . . . to “go and burn it off”.
What? Really?
Never, in the history of the world, had punishment so closely resembled reward.
Happily, my brother and I headed into town. Tooled main. Hit the mean streets of Warner. Back to Milk River. More cruising main. Off to Coutts.
It was a glorious night.
Okay, so we smelled a bit like a bus and the engine ran a little rough, but it was worth it.
Of course, afterwards, I had to pay the piper, in the form of car lessons.
To quote George, “No sister of mine is going to drive without knowing how everything works.”
And he did mean everything.
In subsequent years, because of him, I could change a tire or belt and perform everything from an oil change to a major tune-up. Or I could pull into a shop and tell the mechanic exactly what I needed or what I thought was wrong.
In their language.
And all because of a few misplaced litres of diesel.

My newest Christmas book has hit the shelves!
So to speak.
Get yours now.
Order some for everyone on your Christmas list!
You've got time . . .

Kindle Edition
Print Edition

My Newest Book

I am way beyond excited!
My newest book, SnowMan, has been published!
The third volume in my Christmas series.
The sweetest story of all:

Driving a busload of happy, young scouters on rain-slick roads John Benjamin Frosst is faced suddenly with the unimaginable. In a fraction of a moment, he makes a decision, selflessly offering his life in exchange for the lives of innocents.

Now confronted with the knowledge that the comfortable existence he had expected is in tatters, Ben realizes that, instead of doing the serving he loves, he must now humbly receive it from others.

Hampered by this new reality, the fine man that is still Ben Frosst discovers the term ‘handicapped’ is only a starting point from which to find new ways to give and to help.

That service comes in many forms.

And, with enough love and support, anything is possible.

Diane Stringam Tolley’s newest Christmas novel is a charming, heart-warming story of sacrifice, love and the strength of family and community.                                                                                                                                     

Sometimes, life simply doesn’t turn out the way you plan.And that’s just fine.

You can order SnowMan now.
In plenty of time for Christmas! :)
Buy several. They'll make great gifts!
Order here!
Or, if you want to start reading immediately, here is the Kindle edition:
Snowman
And please pass the word . . .

Food Foraging

Admit it, they would fool anyone!

First, a little insight into the 'Diane' thought process . . .
But they look like peas!
They open, like peas.
And they have little pea-type things in them.
And if they look like peas, and open like peas and have little pea things in them, they must be peas.
I'm eating them . . .

The Anderson family lived in a great barn of a house at the very top of the hill in Milk River. It was my favourite place to visit. And to play.
Not only did my best friend, Kathy, live there, but there were lots of other kids to play with (12 in all) and they had this amazing house with an infinite number of rooms and hallways and balconies and little, hidden cupboards. We could play pretend for an entire day and never run out of spaces or scenarios.
And to make things even better, across the road on the north and east, was farmland. With barley crops taller than we were, ripening in the sun.
I should probably mention here that Milk River has produced at least three Barley Kings. An award given for producing the best that the barley world had to offer.
But to me, barley simply made an excellent hiding place.
Moving on . . .
Along the road, on the East, screening the Ellert farm from the Anderson's back yard, was a high hedge of caragana.
That, in late summer, was hung with thousands of . . . peas.
Well, it made sense to me.
We had been playing hard most of the day and it was nearly time to go home for supper.
We were hungry.
Kathy did the smart thing. She ran to her house to find food.
Her sister, Laurie, and I decided to forage for ourselves. After all, there were all of these peas that no one else was picking. We simply couldn't let them go to waste.
Have I mentioned that I love peas?
I grabbed a big one and opened it.
Huh. Well, they weren't quite the right colour, but they were approximately the right shape and size.
I ate one.
Yuck. Not great. Well, the next one will be better.
Okay, it wasn't.
Maybe the next one.
Okay, all of those were pretty much awful.
The next pod will be sweet and tasty.
Nope.
Well, maybe the next one.
And so it went.
I can't tell you how many of the awful things Laurie and I ate. It must have been quite a few. Because we certainly got sick.
I don't remember much about that part. Mostly because I was unconscious at the time.
Who knew that peas could do that?
But I learned my lesson which I would like to share with you.
Don't eat peas that grow, temptingly, on trees.
Stick to things like . . . buffalo beans.
Adult aspirin.
Dust bunnies.
Tried and tested by me!

Full House

By request.

Because the nest is still full . . .

The nest was clean

            And tidy, too.

There wasn’t much

            I had to do.

It stayed that way

            From dawn to dawn.

Had been like that

            Since the chicks had gone.

But it hadn’t always

            Been just so,

When chicks would come

            And chicks would go,

When clutter ruled

            When ‘mess’ was norm,

When noise began

            With the dewy morn.

I found myself,

            Each day, awash

In dirty dishes,

            Stinky socks.

Up to my knees

            In diapers, too

When days were full

            And the nest was, too.

When every evening

            Prayers were said,

And kisses, hugs

As they went to bed.

Then flopped, exhausted,

            In the chair,

And contemplated

            Life from there.

And though it seemed

            It’d never end.

Somehow it did,

As all things tend.

And the nest that never

            Took a bow,

Echoed with

            The silence now.

But then, one day

            The door swung wide,

And chicks and chicklets

            Stepped inside.

“We’re here to stay,

            If that’s okay.”

Once more, there’s action

            every day.

Once more I live

            With clutter, there,

And no bare spaces

            Anywhere.

And noise? Whoo-boy!

            You have to know,

That lungs’re the very first

            Things to grow.

The toys are spread

            From here to there.

And chicklets playing

            Everywhere.

And meals to make

            And clothes to mend

And schedules to

Draw and blend.

And, still, with all

            The noise and strain

And problems bouncing

            In my brain,

With things to do,

            And time to share,

And chicklets falling

            Down the stair.

That I would never

            Want at all,

The spotless house,

The quiet halls.

Exchange the action

            That resides

Or change the love

            That dwells inside.

I’ve learned you don’t need

            Silence, no.

When people come

            And people go.

There’s peace in every

            Busy day.

When chicks and chicklets

            Come your way.

With hugs and kisses

            You abound

And love is shining

            All around.

And never can your

            Life be dull,

‘Cause, once again

            The nest is full.