Breaking Bread

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
Bruised but triumphant, the winner would carefully carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, the sacred placing of the bread was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Soon, the instant the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won. Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but tastier.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread. (Okay, remember what I said about manners? Forget it.) Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .

Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .

Hot Hand

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friends

Mom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with their friends, the Jones - their nearest neighbours.

At the Jones’ ranch fifteen miles away.

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steadily losing battle.

Another hand was dealt.

And Casey loudly voiced his displeasure at yet another 'bad' hand, then sighed heavily and played his bad hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel suggested refreshments and got to her feet. She bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom followed her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.

“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Moments later, Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands and announced that their game had officially concluded.

Casey had thrown the cards into the stove.

Yep. Something had to be done.

Good thing he was on hand to do it.

Untrained Sneakiness

Caitlin Age 3

Nine o'clock pm.
Six happy, grubby little bodies scrubbed clean and clothed in freshly-laundered pajamas.
Six sets of shiny, white teeth brushed.
Six heads of hair neatly brushed.
Six stories read.
Six songs sung.
Six sweet, heartfelt prayers.
Six (times six) hugs and kisses.
And six children finally tucked up between fresh, clean sheets.
All are asleep.
Whew!
And now, their parents can relax, knowing that their happy, healthy and very active children have been properly prepared for a much-needed night's rest.
They can put their feet up and rejoice in a few stolen minutes of peace and calm. To visit together and catch up on the day's events.
All is well.
Then . . .
Little footsteps. Crossing the bedroom. Coming up the hall. Going into the kitchen.
The squeak of a refrigerator door.
Talk in the front room ceases. Two semi-alert parents are listening to the clandestine sounds.
Finally, the suspense is too much.
"Who's in the kitchen?"
Silence. A three-year-old intellect is working frantically.
"Who's there?"
"Ummm . . . not me!"
Healthy and clean and ready for bed? Yes.
Sneaky and clandestine and ready for a life of prevarication and/or crime? Not so much.

25

Yes, it's blurry.
Photographing children and wildlife. It's the same . . .

For two weeks, we’ve had our youngest son’s two children (ages 3 years and 16 months) in our home while their parents were exploring places warm and sunny.

I should probably mention that our home already houses four adults and one resident three-year-old.

It was, for the most part, a marvellous time!

Twenty-five things we learned:

1. Children are like the ocean. You never want to turn your back.

2. The decibels reached by the average toddler during normal conversation cannot be measured by normal means.

3. Enthusiasm and unhappiness are often expressed with the same ear-piercing wail.

4. Also hunger, I’m-not-tired, and he-took-my-toy.

5. Three-year-olds and scissors should never make even a passing acquaintance.

6. Just because they’re approximately the same size, two three-year-olds don’t always see eye-to-eye.

7. The definition of a toddler is someone two feet tall with an arm reach of eight feet.

8. The head is equipped with a solid bone for a reason.

9. Bike helmets should be a standard component of every outfit (see above).

10. Just because someone is looking at you, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are also listening.

11. Hiding places turn easily into finding places. A little too easily. Sooo . . .

12. Nothing is safe.

13. A toddler can – and will – eat their weight in food.

14. And, conversely, can live on air for an inordinate amount of time.

15. If you turn on the TV, the only time they notice is for the first three minutes.

16. And when you shut it off.

17. The bathtub is an excellent place to play.

18. Except when it has water in it.

19. If one wakes up in the middle of the night, one needs the company of a sibling.

20. And/or at least two grandparents.

21. If a diaper says 8 to 10 pounds, that really is all it will hold.

22. The amount of time one needs to hurry a toddler to the potty is proportionate to the amount of time it takes for them to realize they have to go and telling you.

23. There's nothing quite like a small herd of children greeting you enthusiastically at the door when you get home.

24. A toddler hug makes anything better.

25. A toddler kiss, ditto.

Their parents are home from a wonderful trip. Everyone has been happily reunited.

Grandma is going back to bed.

The Scary One

Me (red and white striped shirt).
And three of my cousins.
My head was learning stuff. Who knew?!

I learned a few things as I was growing up.
Okay, I know that comes as a surprise to many, but it's true.
Some lessons were fairly severe, but a few, and even some of the most life-changing were quite (for want of a better term) painless.
I was fifteen. And had been staying with my best friend and nearest neighbour at her parent's ranch, fifteen miles from my own.
It was a glorious week of riding, playing, getting into her father's hair.
Oh, yes, a glorious week.
It was time to go home. Her Dad needed the break.
It was a fairly easy trip when one was merely negotiating the fifteen miles of dirt roads between our ranches.
But my parents had moved, for the winter, to our town home in Milk River a further twenty miles away.
A trip of approximately an hour, if the road conditions were favourable. Which they often weren't.
Originally, my Dad had planned to pick me up when he came out to do a vet call.
His plans had changed.
And now, so had mine.
Sigh.
I would be riding with my best friend's uncle.
The scary one.
For an hour.
Just the two of us.
I suddenly didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I wanted to stay with my friend.
Or die.
Neither choice was given to me, however.
Amidst much hugging and goodbye-ing, I was pushed out the door and parked in the uncle's truck.
Doomed.
I curled into a little ball in my corner and tried to pretend I didn't exist.
We started out, the silence thick about us.
After a while, the uncle reached out and turned on the radio. A short time later, he turned it up.
Now, at least, we had music to fill the emptiness.
But I found myself getting more and more uncomfortable. My parents always claimed that visiting made the time go by faster. I definitely wanted that to happen.
Finally, I thought of a question about his ranching. I asked it.
He answered. Quite politely, I might add.
I asked another.
Again, he answered. With even more detail than the last.
This went on for some time. He turned the radio down. Then down again.
Then finally shut it off completely.
And it was then I realized that we were . . . visiting. And that he was funny. And not nearly as scary as when we got into the truck.
Huh. Who knew?
The trip turned out to be infinitely shorter than I had anticipated. In fact, we got so animated in our conversation that we were parked in my family's driveway before I even realized that we had reached the town.
And I learned that all you need to do to get a conversation going is to ask a question about whoever you're with. If you are genuinely interested, they like to talk about themselves.
I also learned that, when you are visiting, no one is as scary as they first appear.
Even someone else's uncle.

City Girls

City Kids!

My cousin was visiting.

For two whole weeks.

She was a city girl but the only difference between a city girl and a ranch girl was location.

Right?

I took her swimming in the river.

She got sand in her suit.

She taught me ballet.

I fell over a lot.

I taught her how to swing from a rope in the hay loft.

She got a rope burn on her hands.

She taught me how act out stories.

I . . . actually, I liked that. A lot.

I tried to get her to ride the pigs.

She stood outside the fence and made a face.

And held her nose.

She taught me gymnastics.

I fell and knocked the air out of me.

I decided it was time to teach her my most favourite thing.

Horseback riding.

I dragged her out to the corral and pushed her up to the top rail. Kicking and screaming.

Her, not me.

Looking back, I can see the differences between the two of us as we perched up on that fence.

The country and the city girl.

Me, in my inevitable shirt and jeans.

She in her white slacks and blouse and light blue sweater.

Even a fool would have found it obvious.

I wasn't a fool.

Well, actually . . . never mind.

The horses were drowsing in the corral.

She eyed them suspiciously.

“They're okay,” I reassured her. “C'mon.”

Trustingly, she followed me down and into the corral.

I picked out the nearest horse, Coco. “Here. This is a good one.”

“But she's so huge!” Her eyes got bigger as she drew closer.

“She's gentle!” I gave the large, coco-brown mare a reassuring pat. The horse reached out and lipped my hair. “See?”

My cousin moved beside me. “Okay. What do I do?”

I showed her how to stand beside the horse and grab a handful of mane. Then I cupped my hands, told her to step into them and boosted her up. At the proper time, she swung her leg.

She was aboard.

The excitement must be coursing through her! She must be palpitating with accomplishment and eagerness and a sense of 'the world is mine'!

I stepped back.

I must admit that everything my cousin did was graceful. Her walking. Her dancing.

Her falling off a horse.

It should have been all right. The horse wasn't even moving, after all.

But she didn't land on the ground.

Instead, she fell onto something much . . . softer.

I don't think she was pleased.

I guess some people have a problem with large, steaming piles of horse buns. Road apples. Horse puckies.

To the uninitiated, manure.

But then people are so weird.

She got to her feet. And looked down at her light blue sweater.

Her heretofore pristine light blue sweater.

Then she looked at me.

Uh-oh.

I never got my cousin back up on one of our horses.

Instead we spent the rest of her stay dancing. Doing plays and gymnastics.

Reading.

While Mom got the marks out of her sweater.

Before her mom saw them.

City girls.

Pffff.

Re-Unioning

I live in the past.

It's peaceful there...

The group. Husby is in the back row. With the whiskers.
Donny is directly in front of him.

Reunions are so much fun.

Spending hours - sometimes days - remembering the fun times.

Oh, and sometimes commiserating together over bad times, too. But even those, shared, become good memories.

Husby and I spent the last weekend immersed in his reminiscences. He and twenty or so of his schoolmates, as part of a grand twelve-class reunion, assembled for a wonderful couple of days.

Husby was speaking to his high school best friend, Donny MacLean. The conversation went something like this:

Husby: Remember our trips to the dump?

Donny: The TVs!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was the sixties.

Two fourteen-year-old boys were looking for something to do.

They decided it was a good day to ride their bikes over to the dump. Just to see what amazing things they could discover.

In case you’re wondering, this was a favourite pastime. Forty years BE. (Before electronics.) And before the town dump was regulated. Or controlled.

And before the invention of germs.

Or good judgement.

Or danger.

Husby was carrying his twenty-two rifle. (All of the above.)

Because.

The two of them scrambled around for a while.

Then discovered a heap of old TVs dumped and forgotten by who-knows-who.

To me, such a thing would have suggested storage units.

Or display cabinets.

But these two boys were a little more knowledgeable.

And knew about vacuum tubes.

And, more specifically, what would happen when something disturbed or upset said tubes.

Gleefully, they lined up the TVs.

Then they backed away to a safe distance. Roughly a quarter-mile.

Carefully, the first shooter took aim.

Pulled the trigger.

And the two of them stared at the spot where the TV used to be.

The bullet had struck the screen (actually the front of the vacuum tube) and the entire thing had exploded.

I do mean exploded.

A sheen of shiny dust that used to be a glass object, and a few splinters of wood littered the area.

The two boys stared.

Then grinned.

And took aim at another TV . . .

The two grown men laughed together over this memory.

And their survival.

P.S. More stories to come.

Work Boot Tutorial

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.
He had slaves.
At least that is how his children saw it . . .
Dad worked hard doing . . . ranch stuff.
It took him most of the day.
Every day.
When he came in at the end of it, his recliner looked really, really good and it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.
Great motivation.
Silly little things like removing one's work boots weren't nearly big enough. Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.
That's where we came in.
His six little, willing slaves.
Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.
Fortunately, this was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.
Don't get the wrong idea. There was no kicking involved . . .
The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.
The standing smaller person would turn their back, straddle said foot and grasp the boot.
That's where the large foot came in.
While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.
Small person would be pushed away from the large person and the boot would slide slowly from the foot.
Until, at last it would drop to the floor.
The boot, not the foot.
Operation completed.
The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.
And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have had to move out of his chair.
Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)
This operation continued nightly until his children grew up/got smarter.
Then he was on his own . . .

We had all moved away from home.
Dad had started wearing shoes that he could remove by himself.
One day, when we were visiting, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.
For the rest of us, it was a short stroll down memory lane.
But without the work boots.
It was almost as good.

Claiming the Real Estate

Mine.
You can look, but remember who it belongs to . . .

Mountains. Beautiful. Majestic. Snow-capped. Towering.
Noticeable.
I love the mountains. Maybe not as much as my husband, who is a true connoisseur, but why quibble over details?
All my life, I have lived in the 'shadow' of the great Rockys. They were the immovable, dependable wall immediately to the west of us.
Our friends.
Companions.
Source of direction.
One distinctive peak, in particular, was familiar to us on the ranch. It was our nearest neighbour in the immense range. A huge block of stone, standing alone, with a large, rather squared-off top.
Boy scout troops had been know to clamber to its very summit. Of course, that was in the early days, before danger was invented.
I loved it.
It was my mountain.
I just couldn't remember what it was called . . .
Mom and I were heading toward the ranch.
She was driving.
I was bouncing around in the back seat.
This was before such safety measures as . . . seat belts. Shoulder harnesses.
Discipline.
I had been laying on the back seat, staring up at the roof. Suddenly, I thought of my mountain. I don't know why.
Because.
I sat up and leaned over the front seat. “Mom?”
“Mmm?”
That was her usual response. It didn't necessarily mean that her attention was yours, but it was a start.
“Mom!”
“What, dear.”
Okay, the line was open.
“Where's the Old Indian Hill?”
“The what?”
“The Old Indian Hill.”
She laughed. “Do you mean Old Chief Mountain?”
“Umm, okay.” Whatever. I just knew that the name had something to do with the Native tribes.
“It's right there, Sweetheart. Straight ahead. When we're driving to the ranch, it's right in front of the road.”
“Oh.”
She was right. There it was. Rising before us in all its purple glory.
Cool.
I stared at it. My mountain.
From then on, whenever we were travelling home, I would look out the windshield for my stalwart, immovable beacon.
My guardian. My defender and protector.
The Blackfoot Tribe called it, Ninastiko.
The Peigans, Minnow Stahkoo.
The white man named it many things.
But, to me, it would always be my beloved 'Old Indian Hill'.

Read the legend! http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/ChiefMountain-Blackfoot.html

Dating Disaster: Forties Style

College boy.
Who wouldn't want to date that face?

Today's post, is in honour of my Dad, and because I have him on my mind.

This should be fun . . .

Dad was home from college for the Christmas vacation in the winter of 1946.
He'd been working very hard (or so he said) and was ready for some fun.
What could be better than a dance?
With girls.
He gussied (real word) up and drove to Raymond, a nearby town.
The band was hot, and the girls were cute.
Heaven.
One young lady (hereafter known as The Girl) particularly took his eye. He asked her to dance.
The Girl agreed.
They danced.
He asked her again. Again she said yes.
They danced.
This went on for some time.
Finally, he asked if he could call on her. This was the 40s. Guys said things like that . . .
The Girl was most agreeable to that suggestion as well.
He floated home.
A couple of days later, he drove out to see her. Now, I should point out, here, that it was only about twenty minutes from Dad's family home to The Girl's family home.
When the conditions were good. As in - during the summer.
But it was winter.
Anything goes.
Dad reached the girl's house just as a blizzard hit. That was okay with him. He was warm and safe.
And he had The Girl totally to himself. Well, totally to himself if one didn't count her parents, siblings, siblings friends, neighbours . . . you get the picture.
They enjoyed a few minutes of conversation. Things were going well. Then, the doorbell rang.
Dum, dum Duuuum! (Actually it probably sounded more like," Bing-bong!" But that would be boring. And totally not-ominous. The story needed ominous-ness.)
Moving on . . .
It was another guy. And from the ensuing conversation, one who was already close friends with The Girl.
For the remainder of the evening, the two young men tried to engage The Girl in conversation.
And glare unobtrusively at each other.
Finally, the evening drew to a close. It was time to leave.
Then, the ANNOUNCEMENT.
I capitalized this because it's important.
The Girl's mother announced that the blizzard had grown so bad that she would allow neither of the suitors to leave. The two of them would have to spend the night.
Okay, not so bad.
Together.
Wait. What?
In the same bed.
Yikes?!
According to Dad, it was the most uncomfortable night he had spent. Ever.
Including his time serving in the army.
At daylight, he peeked out the window. The storm had blown itself out. It was the best sight of his life.
No need to even stop to dress as he'd not bothered to un-dress. In fifteen seconds he was out the front door.
Leaving an astonished The Girl's mother with a batter-coated spoon half-raised in greeting.
Dad left in such a hurry that he even beat the snowplows.
He didn't care.
The sooner he made it home, the sooner he could begin to forget the whole thing.
At the age of ninety, he almost had it.

Greatest Teacher

School is starting in many places today. A great time to remember my greatest teacher.

The greatest teacher who ever lived, worked in Milk River, Alberta.
In the Junior High School.
I was terrified of her.
Then I  loved her.

Mrs. Wollersheim TAUGHT Social and Math.
Notice the capitals for emphasis?
I meant to put them there.
My first experience with Mrs. W was in grade seven.
I'll never forget it.
I was one of the former grade six kings and queens of Milk River Elementary, now demoted to the lowest of the low.
Grade seven in the Junior/Senior high school.
I was a worm.
Already intimidated by my surroundings, I and my classmates were seated in our desks in Mrs. W's room, awaiting the next instalment in terror that Junior High was turning out to be.
We didn't wait long.
From down the hall, outside the wide-open classroom door, we heard a sound. A steady 'Creak. Creak'.
I should mention, here, that our school was old. Methuselah old. And creaky. In fact, it would have made an excellent set for a horror movie, "The Killer Who Terrorized the Grade Sevens in the Old, Creaky School."
Okay. Movie-writing was never meant to be my forte. (Oooo. Italian.)
Moving on . . .
Each member of the class stiffened into attention, all eyes were trained on the doorway.
A trickle of sweat traced a path down the temple of the kid in front of me.
Okay, I'm exaggerating. But you have to admit that, for a moment, I had you.
Okay, you don't have to admit it.
Sigh.
A hollow voice rang down the hall.
"Ahem. Now class . . ."
I should point out that Mrs. W never, ever waited until she was visible to begin teaching.
She didn't have to.
" . . . and that's what we are going to do today."
She appeared in the doorway. A short, heavy-set woman in a print dress, with her hair pinned back into a bun. Sharp eyes covered by thick spectacles. And flat, black walking shoes, capable of carrying the wearer through an entire day of teaching.
The anticipation was over.
We were, at last face to face.
So to speak.
The class shivered en masse. (I'm on fire today! A French term. I think it means all together.)
She looked us over.
Complete silence.
We sat, frozen in our desks.
Does a teacher's visual acuity depend upon movement?
She moved forward. "The first thing you will have to learn, class, is that when I walk into the room, your books and notebooks will be opened to the correct page and you will be ready to learn."
Frantic zipping of binders (zippers were the newest, coolest thing on binders) and shuffling of paper.
Finally, silence once more.
Mrs. W had reached the front of the room and was standing to one side of the desk, watching us.
We felt like proverbial mice in the gaze of the proverbial hawk.
Our reaction was anything but proverbial.
I'm not sure, but I think a couple of students wet themselves.
She nodded and began to teach.
And, despite our misgivings, we began to learn.
And the first thing we learned was that, though she appeared to be a tyrant in the classroom, she was anything but.
Oh, she demanded respect.
And got it.
Even the class clowns showed only exemplary (real word) behavior when seated under her watchful eyes.
But she would do almost anything to have us succeed.
Every one of us.
At anything we tried.
If we were having difficulty with a concept, even if it was a subject taught by another teacher, she would bundle us off to her home. Feed us with the rest of her family.
And teach.
If any of us were involved in extra-curricular activities, she was on the front row for concerts and athletics.
My brother had decided to serve a mission for our Church and though she was of a different denomination, she was there in the chapel, both for his farewell talk, and for his homecoming.
And she did this for approximately 100 students.
Every year.
For 35 + years.
The things she taught us could never be found within the covers of a school textbook.
Patience.
"You'll get it. Let's try again."
Respect and obedience.
"Mr. Russell. Would you mind putting that away and joining us?"
Humor.
"How many of you are there? Well, I'm sure you'll all fit in the front room. If not, we'll jam some into the kitchen. Come in, come in. Let's have some hot chocolate. Don't worry about your boots. Jake'll clean up later. Okay, now what Christmas carols are you going to sing for me?"
Any Social or mathematics I learned, I got from her.
Any sense of discipline?
Ditto.
Mrs. Wollersheim is gone now.
She spent her last few years in a nursing home in Milk River, her brilliant mind alive, her physical self hampered by disease and old age.
But she left a legacy.
Her love for us.

Tripping

What a marvellous two weeks!
Mountains. Oceans. Boats. Trees. Sightseeing. Yummy food. Comfy hotel beds.
And family.
Perfect.
The only thing missing was a dependable internet connection.
We got home last night.
Today? Recovery.
Because no holiday is a success unless you have to come home to recover from it.

Fenland Walk, Banff, Alberta. For the little guys.
And us old guys...

Lake Louise Sky Tram.
Lake Louise, Alberta.

My companions: Daughter and Granddaughter.

Daughter, SIL, Granddaughter and Aldo.
At the 'top' of Cascade, Banff, Alberta,

A mountain man we found up there...

Ellis River, BC - looking fantastic.

An old pair of seadogs. Tofino, BC

Seadog and son. Also in Tofino.

One of the amazing natural cedar sculptures.

Those cedars can twist themselves into the most impossible shapes.
Case in point: two complete loops!

One thing we found interesting was the leaping deer (okay, deer crossing) signs along our entire route:
And it reminded me of something hilarious I heard...
Donna and the Deer Crossing



One final thing.
We saw several of these signs:

And you have to know we didn't see One. Single. Hovering. Goat.

Not one.

Even after two weeks in the car.

Prairie Flying

Add a dashboard, seat, steering wheel, and dust and this is our  steed!

Marty had a dune buggy.
Actually, it had once been a car. But it had been stripped down to the basics. Wheels. Frame. Seats. Motor. And a steering wheel.
Now it was a dune buggy.
That baby could go.
Just not on any conventional roads.
Marty would take us flying across the prairie at speeds beyond . . . what we should have been travelling.
But we were safe.
Marty had firm hands on the wheel.
As long as there was ground beneath us, all was well.
And that's where my story gets interesting . . .
It was a beautiful ssummer day.
The sun was high and hot. The air shimmered. The crickets and bugs were sending up a steady chorus. There was a haze of dust hanging in the still, dry air.
Perfect 'low flying' weather.
Marty had piled Michelle and I into his buggy for a ride.
Okay, I have to admit that the use of the word 'into' is a bit of a misnomer.
'Onto' would probably be more accurate.
I was in the middle. Marty on my left, steering wheel firmly in hand. Michelle on my right, casually slumped back in the seat, one foot propped up on the dashboard.
Oh, right. We also had a dashboard.
Back to my story . . .
We were flying across the prairie just to the west and north of Marty's family farm, talking and laughing and generally enjoying the wind in our faces.
The field stretched out smooth and green in front of us.
Marty stepped on the gas and we all felt the exhilaration of speed.
Then, quite suddenly, a . . . ditch . . . opened up in front of us.
Oh, not just a little ditch.
An irrigation ditch. 30 feet across and a good 20 feet deep.
More of a canal than a ditch, really.
Huh. Where did that come from? And, more importantly, how were we going to avoid it when it carved its way straight across the field before us from fence to fence.
And when we were travelling at upwards of 45 miles per hour.
You're right.
We couldn't.
We didn't.
We launched off the west bank in a graceful arc.
Now the Dukes of Hazzard would have made it.
Evel Kinevel would have made it.
Even Barney Oldfield would have made it.
But three farm kids in a souped-up, stripped-down 'dune buggy'?
Not a chance.
We hit the opposite bank just below the lip still doing 45 miles per hour.
It's funny just how many thoughts can race through your head in the split seconds between launch and land. I remember thinking that Marty really was taking us flying.
Cool.
Then . . . crunch.
The buggy stopped instantly, of course, and slid down to the bottom of the canal.
We sat there, stunned for a moment.
And then the moaning started.
I was fine. I just thought I should point that out.
Something to note - when getting involved in an accident in a dune buggy, the middle position is the safest.
Moving on . . .
Marty and Michelle . . . weren't.
Fine, I mean.
Marty had broken his beloved steering wheel with his chin, splitting it open to the bone.
His chin, I mean.
Michelle was even worse off.
The foot that had been so casually propped up on the dashboard had been driven back by the force of our crash and dislocated her hip.
She was in . . . considerable . . . pain.
Marty put a hand over his chin and ran to the farmhouse a quarter of a mile away for help.
It was up to me to pull Michelle up out of the ditch.
Okay, it probably would have been easier . . . and wiser . . . to call an ambulance and wait for professional help, but we were kids of the country, raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.
We acted first.
And thought after.
Slowly and painstakingly, I turned Michelle onto her uninjured side. Then I pulled her up the steep bank. One step at a time.
Step, step. Pull.
Step, step. Pull.
She must have suffered agony throughout the entire ordeal, but she said little.
As we were nearing the top, Marty pulled up in his family's car.
Between the two of us, he and I managed to pull Michelle into the back seat. Then, Marty drove us to the hospital.
Funny that it never occurred to any of us to feel alarm when we again saw Marty with a steering wheel in his hands.
Go figure.
He got us there safely.
This time, professionals maneuvered Michelle out of the car and onto a stretcher.
By this point, I'm quite sure she appreciated their expertise.
And their drugs.
Her hip was restored, though she had to suffer through traction and treatments for months afterwards.
Marty was sewn back together and sports a sexy scar on his chin to this day.
I emerged unscathed.
A few days later, I was flying across the prairie with Dennis in his dune buggy.
Some people never learn.

Seesick

We are visiting out son on the west coast.
We just finished a huge dinner of fresh halibut and fires.
Yum.
Now we are sitting on our deck, ejoying our view of the bay.
Mmmmm . . .
It reminde me of another - less pleasant - ocean experince.

Somewhere out there are whales . . . and nausea.

Water and I have a thing.
We love each other.
Alright, alright, so I love water. I really don't know how it feels about me.
Moving on . . .
My family was going whale watching off the west coast of California.
I was excited. Because (remember?) I loved water. And things in the water. And boats.
I should maybe point out here that this child-of-the-prairies' sum total of water experience consisted of my river and Chin lake. Not necessarily in that order.
We put on our life jackets and climbed aboard.
So far so good.
The engine started.
My heart rate increased.
We pulled smoothly away from the dock.
Still fine.
We skimmed lightly across the bay.
Okay, so, it was a fat, clumsy boat loaded to the gunwales with tourists. But I chose the word 'skimmed' and I'm sticking with it.
My more daring family members were already hanging out over the rails, looking down into the amazingly blue water as it slipped past.
I had managed to find a seat inside the little 'house' part.
Because yes, I was a little trepidatious (real word - really!).
We cleared the bay and moved out into open water.
And then the boat started . . . for want of a better term . . . bucking.
Now, I should point out here that I'm used to bucking. In fact, bucking has been a daily ritual in the horse corral since forever.
Just not this kind of bucking.
The deck under my feet rose up. Then, that same deck fell.
And I mean fell.
Worse than an elevator. (And elevators and I do have a history . . .)
Worse than when I fell off the barn roof.
In fact, most of my inner parts were rapidly in danger of becoming . . . outer.
And just like that, I was sick.
Really sick.
I had been instructed to stare at the horizon.
I tried.
But the horizon was going up and down along with the boat, the tourists and me.
Maybe it shouldn't be called 'seasick'. Maybe it should be 'seesick'. Because there sure is a lot to see.
Okay, so horizon staring wasn't going to work.
I began to count the steps. Four to the doorway. Four more across the deck.
Could I make it?
I mean, before something . . . icky . . . happened.
Another 'heave' of the deck.
Okay, so the choice was taken from me.
It was sprint or die.
I sprinted.
I needn't go into the details of what happened next. I suppose you can furnish your own particulars. Suffice it to say that I lost everything I had ever eaten.
Or even thought of eating.
Funny thing about being sick on a tourist boat.
Everyone suddenly has something else to look at.
Somewhere else.
I was abruptly, gratefully, alone where my humiliation and I could happily enjoy our time together.
I don't remember much about the rest of the trip. We saw some whales. I was hauled off of my bench in the cabin in time to see a whole herd (erm . . . pod) of them.
They were neat.
And wet.
And . . . splashy.
And never in my whole life was I so relieved to stand later on real, solid ground.
I didn't kiss it. I didn't dare shift that much. Suffice it to say the two of us were very happy to see one another . . .

There is a sort-of codicil.
My husband took me whale-watching off the coast of Maine.
I stayed outside on deck and kept my face into the wind and miraculously managed to keep my lunch where it had been placed.
All was well.
We came upon a cow/calf pair of  whales.
I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what kind of whale.
They were neat.
And wet.
And . . . splashy.
The mother left her baby and dove. The calf stayed where it was, lolling in the waves and the sun. Occasionally batting at the water with a flipper.
Every few minutes, our guide would say something informative.
Finally, she said, "I bet none of you can say that you've sat beside a sleeping whale!"
Okay I admit that, when hugely pregnant, I have described myself thusly (another real word).
My husband glanced at me, but wisely said nothing.
I hit him anyways.